#rust and ruin has thoughts

[rustandruin]

Finding out that Crowley knew Jane Austen but never knew she wrote books and then them encountering her books in Aziraphale’s bookshop and briefly checking them out before actually having to proceed on a storyline where they have to meddle and ensure two people fall in love while clearly nursing their own feelings… That scene was for me personally.

[s0fter-sin]

we all know dean wears john’s jacket after he takes it from his hotel room in the pilot. but i completely forgot we also see him wear it to school in the flashback episode in s4, where he’s fronting like mad and feeling like just as much of an outsider as sam

which means he’s always used it as a comfort item. which means john let him wear it and knew, at least on some level, that it helped him. he let him wear it enough that dean doesn’t hesitate to grab it in the pilot when he needs the comfort

but more importantly, john leaves it behind for dean to find

he could’ve taken it with him when he dropped the woman in white hunt (he takes all his other gear, weapons and clothes), but he leaves it on the coat rack where dean could easily find it. he knew he’d be gone for a long time, if not outright suspecting that he’d die going after the yellow-eyed demon, and he deliberately leaves the jacket behind for dean to find comfort in

[moody-alcoholic]

Part 2 as promised.

Part 1

CW: Dead dove don’t eat, assault, mentions of SA, torture, suicidal thoughts, hurt/comfort.

_____________________

Ghost flicks the ash off his cigarette. 

“Do we know who we’re looking for?" Gaz asks. It's a pointless question. They know who they’re looking for. You’ve been mentioning a guy at work who has been getting a little too handsy. 

You were going to confront him in the new year with your boss. You didn’t want to ruin anyone's Christmas, now yours is ruined. 

People are starting to leave the office building now, it’s just past midnight. They watch in silence concealed in the darkness down an alleyway a few buildings from your workplace. Maybe this was the alley you were found down. It’s dark and cold, the businesses are all closed, it would have been easy to coerce you down, it makes his stomach drop. Someone hurt you, he hurt you. 

“Should have taken care of this sooner.” Gaz says. Ghost just hums watching as the lights in the buildings go off. The last few people are filtering out the building. Ghost straightens up flicking his cigarette but to the floor. 

“That’s him.” Ghost says, blowing out the smoke before reaching up to pull the familiar balaclava down over his face. 

_____________________

When the police arrive you feel somewhat sober. Your body is sore, your head throbbing. Seeing them walk in with all their gear makes you nervous. All of a sudden you feel like you’ve done something wrong. 

Johnny never leaves your side, he holds your hand stroking it with his thumb while the female officer asks you questions you don’t know how to answer. You still can’t remember what happened. You can piece it together though, you can tell by the hushed voices and the somber looks from people. 

The worst is the pain, the ache in your body every time you move, the bruises hurt the most.  Sometimes Johnny runs his fingers over them, his eyes going dark and he lets out a sigh. John stands at the end of the bed still, his gaze never leaves you unless someone enters the room. You just want to go home. 

The most embarrassing part is when they have to take pictures of your injuries. Your swollen eye is now turning black and blue. There’s bruises around your neck, talking hurts, swallowing’s worse. The nurse gives you more painkillers but it just makes you feel sick. 

John talks with the officers and the nurse after they’re done. Johnny tries to keep your attention on him. You feel embarrassed, the nurse said they did a rape kit, you don’t even remember that, the police need to take it for evidence. That makes silent tears come, you can’t stop them. 

“C’mon, none of that love.” Johnny says reaching up to brush them away. 

“I want to go home,” you sob. 

“We’ll be home soon, promise,” he smiles. You want a shower, you want to scrub your body clean. You feel dirty, your stomach is turning as your mind wanders to the unthinkable. You hope you never remember what happened, you fear you won’t be so lucky.

_____________________

Ghost’s fist meets his cheek, his nose is broken, his jaw will be next. Not now though, now they need him to talk. 

“Price says he’s on his way.” Gaz says as he walks back over to him. “Asked you not to kill him.” Ghost just grunts. 

Ryan, that's his name. You never mentioned that to them, you didn’t mention much just that he was making you uncomfortable. Gaz was right they should have dealt with this sooner. They shouldn’t have let you go to the party alone. Even before you left you had reservations. 

Ryan hasn’t said much. He was very drunk when they picked him up. He seems pretty sober now, he’s scared. 

Good, he should be.

Ghost wonders if you were scared, when you were assaulted. It doesn’t seem like you remember much, for your sake he hopes it stays that way. 

The door to the secluded warehouse opens, the sound of slamming metal echoes in the space. John bought this place a few months ago, used to store scrap metal. The place still smells of rust, but it’s outside the city center, it’s quiet and that's all they need. 

Price walks over coming out of the darkness. He doesn’t say a word, just takes in the scene. Ryan looks up, his eyes glued on the new person walking up to him. Price grabs the back of a chair and places it in front of him before sitting down. 

“Ryan, right?” He asks. The man nods. “Had a good night? He doesn’t move. 

“Do you like your job?” He nods again. Price leans forward. “So, let's have a chat about what happened tonight.” 

“Nothing happened tonight,” he says, swallowing hard. Price smiles at him for a second before sitting back up.

“Let’s try that again. What happened at the party?” Ryan looks confused for a second. Blood is still dripping from his nose, Price sighs this is going to be a long night. 

“Wait, is this all about her?” He asks looking up past Price at Ghost. “Look I don’t know what you think happened but she came onto me.” 

Price hums his hands gripping his thighs before getting up and moving the chair away. “Thing is, I just don’t believe you.” Ghost steps back over to him. 

“I’m telling the truth.” He pleads. 

“Nope, try again.” Price says. Ghost’s fist crashes into Ryans face. His head snaps uncomfortably, he spits blood coughing. 

“So what happened at the party?” Price asks again. 

“Who the fuck even are you!?” He shouts looking round at the 3 men standing in front of him.  

“That doesn’t matter.” Price says, Ryan scoffs spitting again. 

“Why do you care?” He asks, looking around at everyone. 

“It’s a simple question.” Price says bending down so his head is level with his face. “We can be here all night. Or you can be honest with us.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He says, there’s a shake in his voice. The adrenaline and alcohol pumping through his system is filling him with confidence. They have to break that first. Price sighs moving back to stand with Gaz. 

This time Ghost’s fist slams into his stomach. He buckles over in pain, crying out as he pants. Price doesn’t wait, striding over to him grabbing his hair, pulling his head back. 

“Okay, okay. But she was drunk!” He shouts, trying to fight Price’s grip. His arms and legs are tied to the chair. Price doesn’t let go of his head holding it back as far as it will go. 

“No. Try again.” Price says through gritted teeth. 

“I didn't do anything!” He says between breaths. Price looks up at Ghost and nods, Ghost unfolds his arms going back over to the car. 

“We can make this very uncomfortable for you. All we need is the truth.” Price says, pulling his head again. 

“I don’t know anything.” There’s a whimper in his voice, a crack in his confidence. They're getting there. Price forces his head straight as Ghost comes back over to them twirling the knife in his hand. Ryans eyes go wide, his arms and legs pulling on the restraints. Price keeps his grip firm on his head forcing him to look at Ghost’s hulking figure moving towards him. 

“Last chance.” Price says. Ryan doesn’t say anything, his eyes still locked onto Ghost. 

“I-I didn't-” He sucks in a breath of air swallowing. “She was drunk!” 

Price sighs, shaking his head. He looks up at Ghost, he can see the disgust behind his lieutenants eyes. 

Ghost plunges the knife into his thigh. Price lets go of Rhyn’s head as he screams.

_____________________

John left almost an hour ago. Johnny recommended a bath instead of a shower, so you could soak and warm up. He gets in the bath with you pulling your back up against his chest as you sit between his legs. The bath was a good idea, the water is almost too hot but you don’t mind. 

It feels good to be in Johnny’s arms. He helps you rub soap over your body. He’s gentle, pressing kisses on your shoulders avoiding your neck. You sigh, relaxing back into him. Your head is still stuffy, it feels like you’ve been run over by a truck. 

“Where is everyone?” You ask. 

“Out, they’ll be back soon don’t worry.” He says his voice is warm in your ear. His arms squeeze you closer to him. The memories of the night seem to be just out of reach, you remember a face though. 

“I know who it was,” you say your voice catches in your throat. 

“Shh, we don’t have to talk about it.” His hand comes to push hair behind your ear. You smile, you don’t want to talk about it but maybe it will help. 

“I have work tomorrow.” Your stomach sinks. The thought of going back to that place with him there. Having to spend the days avoiding him, brushing off his hands as they squeeze your ass or his fingers press against your breasts. You were going to talk to your boss about him in the new year. 

“No you don’t, don’t worry about anything.” He says kissing your shoulder again. You shiver, the water has lost its heat. Johnny shifts pushing you forward. 

“C’mon let’s get you into bed. You’ll feel better after a good sleep.” You don’t know if you believe him but he gets out the bath leaving you alone and cold. You feel dirty, used. You feel panic rising in your chest. As soon as you hear the door to the room open you lay down in the tub closing your eyes and holding your breath. 

Your mind goes back to the alley, it’s like flashes in your vision, the dump trash bin you’re uncomfortably bent over. A hand over your mouth then round your neck. The pain, the pain is unbelievable. You don’t remember how it happened, how you ended up there, the next thing you remember is a party of drunk women finding you. Then the paramedics showed up. 

Your lungs burn but you don’t care. You deserve the pain. Hands grip your arms pulling you up out of the water. 

“Christ love,” Johnny says, holding you against him as you pant sucking in breaths of air. The panting turns to sobbing. He reaches, pulling the plug out the bath and picking you up in his arms. 

“I know, love I know.” He takes you into the bedroom putting you down on the bed. You pull your legs up to your chest. Johnny dries you, rubbing you down while you sob. He brings pyjamas over, he helps you change, pulling the fresh clothes on you. You still feel dirty, maybe it will always be like this. You don’t want it to be like this.

“It hurts.” You say as he climbs into bed behind you. His arms wrap around you pulling your back against his chest. 

“You’re okay lass, you’re safe.” He kisses the top of your head. It’s not, it's not going to be okay. You just hope whatever the others are doing they’re safe. You miss them, you want to see them again. You want everything to go back to normal 

…

Simon crawls into the bed with you and Johnny. You’re asleep on Johnny’s chest. He shuffles up against your back wrapping his arm around you both. His hair is still wet from the shower. He kisses the top of your head. Johnny stirs feeling a hand grip his hip. 

“Did you get him?” Johnny asks, his voice still sleepy. 

“Yeah, we got him.” 

_____________________

[youthguk]

Black Ribbon Bride Finale ۶ৎ | jjk (m)

Mafia AU · Dark Romance · Arranged Marriage · Angst · Smut ·

“I want this one,”he said, eyes on you like a predator. A marriage sealed in diamonds and blood. You were supposed to hate him, but monsters don’t let go of the things they’ve claimed.

⚠️ explicit smut, dom!Jungkook, kidnapping, torture (non-explicit), murder, gun violence, morally grey characters, mafia themes, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, toxic dynamics, angst, betrayal.

This is part 2 to this, read part 1 first!

You wake to the sound of water dripping - rhythmic, slow, and merciless. Your body registers sensations in fragments: metal biting into your wrists, a chill creeping down your spine, and a throbbing temple that feels heavier than mere pain. The surface beneath you is stone, damp and cold.

Darkness envelops everything, bringing with it the acrid smell of rust and rot. For a moment, you wonder if this is just a fever-dream, perhaps brought on by too much wine, or a cruel hallucination woven from fear. But when you attempt to move, the sharp restraints around your wrists provide cruel clarity - this is neither dream nor nightmare. This is reality.

Your breath catches as panic builds slowly from your core, rising like an unexpressed scream caught in your throat. Then you hear it - footsteps, measured and confident, followed by a voice as smooth and dry as dust on marble. "Sleeping beauty wakes."

You remain silent, letting the stillness become your armor. A match strikes, its sudden flare piercing the darkness just enough to reveal half his face in shadow - Leo Maranzano. The man who ruined your wedding stands before you, wearing gloves and a patient smile.

"You know," he muses with a slight tilt of his head, "I expected more fight."

Struggling to sit up, your body protests with every movement. The effort only draws an amused laugh from him.

"Don't worry," he says, crouching beside you. "You're not here for long. Just long enough to understand something."

He keeps his distance, knowing his presence alone is a form of torture.

"I'm going to tell you a little secret," Leo murmurs, his tone dripping with venom-sweet malice. "Your brother sold you. Cheap, too. Barely put up a negotiation."

Each word seeps into your bones like poison. You shake your head in denial, but he continues, each syllable a calculated strike.

"Families are funny that way," he says. "They'll protect their blood... until something more valuable comes along."

Somewhere, a door creaks open, then slams shut. The temperature plummets as cold water traces down your neck from an unseen source. In the consuming darkness, only his voice remains - that haunting echo and the ice settling deep in your chest.

"You thought being Jeon's wife meant something, didn't you?" he says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Poor girl. You really thought monsters could love."

His footsteps retreat like a tide pulling back before a tsunami, leaving only his final words hanging in the air: "Let's see how long that faith lasts. Welcome to the dark."

Then he vanishes into the shadows, his presence lingering like a ghost. The darkness wraps around you like a shroud, bringing with it a bone-deep cold and the hollow echo of your heart shattering in the silence. You are completely, utterly alone.

And this is only the beginning.

────୨ৎ────

The steady dripping of water marks time like a cruel metronome as you lie there, unable to measure how long Leo has been gone. Time loses meaning in the darkness.

Despite the burning in your wrists and the aching of your body, your mind remains sharp and focused. You hold onto something deeper than hope - a crystalline clarity that refuses to be extinguished.

When the door finally opens and Leo's silhouette appears in the frame, you remain steady, watching him through the darkness like a flame that refuses to die out. He moves with deliberate steps, claiming the space as his domain with each measured movement.

The soft clink of glass being set down breaks the silence, followed by the harsh scrape of a chair. His voice cuts through the darkness with calculated precision: "Did he ever tell you how many people he's buried beneath his empire?" he asks, the words hanging heavy in the air. "Your husband."

The word "husband" tastes like ash in your mouth as you remain silent, refusing to give Leo the satisfaction of a response.

Leo's smile grows faint as he leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "You wear diamonds paid for in blood, and still — you looked at him like he was your savior."

Your continued silence seems to crack something in Leo's composure. "He took everything from me," he says, his voice turning cold and bitter. "My father. My legacy. My place in this city."

You glance down at your bound wrists before meeting his gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. "Then you chose the wrong time."

Leo stills at your words as you continue, voice trembling yet resolute. "I left him. Walked away. Told him not to come after me."

He studies you with calculated intensity, his smile transforming from amusement to pure cruelty. "Let's see if monsters like him can love."

Rising to his full height, his shadow stretches menacingly across the floor. "Or perhaps you believe monsters like Jeon are capable of letting go?"

────୨ৎ────

Jungkook finds your letter placed neatly on the black marble table, waiting in silence like an unwelcome prophecy. One look at the handwriting and something in his chest coils, sharp and tight. He reads it three times, each pass more desperate than the last, until he finally crumples it in his fist with the violent urgency of someone searching for a pulse that's already gone. The silence that settles in the penthouse isn't peaceful - it's surgical, precise in its emptiness.

His breathing shifts first. Then the glass of whisky he'd been pouring doesn’t even make it to his lips — he hurls it across the room. The shatter is so loud it echoes through every inch of the space you used to fill. Your perfume still lingers in the air. Peach and warmth and something soft he never had a name for.

He tears through the apartment methodically yet frantically - flinging open doors and ransacking closets in the bedroom, bathroom, and terrace. Some desperate part of him hopes to find you tucked away in some small corner, waiting to be found.

"Y/N!" The rawness in his voice echoes through empty rooms, met only with silence.

His hands shake as he dials your number repeatedly, each call going straight to voicemail after a few hollow rings. Desperate calls to Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jimin yield nothing - no one has seen you, no one knows where you've gone. You've simply vanished.

Jungkook finally stills, the pain inside him crystallizing into an arctic coldness that seeps through his veins, corroding everything it touches.

And in that stillness, surrounded by shattered glass and the black ribbon tangled in the sheets you left behind, Jungkook's voice breaks the silence with a hoarse whisper: "You said don't come after you." His eyes close as his jaw clenches before he growls, "Fuck that." After all, monsters never let go of what they've claimed.

────୨ৎ────

Jungkook storms into your family's estate without warning, the door slamming open with thunderous force. The sound echoes through the decaying house, where half-finished renovations barely mask years of neglect. A dissonant mixture of wet paint and rotting plaster mingles with expensive cologne and rising panic.

His footsteps resound through the once-silent front hall as he strides past the stammering butler, claiming the space as his own. And it is his, in a way - every restored ceiling, every gilded molding, every attempt to hide this family's rot was paid for with Jeon money. Your husband's money.

And now his wife is gone.

"You let her leave?" The words crash into the room like breaking glass.

Your father stands frozen, mouth working silently before managing, "What are you talking about?"

"She's gone." Jungkook's voice trembles with fury beneath his grief. "Left a note, took nothing - no phone, no guards. No one's seen her. And here you all sit, acting like nothing's wrong."

"She—she wouldn't—" your father stutters. "No. She wouldn't be so foolish."

Jungkook's laugh cuts through the air like a blade.

"Foolish?" In one fluid motion, he seizes a priceless vase and hurls it against the wall. The crash echoes through the room as shards scatter across marble. "You threatened her, didn't you? Ordered her not to dishonor me?"

"She promised to behave," your father snaps, his composure finally cracking. "That girl—she was never supposed to embarrass us like this!"

"Embarrass you?" Jungkook's voice cuts through the air like ice. "She's missing and that's what concerns you?"

Your father's voice lowers, fear creeping in. "We told her to stay married. That was the deal—"

"That was your daughter," Jungkook hisses, his words dripping with venom. "And now she's gone."

He turns sharply to Luca, whose composure is unnaturally steady, face showing no hint of concern. "You," Jungkook says, advancing with predatory grace.

Luca's smile remains faint, mocking. "She's not a child, Jeon."

"No," Jungkook murmurs, "but you are a fucking liar."

The temperature plummets as Nora presses a trembling hand to her chest. Jungkook's voice grows colder, more lethal with each word. "Where is she?"

Luca's calculated shrug only fuels Jungkook's suspicion. "You think if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you?"

Jungkook closes the distance between them, his face inches from Luca's. The air crackles with tension as he studies the too-perfect composure in his brother-in-law's eyes.

"You didn't even flinch when I said she was gone," he observes, tilting his head slightly. "Did you help her run? Or did you sell her?"

Your father's sharp exhale and sudden pallor speak volumes. Jungkook's smile transforms into something terrible - all teeth, devoid of warmth.

"You have five seconds to tell me where your daughter is," he says with deadly calm. "After that, I stop asking."

────୨ৎ────

The silence hangs sharp and heavy as Jungkook stares Luca down, his jaw flexed and fists clenching rhythmically, barely containing his rage. The tension breaks when his phone buzzes - an unfamiliar number that makes his blood run cold. He answers wordlessly.

Static crackles through the line before a voice emerges, dripping with malicious satisfaction. "She'll look better pregnant," Leo Maranzano drawls.

Jungkook's entire being transforms in that moment - not frozen, but coiled like a predator about to strike, radiating a silence so dense it seems to bend the very air around him.

"Don't bother trying to trace this," Leo continues smoothly. "We both know how futile that would be."

Jungkook's voice emerges like ice wrapped around gunpowder. "You want blood? I’ll drown you in it"

In the weighted silence that follows, Luca shifts imperceptibly while your mother's face drains of color. Leo's soft laughter filters through the line, dripping with malice.

"Always so poetic, Jeon. So... predictable. You think the world will bleed for you, but what happens when the one you love bleeds for someone else?"

"Name your price," Jungkook demands, each word precisely carved. "Money? Territory? I'll destroy everything you've built before you touch her again."

Leo exhales with calculated disappointment. "I want what's impossible, Jeon - my father's life restored, my family's legacy rebuilt." His voice drops to a deadly whisper: "Since I can't have that, I'll have yours instead."

Jungkook's grip tightens around the phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure as Leo's words slither through the line.

"I'll marry your wife," Leo murmurs, soft as ash, "and knock her up with my heir."

The room plunges into deathly silence. Your father staggers back into a chair, all color draining from his face, while Nora's sharp gasp pierces the air. Even Luca, usually composed, pales visibly as his expression turns unreadable.

Jungkook closes his eyes for just half a second. When they open again, something fundamental has changed - he's no longer human, but something older, something ancient.

"If anything happens to her," he says, his voice quiet with reverent wrath, "I'll kill you. And every living Maranzano that crawls out of your grave."

"Big words from a man who just lost his bride," Leo hums mockingly.

Jungkook exhales once, trembling with barely contained rage, before saying softly, "You have sisters, don't you?"

Leo falls silent, his bravado slipping for the first time.

"Cousins. Nieces," Jungkook continues, a cold smile playing at his lips. "Sleep lightly." Without waiting for a response, he ends the call.

The air in the Amare house grows thick with tension as Jungkook turns, his lethal gaze settling on Luca. "Pray your sister is alive," he says, his voice dangerously low as he steps closer. "Because if she's not, I won't send you to prison - I'll kill you with my bare hands."

The silence that follows is deafening. As Jungkook moves to leave, he pauses at the door, looking back at Nora. "You were angry. Fine. But don't you dare say you loved her if this is how easily you turned your back." His words make her flinch.

"She saved me once," he continues, his tone softening with remembered gratitude. "Years ago when I was still bad at snowboarding. She doesn't even remember it was me, but I remember her. She gave me something no one else ever did - mercy."

After a weighted pause, he adds, "Maybe we were always going to end up here. Maybe that's what fate is - not clean, not kind, just inevitable."

With his hand on the door, he delivers one final truth: "You don't have to believe in love. But at least believe in the sister who never stopped believing in you."

And with that, he steps into the rain, ready for war.

────୨ৎ────

The rooftop is a stage of glass and steel, suspended above a city that doesn’t sleep — just watches, waiting. The wind slices sharp against concrete, pulling at coat hems and loaded holsters, as if the night itself senses what’s coming and wants to retreat.

Above the city, beneath a bruised sky veined with lightning, six black cars idle like hounds ready to devour. Their engines hum low, headlights cutting through the dusk like a premonition, restrained only by the men who command them. Jeon mafia assembles — suits pressed, weapons hidden, hearts armored.

Namjoon locks a magazine into place with quiet finality, sleeves rolled to the elbow, throat tight with tension. Beside him, Jin checks the radio frequencies, his gaze flickering once toward the skyline — toward the place they believe she’s being held. Hoseok straps a blade to his thigh, expression hollow, all his usual brightness buried beneath something colder. Jimin adjusts the cuffs of his jacket with the stillness of a killer in prayer, and Taehyung pulls his hair back with shaking fingers, eyes glittering with rage he hasn't yet learned to name.

Yoongi is silent. He always is, before blood.

And at the center of them all stands Jungkook — not their heir, not their prince, not their spoiled bloodline darling — just a man in a black suit that fits like a vow, trembling in places no one dares acknowledge.

His hands tremble with barely contained tension, an unprecedented sight among the Jeon legacy that leaves his men in reverent silence. These same hands that have dealt death with practiced ease, that have wielded both knife and power without hesitation, now betray a deeper truth - their leader is afraid.

Jungkook avoids their watchful eyes, his gaze fixed on the sprawling cityscape where, somewhere in its depths, you're being held captive. His mouth grows dry as his thoughts race louder than the approaching storm, each moment of separation feeling like a blade against his skin.

He remembers your eyes when you told him not to touch you, your voice trembling with the words "don't come near me." The memory of your retreating footsteps haunts him, along with the image of you shrinking away as if his every promise had been hollow.

And perhaps they were - not because he concealed his true nature, but because he foolishly believed that his monstrous side could deserve tenderness. That he could shield you while remaining unchanged. That you could withstand the darkness he carried.

He let his rage speak louder than your fear when he should have protected you. Now he faces the possibility of having to kill again, knowing the bloodshed will forever stain him in your eyes.

But you'll be alive.

He can accept a future where you never touch him again, where your voice falls silent around him, where you flee at his approach. He can survive all of that, but he cannot exist in a world without you.

Namjoon steps forward. "The convoy's ready."

Jungkook nods once, remaining silent as his trembling fingers clasp behind his back, curling into fists while he struggles to steady his breathing.

Taehyung murmurs low to Yoongi, "You ever seen him like this?"

Yoongi doesn't look away from the cars. "He's never had something to lose."

Jungkook lifts his head and adjusts the diamond cufflink on his left wrist — the one you once teased him for wearing like a crown. His voice carries clear authority as he addresses the group.

"I want clean entry. No noise until I give it. We don't spill unless we have to. We don't risk anything unless it's her."

The others nod in a silent, unified pact.

"I want Leo breathing," Jungkook adds, "just long enough to watch me burn everything he ever touched." His voice drops then, stripped of command and practiced arrogance — leaving only bone and soul and desperate love: "Bring her back."

As engines rumble to life, thunder rolls above them like applause for the damned. Jungkook lingers at the edge, his eyes fixed on the city skyline, heart in his throat. He doesn't pray — he doesn't believe in anything that ever refused to protect you. When he finally turns toward the convoy, his face unreadable and hands steady, he whispers into the storm: "This ends tonight." And then he disappears into war.

────୨ৎ────

The air inside the Maranzano estate reeks of rust and ruin, a stark contrast to its former splendor. Marble imported from Verona adorns the walls, while high ceilings showcase frescoes of indifferent gods, and chandeliers heavy with Bohemian crystal hang like frozen memories of old Italian guilt. Now the place stands as a tomb - a forgotten cathedral of betrayal awaiting fresh bloodshed.

Blackened windows cast the interior in shadow, while faulty electricity hums an ominous drone. The distant ocean crashes against the docks, and moonlight filters through a cracked skylight, casting fractured patterns across the dust-covered floor.

When the doors burst open, it's not with theatrical chaos, but with deadly precision - swift and silent as a guillotine's fall. Dark figures glide across the polished floors, their tailored coats rippling like liquid shadow, weapons at the ready. These aren't mere soldiers; they're Jeon men - predators whose very essence speaks of wealth and violence, purpose and unrelenting rage.

Namjoon takes point on the left, moving silent as a curse, while Jin covers the right with cold-eyed vigilance. Jimin and Taehyung follow, their steps ghosting across the carpet as golden chandelier light plays across their expressionless faces. Hoseok secures the stairwell as Yoongi dissolves into shadows, a lethal presence unseen until the moment of strike.

And at the center: Jungkook. He moves with deadly precision, as if the very air parts in fear of his advance. His black suit remains pristine, but his face betrays something beyond rage in his locked jaw and gleaming eyes - something far more dangerous. With bare hands and cold determination, he makes it clear that this night will end in blood.

A bullet pierces the silence like shattering glass, followed quickly by another. Screams echo through the corners as men shout in Italian and English, panic rising in their voices. The Maranzano guards, previously secure in their territory, find themselves unprepared for the wolves that have breached their sanctuary.

Chaos consumes the mansion as smoke bombs transform light into swirling fog. Gunfire reverberates against stone walls while someone desperately calls out Leo's name. But Jungkook remains focused, deaf to everything except his mission.

He moves through the space like death incarnate in his three-piece suit, evading bullets with fluid grace while returning fire with precise elegance. His shots are calculated - one to the neck, another to the thigh - each movement deliberately chosen to disable and disarm.

To punish.

He takes no lives unless they stand between him and you.

Locked behind a wrought iron door in a cold cellar two floors down, you feel the war before you hear it - a distant hum through the floor, screams vibrating through pipes, Leo's orders echoing from above as footsteps pound and lights flicker overhead. The chaos builds to a crescendo before everything suddenly stills, leaving only your thundering heartbeat in the silence.

Then the door slams open - not from the guards, but from him.

Jungkook enters the room with an almost supernatural presence, drawn to you as if by divine magnetism. His black shirt hangs open, blood staining his collar while his eyes blaze with intensity. Though chaos erupts behind him - screams and the heavy thud of falling bodies - his focus remains unwavering.

He only sees you - bound, bruised, with dried blood on your lip and raw wrists. Something within him fractures at the sight, a subtle but terrifying transformation. Kneeling before you in silence, his trembling fingers work to untie each rope with delicate precision, as though handling fragments of your broken trust. In this moment, nothing else in the world exists beyond freeing you from your bonds.

Your voice barely rises above a whisper. "You came…"

But before you can say more, he wraps you in his coat, presses your head to his chest. You smell smoke, sweat, blood, his cologne. His heart is pounding like it’s trying to break through his ribs to reach you faster.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The door groans open behind him, and Leo Maranzano steps into the cellar. His slow, mocking applause fills the space as he appears in the doorway with his gun raised. Blood spatter has already dried on the sleeve of his suit jacket, his tie hangs askew, and one side of his mouth curls like something sharp beneath silk.

“Touching reunion,” he drawls, stepping into the room like it belongs to him. “You made good time, Jeon. Was hoping you’d take a little longer. The real show’s always better with an audience, right, wifey?”

Jungkook’s body locks into stillness, but the rage in him surges like a tidal wave against its dam. He rises slowly, placing himself between you and Leo with terrifying precision, his voice ice-cold and taut. “Don’t speak to her.”

Leo smiles. “Why not? We’ve gotten so close, your little bride and I. Haven’t we, princess?”

Your fingers twitch where they rest on the floor.

“She’s untouched,” Leo continues, circling now, slow like a vulture. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I didn’t want to ruin the canvas before the artist arrived. Would’ve been such a waste to play with her while you were out in traffic. I wanted you here, Jeon. To watch. To beg.”

Jungkook doesn’t speak. He drops the coat from his shoulders and steps forward into the light. You watch the muscles in his back tense beneath the thin fabric of his dress shirt, now half-untucked and stained with dirt and blood.

“But look at you,” Leo muses, head tilting. “You’re rattled. Afraid. Has she already made a man out of you, Jungkook? Has she already softened the executioner?”

And that — that’s when Jungkook moves. Like lightning refracted through glass, he lunges forward, shoving Leo hard into the concrete wall. The gun clatters to the ground, metal screeching against tile, as fists replace bullets.

Their fight devolves into raw brutality, all calculated strategy abandoned for pure survival instinct. Leo lands a heavy punch to Jungkook's ribs, and Jungkook retaliates with a vicious blow that sends Leo reeling. When Leo draws a hidden knife from his boot and slashes upward, Jungkook barely manages to dodge, but the blade still finds its mark - tearing through his shirt and leaving a bloody gash across his shoulder.

Your heart races as you scramble to your knees, eyes fixed on the gun lying just within reach. Neither man has noticed it yet.

JJungkook slams Leo into the ground with crushing force. Leo twists and drives his thumb deep into Jungkook's wound, causing him to unleash a primal scream of pure fury. Without hesitation, Jungkook's elbow connects with Leo's temple before grabbing his collar.

Gunshot.

The sound of your scream fills the air as Jungkook staggers backward. Leo stands with the smoking gun, a cruel smile playing on his lips as blood trickles from his temple. Fresh crimson blooms across Jungkook's arm and shoulder.

Your body moves on instinct, hands finding the discarded weapon. The weight of it feels foreign yet decisive as you raise it with trembling fingers.

Leo's eyes meet yours from where he stands, his bloodied smile widening. "Now this... this is poetic."

Your entire body shakes with adrenaline, each breath a struggle.

"Don't," Jungkook pleads, his arm outstretched toward you. "Y/N—don't. You don't need to do this."

Seeing Jungkook wounded and bleeding weakens your resolve.

Leo's soft laughter fills the space. "Go on, sweetheart. Pull the trigger. Be a good wife."

Your finger trembles on the trigger as the world spins around you. When you finally pull, the bullet tears through Leo's thigh with a sickening crack. His scream echoes through the room as he drops to one knee, grasping at the wall for support. The gun slips from your shaking hands as you collapse to the floor.

"Fuck—" Jungkook crawls to you immediately, his good arm wrapping protectively around your waist. "Baby—hey, hey, look at me."

Through your tears, you can barely form words. "I didn't mean to—I thought—he—"

Jungkook reaches for the gun and fires a single shot through Leo's heart. Leo collapses instantly - face slack, eyes wide, gone. Jungkook exhales and pulls you into his lap, ignoring both blood and pain.

"You didn't kill him," Jungkook whispers, voice rough. "You didn't kill anyone. It was me. Look at me. It was me."

You press your face into his neck. “You’re bleeding—Jungkook—your shoulder—”

“I’m fine,” he breathes. “I’m fine. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

His breath catches as he cradles your face between his palms, handling you like the most precious thing in this burning world. "Don't ever run from me again," he pleads, his voice raw with emotion. "Don't ever doubt that I would tear everything apart to find you."

Trembling in his embrace, you watch as Jungkook Jeon does something he's never done before - he prays. Not for himself, but that he'll never again have to see such fear in your eyes.

With infinite care, he lifts you against his chest and carries you from the wreckage. His promises fall like whispered prayers: "You're safe now. No one will ever touch you again. You're mine." And despite everything you've witnessed today - the violence, the monster within him - you believe him completely. Because just as you belong to him, he belongs entirely to you.

────୨ৎ────

What depths of loyalty and sacrifice arise when we call something love? In those quiet moments before dawn, as memories of cold rope and smoke still linger, you contemplate how a single moment can transform everything.

The weight of the gun, the tremble in your hands, the look in Jungkook's eyes - it all comes back with haunting clarity. His plea for you not to shoot wasn't born from fear of Leo, but fear for your soul. While Jungkook had long ago accepted his capacity for darkness, you were still untouched by such choices.

He was a man who had made peace with being a monster. But you? You stood at the precipice between innocence and necessity, between who you were and who circumstances demanded you become.

Looking back, you're still uncertain whether pulling that trigger came from survival instinct, overwhelming fear, or fierce love. The line between those emotions blurs in moments of desperation. That night gave you a glimpse into Jungkook's world - the terrible choices and the weight they carry. Though his lifestyle remains brutal and dark, you've gained a slight understanding of what drives him.

────୨ৎ────

The air tonight tastes like peach blossoms and spring dust. The city is humming outside, but here in this little pocket of golden light and linen, the world feels slower, softer — like something on the edge of a fairytale.

Jungkook is asleep on the couch. Or half-asleep, you’re not sure. His head rests back against the cushion, long legs stretched out like he owns the entire room, which in truth — he probably does. One arm draped over his stomach, the other slack at his side, the sleeve of his thin black shirt pushed up, revealing the edge of gauze still wrapping his shoulder. He refused the hospital, of course. Said he’d had worse.

For a week now, he's been with you. Every second. Every breath. He hasn’t returned to the office. His phone only lights up when there’s something urgent, and even then he barely glances at it before silencing the screen. He walks with you in the mornings — silent, careful steps by the river. He reads beside you in the afternoons, chin propped on his hand like he’s memorizing every inch of your face. He touches you constantly. Not with greed, not with hunger, but with quiet worship — a hand at the small of your back, fingers brushing your jaw, a palm spread against your thigh under the sheets like a silent vow.

And in sleep, he clings. Wraps himself around you with the desperation of someone who knows what it means to almost lose something you weren’t ready to live without. You feel it in his breath when he tightens his hold around your waist. You feel it in the way he kisses your shoulders before he even opens his eyes.

The world has settled into a new kind of quiet, no longer haunting but healing. Though nightmares occasionally visit, they're growing fainter with each passing day.

More powerful now are the gentle rhythms of life with him - his steady heartbeat against your back, his voice greeting the morning sun, his forehead resting softly against yours. These moments have become your anchors, drowning out the echoes of darker days.

Tonight marks a transformation. You've shed the weight of vulnerability, no longer feeling like someone in need of rescue. Instead, you feel whole - ready not just to receive, but to give.

You rise slowly, careful not to disturb him, and walk barefoot across the penthouse’s polished floors. The silk robe you wear clings lightly to your body, the black ribbon from days ago now tied loose in your hair like a quiet signal — one he won’t notice until he’s already undone. The perfume on your wrists is faint, but it still carries — white peach, soft and haunting, the scent he once recognized through memory alone.

You pause in the kitchen to pour a glass of water, your hands trembling with anticipation rather than fear. Tonight feels different - you want to show him that the weight of devotion flows both ways, that despite everything, you chose to stay.

Through all the darkness and ghosts that have haunted your chest, you remained. Not just beside him, but with him. And now, perhaps most importantly, for him. Taking a steadying breath, you walk back to the bedroom. Your fingers find the knot of your robe as you prepare to show him what love truly means when given freely.

────୨ৎ────

The bedroom is steeped in quiet gold, shadows curled against the edges of the walls like folded silk. Outside, the city is a blurred constellation, lights scattered beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass. But here — here, time forgets to move. The air hangs soft, perfumed with something sweeter than white peach, something warmer than memory. Something like safety.

Jungkook stirs when he feels the dip of the mattress. His lashes flutter, a slow exhale leaving him as his eyes open — still soft from sleep, but sharpening the moment they register your silhouette against the dark. The black robe has slipped from your shoulders. Beneath it, skin glows like candlelight, bare and tender and alive. Your hair spills forward, the ribbon still clinging to it like a secret vow. You climb over him carefully, knees bracketing his hips, fingers ghosting over his ribs like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you press too hard.

He swallows. The muscles of his stomach tighten beneath your palms. “Baby…” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and need, “what are you—?”

But the rest dies on his tongue when you lean down, kiss his collarbone, and whisper, “Let me.”

His breath catches as you shift forward, reaching between your bodies with practiced ease. He’s already hard — has been since the moment your weight settled over him — but he doesn’t move, doesn’t rush. He watches you, chest rising with shallow breaths as your fingers guide him in, slow and deliberate, the stretch making your lips part in a quiet gasp.

Your hands steady on his chest as you sink down. And he groans — not loudly, not desperately — but like something sacred just broke open inside him. His hands twitch at your thighs but he doesn’t grip you. He lets you move at your own pace. And you do.

You ride him slowly. Not with rhythm, not with control — but with reverence. With something closer to prayer. Every motion is intentional, the soft roll of your hips a sacred offering, your walls dragging tight around him as you take him inch by inch. His length fills you deep, stretching you with a sweet ache that makes your breath stutter. Each movement draws him deeper, until your bodies are flush, your thighs trembling where they cradle his hips.

You grind down, slow and full, letting the sensation ripple through your spine. Your back arches as you circle once, twice, dragging your heat over him in a way that makes him groan low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin like thunder contained beneath satin.

His hands twitch against your hips but he doesn’t guide you, doesn’t grip — just anchors. Fingers trembling, he lets you set the pace, like he understands that this isn’t about possession. This is about being seen. About surrendering to the truth of you.

You press your palms flat to his chest, right over his heart, and feel it hammering beneath your touch — wild, vulnerable, alive. You rise up, the slow drag of him pulling free until only the tip remains, and then you sink down again, letting him fill you, stretch you, make you gasp. Over and over — each thrust more confident, each grind a little deeper, your breath catching when the head of his cock grazes that soft, aching spot deep inside.

His jaw is slack now, pupils blown wide, lashes damp, lips parted in something close to awe. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t speak. Just watches — like he’s memorizing the way your body glows in the moonlight, the way your breasts bounce gently with every movement, the way you whimper when you find the angle that makes your thighs quake.

You roll your hips harder now, pleasure building slow and thick at the base of your spine. Every thrust is deliberate — down and forward, dragging his length against that spot again and again, until his fingers finally tighten on your waist, the first crack in his restraint.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice torn. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You moan in response, your body clenching around him, and he bucks up into you — once, sharply, making you cry out. You bite your lip, nails raking gently down his chest, and then move faster, chasing the heat gathering between your legs.

Your thighs begin to tremble with the effort, your breath coming ragged. You rise and fall, again and again, his cock dragging thick and hot inside you, the wet sound of your bodies meeting echoing through the room. He thrusts up into you now, meeting your pace, the friction growing wetter, messier, more desperate with every collision.

The intimacy of the moment transcends mere physical connection. This is about reclamation - a sacred vow expressed through movement, marking the moment you embrace being cherished, desired, and wholly accepted.

“You’re mine,” you whisper, voice shaking, legs trembling. “You’re only mine.”

His answer is a groan torn from the chest, hands flying to your hips as he meets you thrust for thrust now, the rhythm breaking apart in something raw and wild. “I’ve always been yours.”

The sounds between you are quiet, wet and slow, the room filled with broken whispers and low moans. You lean down, kiss him softly — once, twice, again — and he gasps into your mouth when your walls flutter around him.

His voice is wrecked now. “Fuck, baby, please…”

“Please what?” you murmur, lips brushing his.

“I need you to come. Like this. On top of me. For me.”

You press your forehead to his. “Then say it.”

He groans, head tipping back, breath shaky. “You own me.”

You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders now as your hips roll deeper, harder — still slow, still tender, but with a purpose now. With power. Your body tightens, pleasure gathering low in your belly like a storm you’ve been holding for years.

And then he says it — broken, wrecked, utterly yours. “Take it all. Fuck, take me.”

With a gasp that shatters into a cry, you break, your entire body pulsing around him, walls clenching tight as the pleasure explodes. He grips your hips hard, slamming up into you once, twice, three times — then spills into you with a deep, broken moan, holding you flush against him as he throbs, shaking beneath the weight of it.

And like stars colliding - inevitable, cosmic - your bodies stay locked together, hearts beating the same wild rhythm. His touch remains anchored to your skin, a silent promise written in the press of fingertips and shared breath.

The moment stretches like honey, sweet and infinite, as neither of you dares to break this delicate thread of connection.

────୨ৎ────

The days that follow feel like silk. The kind of days you once believed belonged only to magazines or other women — women with lives built on choice and safety, not sacrifice. Mornings spill in slow like cream over espresso, and you wake to his breath against your shoulder, his arm heavy around your waist, your legs tangled beneath linen sheets that still smell of white peach and the ghosts of what you whispered the night before.

Jungkook barely lets you leave his orbit. He touches constantly — not possessively, but tender, reverent. A hand at the small of your back when you pass him. Fingers brushing your wrist under the dining table while his phone rings unanswered. His thigh pressed to yours on the sofa, unmoving for hours. He kisses you in the hallway without warning — sometimes just your shoulder in passing, sometimes your mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world.

You catch him watching you like that sometimes — in the mirror, in the kitchen, while you tie the black ribbon into your hair — as though he still doesn’t quite believe you’re real. He never says it aloud, but you feel it in how he pulls you into his chest at night, hands gripping tighter when you try to roll away. He’s afraid the softness might vanish. That you'll vanish.

You learn things too. That his coffee must be scalding hot. That he sometimes murmurs in his sleep — nonsense, fragments of English and Korean and violence you don’t always understand. That he always carries two knives. One he shows. One he doesn’t.

And in return, you let him see more of you. You tell him about the time you lied to your fencing coach just to sneak out to the lakeside. You let him read the old Latin poem you wrote at sixteen, still folded inside your Saint-Margaux notebook. One night — only once — you cry again. He doesn’t ask why. He just pulls you closer and holds you tighter, whispering your name until sleep comes like a tide.

You wonder if this is love. Not the brutal, all-consuming version you were warned about — but the kind built quietly in the echo of war. A soft defiance, a rebellion in kisses.

────୨ৎ────

He’s kissing your temple when the call comes. You’re wrapped around each other on the velvet sofa, barefoot, wine half-finished, a K-drama playing on mute just for the light. He checks the screen and tenses.

"Grandfather," he says quietly, tension filling the single word.

You understand the weight of it immediately, though your fingers still clutch at the hem of his sweatshirt. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. "I won't be long. Don't wait up."

────୨ৎ────

The Jeon estate is too quiet when he arrives — grand halls humming with tension rather than servants. The lights are dim, the kind of half-lit stillness that announces something heavy is about to begin. His grandfather waits in the ancestral chamber — all dark wood and high ceilings and paintings that watch. The old man stands in front of the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, no drink in sight.

"Do you understand what you've done?" The words cut through the silence, his grandfather's voice sharp with disapproval. Jungkook stands tall, his coat still on, jaw locked in defiance.

"There is an order to everything," the old man continues, turning to face him. "You shattered that order when you - a Jeon - chased after her. You humbled yourself before her family, lost control, lost face. We are not the ones who get left. Have you forgotten what that means?"

“I went after my wife,” Jungkook says, voice low but steady. “She wears my name now. She is my family — as much as you are.”

His grandfather’s face contorts, torn between fury and something colder. “You killed Leo Maranzano. After the boy you already orphaned.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

“And not in darkness. Not quietly. In an open war. Blood. Witnesses. Chaos. We killed two Maranzano men now. And the world — the other families — they saw. They heard.”

“That is not the worst part,” the old man mutters. “The worst is what it means. That our enemies will now dare to look. To test us. The wolves are circling, Jungkook. They think the lions are wounded.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer at first. His hands are still, but his eyes have darkened — storm breaking slowly beneath the surface. “If they come,” he says at last, “let them. They’ll learn.”

The old man watches him for a long, unbearable pause before turning back to the fire. Without waiting for permission, Jungkook leaves, already texting Namjoon as he moves. In the end, the circles of blood and empires of fear mean nothing to him - his only concern is what awaits in the soft quiet of the penthouse, in the arms of the only thing he still believes in.

You.

────୨ৎ────

There’s a kind of hush that settles in just before it begins — the penthouse awash in low light, the city’s skyline blurring like a memory behind glass.

You move through the bedroom like a whispered promise, the black ribbon coiled softly around your fingers. The same ribbon he’s come to associate with you — with defiance, with surrender, with the moment he first truly chose you. Tonight, you wear nothing but silk: a slip the color of moonlight, the scent of white peach clinging to your collarbones like a secret.

He’s on the bed, leaning against the headboard, shirt already gone, dark sweatpants riding low. Jungkook watches you with something primal curled in his gaze — but there’s softness too. Always with you now, always just beneath the surface. Like he’s ready to kneel even while he commands the room. You move toward him with the quiet confidence he's come to crave, gracefully settling onto the mattress.

"What's that for?" he murmurs, his gaze drawn to the ribbon.

You don’t answer. Instead, you climb onto his lap, straddling him slowly, your bare thighs brushing against his skin, the slip of your hips bringing him to attention beneath the cotton. He exhales harshly, head falling back slightly, eyes dragging over every inch of you.

You press the ribbon to his lips. “Let me.”

He doesn’t ask again. You tie the ribbon around his eyes — not tight, just enough to veil the world, to make everything else fade except your voice, your mouth, your scent. When you pull back, he’s breathing differently already — deeper, more aware. His hands clench at his sides.

“What are you doing to me,” he whispers.

You slide down his body, soft kisses at his throat, his collarbone, lower — your breath warming the trail of his tattoos. And when you peel away the last of his clothes and take him into your mouth, the sound he makes is desperate. His hands twist into the sheets. His thighs tremble.

You work him with your mouth, slow and unrelenting — not chasing rhythm, but exploring it. Your tongue drags along the underside with deliberate curiosity, swirling once around the head before taking him deeper again, letting the heat of your mouth embrace him fully. You hollow your cheeks just enough to make him groan, the sound pulled straight from his chest like something unwilling, like something sacred. He tastes like salt and sin and everything you’ve ever been denied.

Above you, his thighs tense under your palms, the muscle twitching in waves as he fights the impulse to move. You glance up through your lashes, only to find his jaw clenched, head thrown back, lips parted in something between prayer and profanity.

His fingers flex against the mattress — not grabbing you, not guiding you, just trembling there, like he’s trying to remember what it means to let go. You can see him unraveling beneath the weight of your touch, the tight control he always wears now splitting at the seams.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice hoarse, “you’re gonna break me.”

And maybe you are — maybe that’s the point. Because this time, he’s the one undone. This time, your mouth is the weapon and your name is the surrender he can’t swallow.

“Let me see you,” he pants. “Ribbon off. I wanna see you.”

You pull back, smirking against his skin. “No.”

That single syllable makes him snap. He tears off the ribbon with a growl, eyes wild and burning as he grabs your waist and pulls you up with one swift movement. “Switch.”

Your wrists are bound in the same ribbon before you can speak, your arms raised above your head as he lays you back into the pillows, eyes devouring every inch of you like he’s starved. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like you’re his.

“You like playing games, huh?” he mutters against your throat. “But you’re mine now.”

His voice is low, dark, possessive and when he sinks into you, the stretch burns just enough to make your breath catch — slow, unbearably deep, every inch claimed with the kind of reverence that borders on cruelty. Your back arches off the sheets, a helpless curve, your body bowing beneath the weight of him, beneath the pressure of every inch pressing you open, pressing you full.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice already wrecked, forehead tipping against yours as he stays there, unmoving for a heartbeat too long. “So warm. So fucking perfect. Mine.”

He pulls out halfway, slow and dragging, and then pushes back in, even deeper. You moan into his mouth — soft, cracked, desperate. He moves again, then again, each thrust patient, almost lazy, but unbearably thorough. He’s not fucking you to finish — he’s fucking you to memorize you.

You’re gasping already, your tied wrists straining just slightly as your hips rise to meet him, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, caging him closer, like you need him deeper even though he’s already buried to the hilt.

He growls low in his throat, biting gently at your jaw. “Say it,” he demands, his rhythm still slow, still devastating. “Say who you belong to.”

“You—” you choke out, your voice caught between a gasp and a sob. “I’m yours, Jungkook. Yours—”

He groans like it’s a prayer answered in flesh. The control shatters. He snaps his hips harder now — deeper, faster — his chest dragging against yours, his breath burning hot across your throat. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, wet and sharp and desperate.

“That’s right,” he snarls against your ear, his hand sliding between your bodies to find that perfect spot — circling, pressing, just enough to make your thighs tremble around him. “My wife. My fucking everything.”

Your fingers curl tight in their silk bindings. Your spine bows. You feel him everywhere — inside you, around you, claiming you with every thrust, every low growl of your name. You’re unraveling under him, your voice breaking on every moan.

The pleasure builds unbearably — the coil tight and hot and rising, pulled taut until it can’t be held anymore — and when he angles his hips just right, hitting the spot that makes your vision blur white, it explodes.

You cry out as your orgasm hits, hard and shaking, your body convulsing beneath him as his name rips from your throat. He fucks you through it — hard and fast and relentless — chasing his own release as your walls flutter and pulse around him.

And when he comes, it’s with a broken groan, deep and guttural, his body pressing fully into yours as he spills inside you. His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and he keeps moving just a little, just enough to keep you open, to keep the heat between you alive.

“Mine,” he whispers into your neck. “Mine. Mine.”

When he finally slows, breath ragged and body trembling, he unties your wrists with gentle fingers, kissing each mark left behind. He doesn’t say anything, not right away. Just strokes your cheek, presses a kiss to your collarbone, your shoulder, your mouth — soft now, reverent.

You’re both breathless, sticky, spent. And yet his arms stay wrapped around you, strong and still trembling from how close it all felt to ruin. His voice returns only in a whisper, lips brushing your temple.

"I don't care if the whole world burns. Just don't leave me again," he whispers against your skin.

In response, you pull him closer and stay wrapped in his embrace - a wordless promise that speaks louder than any declaration.

.

.

taglist: kelsyx33 , maariinaaaaa estyshitposts oatmealbar jkemmi @sassywildbunny @maruperalta05-blog @aaabbbbllll @estyshitposts @nellbyy @mar-lo-pap @llallaaa @koogenre

@kooklv

[nellasbookplanet]

I'm hardly the first to make this observation, but the problem with many self-proclaimed cozy stories is that they're so scared to take risks, scared to do anything that could make the reader even slightly uncomfortable, because being uncomfortable isn’t very cozy. Characters lack in flaws and messiness; conflict is lackluster or quickly resolved or avoided altogether; a darker moment must always be followed by a peptalk, never lingered on; moral ambiguity is eschewed, because anything else would be problematic and messy. If a main character has flaws it’s always those of the good victim, someone who needs to heal and be validated but not grow and be challenged. Challenge, of character or reader, is anathema.

As I'm playing Stray, I'm struck by the thought that this is quite possibly the coziest piece of media I've ever experienced. You're playing as a little kitty cat. You’re carrying around a tiny robot companion in a backpack. Your enemies are tiny white blobs called zorks. There are game mechanics to meow and scratch up people's walls and furniture and knock paint cans off shelves and take naps. The pacing rarely rushes you, rather actively encourages you to slow down. You can stop and listen to a guy play guitar, or look for flowers to gift someone, or take a nap on a cushion while beautiful scenery full of plants and fairy lights roll by.

But it’s also a game set in the ruins of a near dead world. The cute blobs will eat you alive. The robot you're carrying is an uploaded mind earnestly struggling through an existential crisis and mourning an entire species. Under the plants and the fairy lights is garbage and rust and buildings falling apart. There’s no sunlight. There are creepy eyes watching you in the sewers. There’s classism and oppression and the downfall of man.

And through it all, the robots who inherited the world are working so hard to find pockets of hope and happiness. They paint and play music and play games and dance and grow plants and create cozy little homes for themselves. They resist for the sake of freedom and autonomy, they create an entire language, they dream of a world most think they'll never see.

This dichotomy of dark and light is something I see often in (better) cozy media. Dungeon Meshi is a fun cozy adventure where they make delicious food and talk about self-care. It's also about grief and the inevitability of death and the impacts of social inequalities. The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet is a cozy found family road trip in space; it’s also about the difficulties of understanding each other across cultural barriers and the massive ramifications when we refuse to do so. Legends and Lattes is basically a dnd coffeshop au; it’s also about struggling to find happiness and purpose and self-worth after a life of violence, not knowing if you're able to successfully achieve anything but bloodshed. And All the Stars is full of found family and pastries and characters just hanging out; all of this happens as they're hiding and fleeing from invading aliens who see them as nothing but a resurce to be used. One of my favorite episodes of critical role is the beach episode of c2, where they basically just hang out; this happens soon after they buried their friend who died trying to save them, as they're trying to figure out who they are and what they want after his loss.

And that’s the thing, isn't it? Any story that is uniformly the same thing all the way through ends up as bland. A grimdark story that never offers respite or moments of hope will numb you to the horrors, removing their bite. A cozy story that offers nothing to be struggled against, nothing for which cozy moments and aesthetics is a break, lacks impact. A story needs ups and downs, a rhythm of misery and hope.

[agneslovestheinternet-blog]

FUCK YOU, don't leave me

Part One: Paper Thin (Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five)

Gally x Fem!Reader

You were the first female greenie to arrive in The Glade and your continued feud with Gally is legendary among your fellow Gladers. It’s about to dazzle them even further tonight because it’s bonfire night. Which means you’re both excessively drunk, hopping mad, standing right next to an enormous open flame and contemplating one question; is arson really that bad?

Genre: pure plot, the set up to enemies to lovers

Word Count: 2.7K  Read Time: 9.5 mins

Warnings & Info: strong language, brief mention of needles and flesh wounds, underage drinking, Your POV, Movie!Gally, the only Glader slang I use is “shank” because the rest sounds dumb to me (sorrryyyy), minimal Y/N use, you’re not the only girl I added several unimportant OC’s, Thomas is there but the plot of TMR doesn’t move forward

Author’s Note: I was originally going to write this whole fic in one part but then I got too excited and it got really long, so I broke it up. The other parts will be coming very shortly, let me know if you want to be tagged when I post them! This is the first fic I’ve ever posted so all constructive criticism is welcome! The Maze Runner community on Tumblr is amazing & I just wanted to throw my hat into that very talented ring; thx for reading! fun fact: Gally’s name appears 62 times in this fic :)

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I can’t fucking stand Gally. And everyone knows that. Everyone also knows that he can’t fucking stand me. If it weren’t for saint Alby’s most sacred rule, (“Never harm another Glader”), I would’ve split his lip with my knuckles a long time ago. 

It started with The Box, obviously. That clanging, rusted, menacing machinery that brings life-sustaining supplies and headache-inducing complications. Like me. 38 months in a row The Box brought up a flushed-faced, wide-eyed, scared-shitless teenage boy. Every month, like clockwork. Until lucky month number 39 when it sent my sorry ass up. The first girl. Since then, The Box alternates between male & female greenies each month. No one has any idea why those who control The Box suddenly decided to make The Glade co-ed. But Gally’s working theory is that it’s to destroy everything they built before me.

He has a well-deserved reputation for having the loudest mouth in The Glade and he wasted no time using it against me, starting on my very first day. The first memory I have of him is watching his tanned face contort with confusion and anger upon opening The Box’s gates and finding me at the bottom.

“Why’d they send a girl?” he’d barked, piercing through me with his gaze even though his question was directed at the several dozen boys standing around him, also peering down at me.

“We’ll just welcome her like any other greenie. Maybe they thought it was getting too rowdy in here with only boys,” Alby had responded calmly, parting the sea of boy’s shoulders as he strode up to Gally’s side. He stared down at me with a much kinder expression on his face.

“I’d like to get rowdy with her,” a boy interjected loudly, sending a cascade of wolf-whistles and whoops through the group around him. I was still lying on the cold metal ground of The Box, dazed and barely aware of what was being said. But at the sound of the whistling I’d instinctively covered my chest with my arms, blocking any sight of the skin exposed above my top. Gally sharply lifted his head to meet the boy’s eyes.

“Stop thinking with your dick, shank. She,” he pointed harshly at me, “is only going to cause trouble,” He turned to Alby and lowered his volume but not his scathing tone. “If you want to welcome her like any other greenie, be my guest. But you know that a change like this could ruin everything we’ve built. Don’t expect any sympathy from me when it does,” He strode off in a huff, grabbing the set of tools he’d abandoned in the grass and going back to his construction site on the other side of The Glade.

That was my first impression of him. At the time, I didn’t know my name, where I was or what was happening but I knew that Gally hated me. And since I didn’t know anything else, I decided that the first thing I would be sure of in this new place was that I hated him too.

It didn’t take long for our fellow Gladers to take notice of our feud and prepare accordingly. It became part of the tour for every new greenie that came up.

“That’s Gally,” Newt would say, pointing out his broad figure as he ordered his crew around with a pointed finger, “And that’s Y/N,” he’d continue, pivoting 180 degrees to the front door of the med hut, where I was helping a bloodied Slicer get inside.

“If you ever see them standing closer to each other than they are right now, run or grab the nearest weapon,” he’d finish with a devilish grin. The Builders and the Med-jacks had an open agreement to keep us away from each other at all times. Whenever a Builder got injured and Gally brought them to the med hut, I would be forcefully told to take my break in my hut. And whenever the med hut needed construction work, Gally would be told to do work elsewhere in The Glade until his crew finished.

Alby had declared bonfire nights to be the DMZ of The Glade pretty early on in our feud. Gally and I have a paper-thin agreement to not start shit, but tonight? Tonight that paper thin agreement goes up in smoke.

I’m sitting on a horrendously rotten log surrounded by the few friends I have that put up with my constant outbursts towards an otherwise pretty popular member of The Glade. Elsie, (the 2nd girl to arrive in The Glade & by default my closest friend), passes me the dusty glass bottle full of Gally’s elixir and I take a hearty swig, my vision already blurry from the first round of passing. The only thing I can respect about Gally is that his concoction gets you fucked up, fast. With all the horrors we all have to deal with at such a young age, (running a functioning town, trying to find a way out of the Maze, hiding from Grievers, trying not to get stung & coming to terms with the fact that we might never know who we are or where we came from), it’s good to have a reliable way to get drunk.

Chuck is babbling a retelling of Minho’s latest run in my ear excitedly when he suddenly comes into focus; Gally. He’s marching up to me, fists balled and face flushed. It took me a lot longer than usual to realize he was coming due to my inebriation.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Y/N?” he snaps, jolting me out of the warm feeling his drink was bringing me. “Hank just told me he has a crush on you. Are you just going to seduce my crew? Or do you need to have the entire Glade under your control too?”  

He’s slurring his words slightly and swaying where he stands, telling me he’s probably just as fucked up as I am. Gally rarely drinks from his own supply, so this must be why he has the sudden gall to confront me despite our agreement with Alby. I get to my feet unsteadily, anger replacing my calm demeanor, but before I can speak, Newt shimmies in between us and puts his hands up, metaphorically waving a white flag. 

“Gally, mate, you’ve had a few. You don’t want to start something here. Just sleep it off and we’ll figure this out in the morning,” he says reassuringly, putting a timid right hand on Gally’s left shoulder. Newt’s keeping his voice purposefully low as he’s aware half The Glade has started staring in response to the confrontation.

“I’m not talking to you Newt, I’m talking to her,” he snarls, shaking his shoulder out of Newt’s grip, his blue eyes never leaving mine.

“I don’t know why you’d think I’d want to seduce a Builder. You all have the IQ of fruit flies,” I snapped back, my voice coming out far hoarser than I intended it too. At the sound of this insult, the rest of my group of friends get to their feet and several of Gally’s jog over from the other side of the bonfire. Elsie’s hand instinctively grabs my left wrist as Chuck holds onto my right forearm. Gally’s arms are also being held onto by Thomas & Ben, who are exchanging worried glances. Our friends mobilized so quickly that Gally & I barely had time to react. But despite Newt’s pleading & the four pairs of fingernails now digging into our arms, Gally continues.

“Please Y/N, like a guy’s intelligence has ever stopped you from opening your legs,” he chortles, before going in for his finisher, “Just stay the fuck away from my Builders. It’s hard enough to keep them working without some slut parading around The Glade like she’s God’s gift to teenage boys,” he spits, his eyebrows furrowing and his muscles flexing, as he rigorously pulls against Thomas & Ben.

His comment rings in my ears for what feels like an eternity. That choice of insult is vicious, even for Gally. Alby has all but banned that word in The Glade, chastising & throwing in the Pit any poor shank that dares to use it against any of the girls here. 

My cheeks are hot and I feel Elsie & Chuck tighten their grip around my arms. Maybe it’s the alcohol in my system or the stress of the day finally coming down on me or the wolf whistles I got this morning for taking my jacket off echoing in my ears or the smug look on Gally’s face or the memory of crying myself to sleep last week or the nods of agreement to his comment by several onlookers, but all of it is too much and something in me snaps. Fuck the agreement with Alby, fuck controlling my anger and fuck dealing with any of this sober; this means war. 

Before I’m even fully aware of my own plan, I’m ripping my arms from my friend's grip. Elsie & Chuck stumble to the ground as they call desperately after me. The crowd formed around our altercation parts for me easily as I rack my brain for the easiest way to cause Gally pain. The Glade is spinning haphazardly as I stumble to Frypan’s table with tonight’s feast set upon it. I search furiously for the rusted copper pot that holds the rest of Gally’s elixir. 

Thomas and Ben, who are now joined by Newt, Minho, Chuck, Alby and Jeff, are trying to forcefully pull Gally away from the fire, towards The Pit. He is fighting this punishment with the spirit of an angry Griever, his voice echoing continued insults towards me that I can’t quite understand at this distance.  Elsie & another Glade girl, Lireale, are sprinting after me, clearing the crowd and scanning the darkened clearing for any sign of me. Gally breaks from his friend's grip and has only a second to take in his surroundings before I’m back next to the bonfire, right in front of him.

I stare into his eyes with as much venom as I can muster, my left hand flat against the bottom of the pot, my right hand tipping it sideways. Months of swallowed anger and dismissed indignation swell in my chest. I take one last look in his eyes before chucking his famous elixir into the flames with as much might as my drunken body can muster.

The bonfire immediately swells to the height of our treehouse, quickly absorbing its new fuel. Gally’s drink has about as much alcohol in it as a bottle of medical antiseptic and I take a moment to drink in the cleverness of the destruction I’ve caused. Gally’s expression has melted from anger to fear. 

I win

I watch the orange hues reflected in his wide eyes before feeling the electric shock of stray flames connecting to my body. As I fall to the ground in pain, I feel two sets of calloused hands picking me up and carrying me quickly in the direction of the med hut. My vision is tunneled as I watch two other figures pick up Gally and carry him in the same direction. 

We’re going to have to be in the same room for the first time since our friends learned better. And after the stunt I just pulled, he’s going to murder me. I focus on preparing my mind for whatever counterattack he has planned, instead of the searing pain now blossoming in my hands and on my chest.

I come to my senses a little more in the bright med hut as I’m gingerly placed on a cot by Ben and Newt, wincing at the contact of charred skin and coarse fabric. Gally’s voice brings my ears back to reality with a ring. Though he can’t attack me physically through the pain of 2nd degree burns being sterilized, he still finds enough energy to take verbal shots at me.

“Fuck you, Y/N! I’ll be out of work for a week because of this,” he grunts emphatically, voice still slurring. I look up at him through the line of Runners & Builders standing between our two cots, trying to prevent the counterattack he’s in too much pain to plan for now. He’s balling his fists and wincing as Clint uses a damp cloth to wipe gently at the largest of his burns; a large red stripe on his right bicep. Thomas and Hank are standing at his shoulders next to the cot, helping pass supplies to Clint as he works.

“You don’t do anything but bark orders, your crew will be fine without you, shank,” I spit back. “Shank” was often used jokingly and with affection between other Gladers but when Gally and I use it, it sounds more like a slur. 

I’m still smiling cartoonishly from the sight of him getting his comeuppance. I can deal with my own pain if it means Gally has to be in pain too. I’m lying on my back as Jeff places an aloe-soaked bandage on the burn I have on my cheek. Elsie kneels next to me, holding my left hand, whispering mixed words of sympathy and scolding that I don’t hear. I’m attempting to stare at Gally, bobbing my head from left to right, trying to move into a position where her head’s not blocking my view.

The med hut is swarming with people. Alby is standing by the door, arms crossed, eyes jumping between Gally and I, getting the story of what happened told to him by Newt and Chuck. The former is in damage-control mode, sticking up for me with an earnest tone and the latter is beaming with pride, unable to contain the excitement in his voice as he recounts how high the flames got. The several large Runners & Builders that formed a human chain in between Gally’s cot and mine are starting to relax and disband, as they finally take in the severity of our injuries. Lireale is passing supplies to Jeff on my left, who’s whispering instructions to her. There are several other lookers-on who snuck in to see the action before Alby started stopping people at the door and telling them to go to bed, lest they lose their right to lunch tomorrow.

“Oh yeah and what do you do, greenie? Besides seducing every poor shank that gets bloodied up enough to have to come here,” he yells back, voice getting hoarse and gaze softening as Clint bandages the site on his arm that he injected the anesthetic into. He sighs with relief at the sight of it kicking in so quickly.

I shouldn’t be surprised this sentiment is what started this mess. Gally is known to rant to anyone who will listen that girls are a distraction in The Glade, and any shank dumb enough to fall for that distraction deserves to be thrown to the Grievers. I’m not the only girl and haven’t been for a while; there’s four more of us he could direct his sexist anger towards. But he never looks at them the way he looks at me; as if my existence itself causes him offence.

“You wish Gally. Is that why you always get your wounds patched up in your hut?” I croak back, my voice starting to falter as Jeff pulls an identical needle containing anesthetic out of my arm. “Afraid you’ll get too riled up if I’m the one stitching you up?” I mumble, my voice barely audible as my eyelids flutter close. 

I feel my shirt being pulled off gingerly by Elsie, exposing my bra. Jeff gets to work on a particularly nasty burn going from my collarbone to the top of my right breast. The last thing I see before being lured into a drug-addled sleep is Gally’s blue eyes, tracing my now-exposed figure. Maybe it’s the heat of the burns, or the stress of the pain, but I swear I can see his cheeks flush and his eyes widen before he quickly looks towards the ceiling and succumbs to the sedatives in his system as well. Like I said; Gally doesn’t look at me the way he looks at any other girl. But I’ve never seen that look before.

[idkwhylou]

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫

Summary : Marcus Acacius never asked for a wife, and he certainly did not ask for you. As he kept his distance, you stayed silent. But now, you are smiling again. Yet, not at him. He sees too late what he broke, what he lost, and what he could have had if only he had reached out sooner. But in the shadows, Lucilla waits, like she always has.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged mariage, cold behavior, age gap ?, infidelity, secret relationship, angst, no y/n

Words : 4,9K

A/N : Marcus' pov yayyyyy. I'm not really proud of this one, but this chapter is still important.

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Marcus had not changed.

Each morning, as he rose in the aching stillness of his chambers, he told himself it was enough—though his shoulders carried more than old wounds from war. They carried the quiet weight of a life he had never asked for. The coldness was anything but new. It had always lived inside him. Carved there by loss, by duty, by a thousand days of bloodshed that demanded silence more often than grief. But now, in Rome’s golden light, in the smooth, watchful quiet of the villa, it had begun to take on a new shape. It had begun to feel like cruelty.

He knew what he was doing. Or rather, what he was not doing.

Each time you entered a room, he felt it—the subtle shift of air, the softness of your presence that brushed up against his walls and found no opening. You smiled. You spoke gently. You offered olive branches in the shape of warm bread, scented oils, quiet conversation. And still, he gave you nothing but civility.

Not because he hated you, that would have been simpler. But because something in him had been still too long, rusted into a man-shaped cage that did not know how to open. He had never wanted to be a husband. Least of all to a woman like you, a woman unprepared for the iron weight of a man who did not know how to reach out, even when his hands ached to.

He had thought, once, that maybe time would wear him down. That routine would soften the edges of his silence, that your patience might disarm something buried deep. But weeks had passed, and nothing inside him moved.

He remembered that night—the night it had begun to change. You had returned late from the garden, your eyes low, your steps quiet. Something invisible had fractured, and you carried it with the careful hush of someone who refused to let the pieces fall. He had not asked you anything. He had not dared. But from that moment on, a veil had fallen between you, thin and nearly invisible, but undeniable.

And he had done nothing to lift it.

He watched you became smaller in your own home, like someone drawing their warmth inward just to survive the cold. You moved gently through the villa, always careful not to step too close, not to intrude. When you spoke, it was with the softness of someone who expected silence in return. And that was what he gave you.

The truth of it haunted him.

Because you were not a mistake, you were not a punishment, you were simply wrong for the man he had become. Or perhaps, more painfully, too right for the part of him he had long buried. The part that wanted to believe in connection, in something lasting. In peace.

Lucilla had always known that about him.

She had seen him through blood and ruin, years ago, when his name was still only whispered in war tents and carved into stone by men who died shouting it. She had been there in his lowest hours. Not as a lover at first, but as a constant. A witness. A mirror. She had understood the language of silence long before anyone else tried to translate it. And in the comfort of her presence, he had learned to stop pretending.

But now—now, even that comfort felt compromised. Because Lucilla was not stupid.

She saw the way he watched you when he thought you would not notice. She saw the weight of his silences grow heavier with each passing day, saw how the cold between you and him had started to feel less like armor and more like regret. She never said it aloud but she had grown sharper in recent weeks, more possessive in the way her fingers brushed his sleeve or the way her voice dropped when speaking of you.

He did not blame her.

He did not blame anyone actually.

Except, maybe himself.

He remembered a morning not long ago, early light falling through the tall windows, where you sat unmoving, a scroll unrolled and unread on your lap. He had paused in the doorway, unseen, watching the stillness of your form, the quiet grief that lived not in your face but in your posture, in the way your shoulders curled slightly inward, like someone bracing for another disappointment.

He should have gone to you, should have said something. But all he did was turn and walk away. Because he knew—somewhere deep, somewhere shameful—that the longer he let this go on, the more irreversible it would become. And still, he did nothing.

Not because he did not feel. But because feeling was not enough. Because the truth he could not say was this: he had never wanted to be a husband. And yet here you were. And worse—he had never wanted to need someone like you. Yet, slowly, terribly, he did. But by the time he would admit it, you would no longer be waiting. He knew that.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

It was a banquet, yet another, gilded and loud, and full of the smells of wine and sugar-drenched fruit. Rome parading its triumphs before itself, drunk on its own image. He stood alone near a column, watching the blur of silk and gold, the gleam of laughter that rang false in his ears. He had not touched his cup, had not spoken more than a dozen words all night.

Your voice had reached him once as you greeted a senator’s wife with that unfailing grace of yours. He had turned to look. Just once.

Lucilla, of course, had noticed. He had not seen her approach—not really—but her intoxicate scent had arrived first, the familiar hush laced with something richer, darker, as if even her perfume insisted on being remembered. It was the kind of fragrance designed not just to please but to linger, to mark the skin, to haunt the spaces after she was gone. She moved like a shadow trained in its own weaponry: quiet, fluid, always knowing how to stand just close enough without demanding attention.

“Careful,” she murmured just beside his ear, her voice low and sharp, honed like a blade concealed beneath velvet. “We have to talk.”

Marcus did not reply, nor turned. But his hand around the rim of his goblet, trembled slightly. He kept his gaze fixed on the movement beyond them—on the sweep of robes, the glint of polished goblets raised in ritual cheer, on the hollow theater of laughter that rolled across the banquet hall like a tide without origin. Everyone here was pretending. Every glance, every syllable, every practiced smile. Just another masquerade.

And he had been pretending too.

Lucilla shifted closer, the silk of her gown whispering against his boot. “She nearly found out,” she hissed, her voice meant for him and him alone. “That night. In the garden.”

He did not need clarification, he knew exactly which night she meant. His jaw tightened, memory flashing like heat behind his eyes. He should have stopped it all long before, should have ended this—whatever it was between him and Lucilla—when it was still salvageable. But he had not. And now the thread she had spun around him, years in the weaving, was snarling into a knot too tangled to ignore.

“She is clever you know,” Lucilla said, tilting her head. “She asked questions. It was only luck that she believed me.”

Believed her. The words struck him harder than he expected, sharp and low in the gut. She had lied. And you—you had believed her. You had trusted the woman who smiled at your table, who spoke in pleasantries and wrapped deceit in silk and civility. His stomach turned. Not from Lucilla’s betrayal, but from his own.

“She is not like the others,” Lucilla added, as if the thought unsettled her. Her tone was even, but there was an edge beneath it now—wary, calculating. “She notices. If we are not careful—”

But he was not listening anymore, across the room, just past the golden pillar flanked with ivy and candles, he saw you.

You were seated beside a man he did not know—younger, the son of a patrician from the north, recently returned from Alexandria, all sharp cheekbones and sun-warmed charm. He wore his toga too loosely, laughed too quickly. He had one of those inherited faces too used to being looked at. You were not leaning in, but you were not recoiling either. The way your head tilted slightly, just so, the way your fingers drummed along the edge of the table, not nervously, but thoughtfully. And then—Gods help him—you laughed.

It was not loud, nor flirtatious. But it was real. A soft, unguarded breath of amusement that lit across your face like morning sun. Marcus inhaled through his nose, and the air caught halfway down. He had never heard you laugh like that in his presence.

Lucilla kept talking beside him, her words like water against stone, insistent, unheeded. “She does not know what you have been through, Marcus. She does not understand. She never will. She would not last a day in the cold places you have lived—”

And then she touched him. Her fingers brushed over his forearm with a gesture so familiar it might have once felt like comfort, but now... now it was unwelcome. Not just wrong. It felt like a theft.

Because his gaze was still on you. And all he could see was the way your hand rested on the table, your fingers brushing that man’s sleeve by accident, casual, brief—and he hated it. Hated the echo of it, the mirror of what Lucilla was doing now. That she could touch him when his mind was elsewhere, that someone else could touch you and receive what he never asked for but now realized he had always wanted.

Lucilla’s hand tightened slightly, sensing the shift in him. “Marcus ?”

But his body was already tilting away. A step, a breath, a lean. But to Lucilla, it must have felt like the beginning of loss. And for Marcus, it was the end of pretense. He did not look at her when he spoke. “Move.” His voice was controlled, but the kind of controlled that could not be softened. The kind of calm that came before the draw of a sword.

“Marcus—” she tried again, the edge of her composure thinning. “She was speaking to another man. You do not owe her anything. You and I—this is not—”

He did not let her finish. His hand lifted, brushing hers from his arm in a motion that was not harsh but irrevocable, the gesture of a soldier shedding what no longer served him. She stepped back as though the air had changed temperature. And he walked across marble floors glossed with candlelight, past idle nobility with mouths full of honeyed words and hands stained in politics. Toward you.

You looked up as he approached, your conversation pausing mid-sentence. You blinked, once, twice, as though not trusting what you were seeing. You opened your mouth, but the man beside you was already retreating, sensing the gravity that entered with Marcus’s arrival.

He did not even acknowledge the man, as his eyes never left yours. “We are leaving.” He said. Quietly. Just that. No explanation. No warning. 

You hesitated, your fingers clenched lightly around the rim of the table, your body still angled toward the seat. Your expression was unreadable at first, caught between confusion and that deeper, older thing—resignation. A kind of knowing that lived in women who had long accepted their lack of choice.

“I—Marcus, what is this ?” You asked, voice low, not wanting to cause a scene.

He did not answer. The way he stood, the set of his jaw, the command in his silence, it made resistance feel futile. Still, you lingered. You looked past him, briefly, and your gaze found Lucilla, who stood at a distance now, her smile brittle and fixed, her hands coiled together like something held back only by pride.

You rose.

Not out of agreement. Not even out of submission. But because somewhere in that moment, you realized that what he offered now—however sudden, however unclear—was more honest than the indifference he had buried you beneath for weeks. And you were tired of being unseen.

You left without taking his arm, but you followed. And behind you, Lucilla watched. Her face pale and her hands trembling just slightly. Because for the first time, she was not the one being chosen. And Marcus—Marcus did not look back once.

Not at her.

Not at anyone.

Only at you.

The carriage ride home was silent. Not the still, companionable quiet that sometimes followed long evenings—but the kind that vibrated beneath the surface, sharp with things unsaid. The kind that filled the space between two people like smoke, invisible but choking. Marcus sat across from you, unmoving, eyes fixed on the black shape of the road beyond the open window. His jaw was tight, one hand resting against his thigh in the rigid posture of a man at war with himself.

You stared at your hands folded neatly in your lap, fingers trembling faintly despite your best effort to still them. He had not said a word since pulling you from the banquet floor, had not looked at you, had not explained, had not acknowledged what he just had done. But now, alone in the dark velvet of the carriage, you were no longer shocked. You were angry.

And underneath the anger, something colder had begun to settle, something that tasted like shame, like humiliation. Because the moment you had turned to ask him what was wrong, the moment your voice had wavered with confusion—he had not answered, as if you did not deserve the dignity of a reason.

As if you had done something wrong.

You clenched your jaw, heart pounding louder with each mile that passed, fury sparking hotter with every glance he refused to give you. By the time the gates of the villa came into view, you were no longer confused. You were incandescent with rage. When the carriage rolled to a stop and the footman opened the door, Marcus stepped out first. Still silent. Still calm. He did not even glance back to see if you followed. You did, but not for the same reason as before. You followed because you were done letting this continue in silence.

The walk through the atrium was short, a blur of shadow and candlelight against white marble. He turned toward the corridor that led to his private quarters—as he always did. As if tonight had not happened. As if ripping you from a conversation like some jealous tyrant was not worth discussion.

But this time, you did not let him go.

“Marcus.”

He stopped. His shoulders stiffened, but he did not turn. You did not care anymore, you stepped forward until you stood behind him, your voice low and cold as steel. “What is your problem ?”

That made him turn. Slowly, brow furrowed, mouth set in that same expressionless line he always wore when the walls went up. But you were not afraid of it anymore.

“You do not speak to me,” you said, each word deliberate, each breath carefully held so your voice would not shake. “You barely look at me. You treat me like a stranger in a house that is supposed to be mine too. And I have tried—I have tried to live with that. To respect whatever it is you think you are protecting. But tonight—” your voice caught, not with weakness, but fury “—you pull me away from a conversation like I have done something wrong. Like I am a problem to be managed.”

He said nothing, of course he did not. You moved closer, circling around to stand in front of him now, forcing him to look at you. “You do not get to do that. You do not get to be cold for weeks—months, and then act like I belong to you the moment someone else says something kind !”

His eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something worse. Guilt. Maybe shame. You could not tell and you really did not care at all.

“That is not how this works,” you hissed, your voice breaking now, fury crashing into something fragile beneath. “You do not get to disappear behind silence and distance and then come dragging me out of a room like you have any claim to me !”

He finally opened his mouth, but you raised your hand.

“No.” You pointed your index finger toward him, “You do not get to talk now. I am talking.”

He closed it again, but did not look away. And you hated him a little for that. For standing there so still, like none of this touched him. Like he was not the reason your hands shook. Your voice dropped lower. “If you want something from me, Marcus—if you actually feel something, if there is anything in you besides shame and silence and this endless, cold pride—then say it ! Ask for it ! But do not you dare punish me for what you ca not admit.”

He did not speak. His expression flickered, not a change, but a crack. His throat moved in a tight swallow, but still no words came. You stared at him. Waiting. Wanting something—anything—to make this mean something.

But there was only silence.

And you felt it then. The final break. That small, foolish piece of hope that had still lived somewhere in you, the one that had clung to his name, to the quiet way he stood when you entered a room, to the moments when you thought there might be something there.

It died.

You shook your head, voice barely a whisper now. “You really do not have anything to say.”

Still, he stood there.

So, you turned. Not toward your room. Not in defiance or drama. Just away. Away from him, from the weight of everything he would not even try to say.

And this time, he was the one left standing still.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Marcus could not sleep. Not for lack of exhaustion, the weight in his chest was enough to flatten a man twice his size, but because the silence in his chamber refused to be still. It scraped against the inside of his skull like iron dragged across stone, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face.

Not the quiet version of you, not the one he had grown used to—if he could even say that—not the one who spoke softly, who walked carefully around his moods. No. What haunted him now was the version he had tried to pretend did not exist: the one who had finally looked at him with fire in your eyes, the one who had stopped being kind, the one he had driven to fury.

You had stood there in the atrium, lit by the echo of too many quiet evenings, and you had spoken to him like someone who had reached the very end of something. Your voice had trembled with fury held too long beneath the surface. And he had let you go.

He had watched you turn, and for the first time in a very long time, he had felt fear. Not battlefield fear, not the cold clarity of calculated danger. But the raw, unshakable fear of a man who had realized, too late, that he had taken something living and turned it into dust.

He sat now at the edge of his bed, tunic wrinkled from where he had laid down hours earlier, then risen again, and again, and again. The wine he had poured sat untouched on the table. A breeze drifted through the open window, cool against the sweat at his temple, but he did not feel it. All he felt was your absence. And the sound of your voice, still echoing in his mind.

Gods.

He buried his face in his hands, elbows on his knees. His breath shook, and he hated himself for it. But there was no battle here to win, no strategy to retreat to. Just a silence he had built himself, brick by brick, and the realization that he might have finally sealed himself inside it.

He stood suddenly, as he did not even remember making the decision, just the movement : one step, then another. The villa was dark as he stepped into the corridor, his bare feet soundless on the stone floor. The night was deep, heavy with the scent of cypress and cooling marble, and not a single servant stirred. He did not bring any source of light with him, he did not need one, because he knew the path to your chamber by heart. 

Each step felt like it carried the weight of a hundred unsaid things. He did not know what he would say when he got there. He did not know if he would knock, or turn back, or fall to his knees the moment he saw your face. All he knew was that he could not stay away. Not anymore.

When he reached your door, he stood there for a long moment. The wood looked softer in the moonlight, blurred at the edges. His hand hovered, and for a breath, he considered turning back. Then he knocked once, quietly.

No answer.

He waited, heart thudding like a drum in a storm. He knocked again, just slightly louder.

Still nothing.

His hand dropped to his side. Maybe you were asleep. Maybe you had nothing more to say. Maybe he deserved that silence now, the one he had offered you so many times. Maybe—

Then he heard it.

Faint. Muffled.

Not words. Just breath.

The kind a person tries to hide. The kind a person makes when they are crying into a pillow and trying not to let it escape their throat. His chest clenched, a violent, gut-deep reaction, like a blade shoved through the ribs from the inside out. He pressed his palm flat against the doorframe to keep from staggering.

Gods.

You were crying.

Because of him.

Not in anger now. Not in defiance. But because something in you had broken, and he had been the one to break it. And you were trying to cry quietly—because even now, even now, you did not want to disturb him.

Something inside him shattered. He lowered his head against the wood, closing his eyes. “Please,” he whispered, though he was not sure if it was for you or for himself.

He did not knock again, just stood there, listening to the sound of your pain, to the quiet unraveling of what he had never had the courage to hold. And for the first time in years, Marcus wished that someone would come and strike him down where he stood. Because what he had done was worse than cruelty.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The weeks that followed were made of absence. Not loud. Not cruel. Just absence. The kind that settles like dusk, imperceptible at first, until you look up and realize the light has gone and you never saw it leave. There were no slammed doors, no raised voices, no final, cutting words meant to scar. Only space, and the silence inside it.

You did not avoid Marcus. Not openly or childishly, you were too composed for that. But there was something in the way your footsteps passed him now, lighter, quieter, as though your body had learned to retract itself from his presence. The brush of your gown no longer reached him, your fingers no longer touched the edge of his sleeve in passing. You did not linger in thresholds anymore, did not pause before you exited a room.

Your scent had vanished from the air in the shared spaces of the house. The triclinium, the library, even the shade beneath the olive tree where you once sat with your sandals off and a book forgotten in your lap—all of it smelled only of stone now.

You greeted him as a wife should. You bowed your head when appropriate, your voice was even, smooth as poured wine—and just as impersonal. But your eyes… your eyes no longer searched for him across a room. No longer stayed on him when you thought he was not looking.

You had become a stranger in the shape of the woman he should have loved better. A ghost with a pulse. Marcus, who had once commanded legions, who had stared down barbarians and traitors alike with unblinking resolve, did not know how to fix what he had broken.

So, he did nothing. Well, not exactly. The only thing he did was not reaching for Lucilla. He did not meet her when she called for him, and did not went to her villa late at night, like he would have done before. 

He told himself it was patience. That healing required space. That if he rushed you now, forced closeness, demanded confession, he would only wound you further. But deep down, beneath the reasoning and the Roman pride and the well-worn habits of silence, he knew the truth.

He was waiting. Waiting for you to return to him. Waiting for the grace of your forgiveness without having to ask for it aloud. Waiting for the kindness he had squandered to be extended one more time, without cost. And every day you did not come back was another quiet confirmation that you were done offering.

You smiled now, sometimes. But never at him. You laughed once or twice, in the garden with a servant girl, or at something read from a scroll. But the sound was brief, private. Not meant to be shared. And never in hispresence.

When you spoke to him, it was only in the language of civility. Clear. Respectful. Empty of warmth. And that—that calm, that poised neutrality—was worse than anger, worse than tears. Because anger at least was still a thread. Still a tether. Still a sign that some part of you burned for him, even if it burned in pain.

But this ? This was extinction.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The shift came quietly. He noticed it during a garden gathering hosted by the widow Domitia—one of those breezy Forum affairs where senators aired their wealth in wines and foreign spices while pretending to care about poetry. You were dressed in a soft dark blue that day, your hair was coiled up, away from your neck, the way you always wore it when the sun was strong. And you stood at a distance from him. Not far enough to be scandalous, but far enough that you could no longer be considered at his side.

But you were near him. The man from the banquet.

You spoke with him easily, your voice low, shaded with interest. Your posture leaned just slightly toward him, like a flower drawn toward light. Marcus stood across the colonnade, his goblet untouched in his hand. He watched the way your fingers played along the rim of your cup when the man leaned in. The way your mouth moved when you spoke—not smiling, but open. 

He did not move. Did not interrupt. Did not speak.

Because what right did he have ?

He had given you every reason to drift. Every reason to find warmth elsewhere. And yet, something in his chest—that old soldier’s instinct, that possessive ache he had never dared name—flared like an open wound.

You walked with that man again two days later. In the villa gardens. A servant mentioned it in passing—an innocent report about ‘my lady’s guest’—and Marcus had nodded, pretending not to care. But that night, you came back with color in your cheeks and soil on your fingertips, and for the first time in months, your face looked alive.

Like you had finally remembered that the world held beauty. That your body still moved in it. That someone saw you. And Marcus, from the shadows of the peristyle, watched the way you stepped through the atrium, humming faintly to yourself, a sound that had not been heard in the villa in weeks, and he felt it: the burn.

It was not jealousy.

It was loss.

Real loss. Not the imagined kind that might be recovered with a few good words. But the quiet, irretrievable kind. The loss that comes when something has gone cold and hardened, and you didn’t even realize you had stopped holding it.

You had stopped waiting for him.

And still—he did nothing.

Because what could he say after months of silence ? After watching you try, and fail, and try again ? What could he offer now, when everything you once hoped to find in him—warmth, touch, want—had become something you had taught yourself to live without ?

He had once been a man others followed without question. Now he stood alone in the home you shared, reduced to the echo of a choice he never had the courage to make. And the worst part, the part that scraped bone, was not that you had left him.

It was that you had stayed. Right here. Under the same roof. Wearing the same name.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

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Tag-list : @negrita2345 @aretha170 @immyowndefender @suzysface @isabella-rose-trastamara @simpingforjoel @unmagically @carpediem1219 @whirlwindrider29 @babukat

[iris-qt]

𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛

ᴛʜᴇᴏᴅᴏʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴛ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

❆ ᴀᴄᴀᴅᴇᴍɪᴄ ʀɪᴠᴀʟꜱ | 2.4ᴋ

❆ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: ᴀ ʙʟɪɴᴅ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʀɪᴠᴀʟꜱ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴏᴅᴏʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴛ, ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴏᴛɪᴄ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀ ꜱɴᴏᴡꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ᴛʀᴀᴘꜱ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ, ꜰᴏʀᴄɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʙɪᴄᴋᴇʀɪɴɢ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ. (Warning: cussing)

The rusted bell of the Three Broomsticks chimed as Theodore Nott strode into the pub, snowflakes following him in as his trenchcoat billowed around him.

Count on Nott to make a grand entrance.

It was dinnertime and quite packed with travelers and regulars. 

Even some Hogwarts students here and there who had either snuck out or were of age, therefore allowed to leave the castle on weekends.

Theodore nervously cracked his frozen knuckles as he slipped off his trenchcoat, leaving him in a soft cashmere turtleneck, as he took a seat in a cozy corner of the bustling yet cozy pub.

He swore to Merlin he’d hex Mattheo and the rest of the lads silly if this was some sort of prank or setup. The truth is, Theodore Nott had felt quite lonely as of late: not that he minded.

Like at all.

He loved his solidarity.

But his dear old friends had been taking it the wrong way, thinking their new, bustling social life with their romantic partners, internships, and extracurriculars or whatnot had pushed Theo away. 

After much begging and persuading (and Mattheo offering to pay for the date), they had finally gotten Theo to agree to a blind date with a girl they found that they claimed was ‘perfect’ for Theodore. 

He doubted it.

Well, if the girl came with a mute button and plenty of cigarettes to share, then perhaps. But Theo wasn’t oblivious, he saw the way girls treated him, always talking his ear off trying to charm him by faking interest in books he read or operas he adored. 

He didn’t mind talkers.

I mean his best friend was Mattheo Riddle for Merlin’s sake.

But he hated fakers.

And then he also hated people that thought they were better than him

Like Y/N Y/L/N.

Ugh.

Ok, maybe she sometimes got better grades than him, but did that make her better than him?

Fuck no.

The rusted bell of the Three Broomsticks chimed again, and Theodore glanced up from his untouched butterbeer, only to freeze mid-sip.

Speak of the devil and she shall appear.

Clad in a fluffy red scarf and beanie, no less.

Y/N Y/L/N, your scarf loose around your neck and your cheeks flushed from the cold, scanned the room with sharp, intelligent eyes. Your perfectly pressed coat betrayed not a single wrinkle, and your boots clacked against the wooden floor with unnerving precision.

His stomach sank like a poorly cast Levitation Charm.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath.

You spotted him almost instantly, brow furrowing as your gaze flicked between him and the bar. Then, you made your way over, every step radiating purpose.

"Theodore Nott," you greeted, voice dripping with suspicion as you slid into the seat across from him. "What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Y/L/N," Theo replied coolly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "But I’m guessing you’re not here for a pint and a philosophical debate about Arithmancy theories."

Your eyes narrowed. "Are you... waiting for someone?"

Theo hesitated, a dawning sense of horror creeping over him. "I might be. Why? Are you waiting for someone?"

You pulled off your scarf, setting it on the table as you glared at him with an incredible intensity, he wondered how your furrowed eyebrow creases weren’t permanent at this point. "You’re kidding me."

Realization hit them both like a rogue Bludger.

"Wait," you began, your voice dangerously calm. "Are you my blind date?"

Theo groaned, rubbing his temples. "No. No way. This has Mattheo written all over it. That git."

You let out a sharp laugh, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. "Unbelievable. Your friends set you up with me? Are they trying to ruin your life?"

"Clearly," Theo drawled, his tone dry. "I mean, of all the girls at Hogwarts, they pick the one that thinks she’s smarter than me"

Your jaw dropped dramatically. "I don’t think I’m smarter than you, Nott. I am smarter than you. You just can’t handle the fact that I’ve beaten you in every subject except Potions."

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "You only beat me in Charms last term because Flitwick is clearly biased."

"Biased?" you threw your hands up. "I wrote a twenty-four-inch essay comparing historical uses of nonverbal magic to modern applications. What did you write about, Theo? Oh, right. You didn’t write anything because you were too busy sulking after losing the chess tournament."

"I wasn’t sulking," Theo snapped, cheeks flushing. "I was... reflecting."

You smirked, clearly enjoying yourself. "Right. Reflecting with a scowl so deep it could rival Draco's pockets"

He rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help the corner of his mouth from twitching upward. "You’re insufferable."

“Aw Theo, you can do better than that..” You pause to scan the menu as you steal Theodore’s butterbeer, much to his chagrin as he mutters something under his breath. “What was that?” you smirk, bringing your eyes up in a teasing manner. “Tryna hex me there, Theodore Nott?”

He purses his lips as you reach out to shake snowflakes out of his hair with a snicker.

Did your eyes deceive you or did he blush? Nah it was just the biting cold.

“Let me guess. Silently judging what I’m about to order?” you scoff, trying to distract from the awkward silence after your intimate gesture.

"Only if it’s that ridiculous concoction with extra marshmallows," he retorted.

"Fine," you said, lifting your chin. "Then I’ll take two extra marshmallows just to annoy you."

Theo chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. "Merlin help me, this is going to be a disaster."

"Oh, it already is," you quipped, raising a sarcastic toast with Theo's butterbeer you stole earlier. "But don’t worry, Nott. At least you’ll have something to sulk about for the next month."

He shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "And you’ll have a great story to tell everyone about how you drove me mad in under an hour."

"Wouldn’t be the first time," you muttered with a smirk of your own.

And as the tension between them slowly gave way to reluctant amusement, neither of them noticed the group of grinning faces peeking in through the pub’s frosted window.

The iced window of the Three Broomsticks provided just enough visibility for Mattheo Riddle to squint through, his nose practically pressed against the glass.

“Move over, Mattheo,” Pansy hissed, shoving him to the side. “I can’t see a thing with your massive head in the way.”

“It’s a normal-sized head, thank you very much,” Mattheo muttered, but he shifted slightly to let Pansy peer through.

Behind them, Draco Malfoy stood with his arms crossed, looking every bit the reluctant participant. “This is ridiculous. We’re grown wizards. Spying through pub windows is beneath us.”

“And yet,” Blaise Zabini drawled from where he leaned lazily against the wall, “here you are. Standing outside in the snow like a commoner.”

Draco huffed. “I’m only here to witness the fallout. I give it twenty minutes before one of them storms out.”

“Fifteen,” Blaise countered, pulling out a pocket watch. “And they’ll start warming up to each other.”

“I’m saying ten,” Pansy whispered, squinting through the fogged glass. “Shit, look at Theo’s face. He already looks like he’s plotting her demise.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Mattheo said, grinning as he craned his neck to get a better view. “He’s clearly smitten.”

Pansy snorted. “Smitten? He looks like he’d rather be dueling a Hungarian Horntail than sitting across from Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N doesn’t look thrilled either,” Blaise noted, smirking as he caught a glimpse of you animatedly gesturing at Theo.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mattheo interjected, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, a wicked grinch-like grin on his face. “This is going exactly as I planned. The tension, the banter... it’s perfect. By the end of the night, they’ll either be snogging or plotting a joint murder spree.”

“Optimistic of you,” Draco muttered.

“Shut up, Draco,” Mattheo shot back. “You’re the one who said they’d ‘never even stay for the date.’ And look! There they are. Sitting. Together.”

Pansy tilted her head, watching as you leaned forward, your hands waving in exaggerated frustration. Theo responded with a slow, deliberate smirk, clearly enjoying riling you up.

“Is it just me,” Pansy whispered, “or does Theo look like he’s having fun?”

Draco leaned in to take a look, his silver eyes narrowing. “He’s smirking. That’s usually a bad sign.”

“Not this time,” Blaise said, his grin widening. “He only smirks like that when he’s impressed. Y/N must have said something clever.”

“I told you,” Mattheo exclaimes triumphantly. “They’re perfect for each other.”

“Or they’ll duel right in the middle of the pub,” Draco muttered, though even he couldn’t hide his curiosity.

“I still think it’s sweet,” Pansy said with a satisfied sigh. “Even if Theo’s too stubborn to admit it, he needs someone who can keep up with him. And Y/N is the only person who ever has.”

The group fell silent for a moment, watching as you mockingly raised your hot chocolate, your eyes sparkling with sarcastic delight. Theo rolled his eyes, but there was a trace of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Look at that,” Blaise said softly. “He’s smiling.”

“Smirking,” Draco corrected.

“Close enough,” Mattheo said, clapping his hands together. “Operation Set Theo And Y/N Up is officially a success.”

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” Pansy noted, glancing at Blaise’s watch.

“Pay up, Draco,” Blaise said smugly, holding out his hand.

Draco scowled but reluctantly reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of sickles. “This is the last time I bet on Theo’s love life.”

“Shush!” Pansy hissed. “They’re looking this way!”

The four of them ducked down in a comically uncoordinated scramble, huddling against the frosty wall.

Inside, Theo’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, his gaze flicking toward the window. “Did you see something?” he asked, turning back to you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What, like your dignity? No, I don’t think so.”

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Merlin save me.”

Outside, Mattheo stifled a laugh. “They’re going to kill us when they find out.”

“Worth it,” Pansy whispered, grinning.

The frosted glass of the Three Broomsticks didn’t do much to shield Mattheo and the others from the biting wind, and after an hour of spying, their enthusiasm had significantly dwindled.

“Alright, I’ve seen enough,” Draco announced, brushing snow off his shoulders. “They’re bickering like usual. This is going nowhere.”

“Give it time,” Mattheo said stubbornly, though his teeth were starting to chatter. “Theo plays the long game.”

“You’re the only one playing a game,” Blaise said, adjusting his scarf. “And I’m freezing. Let’s go before Pansy turns into an icicle.”

Pansy glared at him. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. But for the record, if I get frostbite, I’m hexing you all.”

As if to punctuate her point, a sharp gust of wind whipped through the alley, sending a flurry of snow right into their faces.

“Alright, fine,” Mattheo grumbled, reluctantly stepping back from the window. “Let’s go before we all catch dragon pox.”

“You mean frostbite,” Draco corrected.

“Same thing,” Mattheo muttered, trudging away.

The group disappeared into the swirling snow, their laughter fading as they made their way back to the castle.

Inside the pub, Theo watched the window suspiciously, his brows furrowed.

“Dude, what are you looking at?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you sipped his butterbeer you stole and your hot chocolate in turn, just to annoy him.

“Nothing,” Theo muttered, shaking his head. He was sure he’d seen movement, but it was probably just the wind.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Right. Because glaring out the window like that is completely normal behavior.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Theo shot back, leaning back in his chair. “Not everyone walks through life oblivious to their surroundings.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said with mock concern, resting your chin on your hand. “Should I be worried about the snowflakes plotting against us? Or maybe it’s a herd of rogue unicorns coming to rescue me from this disaster of a date?”

Theo rolled his eyes, taking a deliberate sip of his butterbeer as he dragged it away from you. “If only they’d hurry up.”

Their exchange was cut short when the door to the pub opened, letting in a fresh gust of icy wind. A group of travelers stumbled in, bundled in layers and dusted with snow, their voices loud and cheerful. The sudden influx of cold air sent a shiver through the room, and you tugged your cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“It’s getting worse out there,” one of the newcomers said, stamping snow off their boots. “Could barely see five feet in front of me.”

Madam Rosmerta appeared from behind the bar, her expression turning serious as she listened to the chatter. She glanced toward the windows, where the snow was now falling thick and fast, sticking to the glass and obscuring the view outside.

Theo followed her gaze, frowning. “Looks like we’re in for a real storm.”

“Brilliant,” you muttered, leaning back in her chair. “Just what we needed.”

Before Theodore could fire back a response, Madam Rosmerta clapped her hands, drawing the room’s attention.

“Listen up, everyone!” she called out, her voice cutting through the hum of conversation. “I’ve just received word from Hogsmeade Station. The storm’s picking up faster than expected. Roads are closing, and it’s not safe to travel. If you’re here, you’re staying until it clears.”

A collective murmur of concern rippled through the pub.

You blinked, sitting up straighter. “Wait, what does she mean by ‘staying’?”

Theo groaned, rubbing his temples. “She means we’re stuck here, Y/L/N. Do try to keep up.”

Madam Rosmerta walked over to their table, her usual warm demeanor tinged with apology. “Sorry about this, dears. It’s for everyone’s safety. We’ve got spare rooms upstairs if you need them.”

You stared at her, mouth slightly open. “You mean we’re stranded together?”

“Looks like it,” Theo muttered, looking like he was already mentally preparing to endure the ordeal.

“Wonderful,” you said flatly, sinking back into your seat. “Truly the cherry on top of this perfect evening.”

Theo shot her a sidelong glance, his lips twitching with a reluctant smirk. “Cheer up, Y/L/N. It’s not every day you get the privilege of spending the night in my company. Imagine how jealous the others will be when you tell them”

“If I had a wand right now,” Y/N muttered, “I’d turn you into a snowman and leave you outside.”

The storm outside howled louder, sealing their fate as the pub doors were bolted shut.

pt. II here ♡

@animatedglittergraphics-n-more for divider

[viaviavie]

SEEKING DREAMLIGHT | INTERLUDE 1

in which you return to twisted wonderland. welcome back home to the ramshackle dorm, or at least, what became of it in your absence. it certainly welcomes you back. the ghosts have never forgotten that young student that took so much care of this place. its current inhabitants swear you are one of those ghosts, and you are in a way. do not fret alice, wonderland has not truly forgotten you.

SUMMARY: based on disney’s dreamlight valley. years after the ramshackle prefect had left twisted wonderland, former students suddenly find themselves back in night raven college with missing memories and dreams of a magicless student they were supposed to know. an older prefect finally makes a return to a shell of the fantasy you once lived, falling in love once more with what was forgotten.

FEATURING: skully j. graves, ace trappola, deuce spade

NOTES: there actually wasn't going to be an interlude, but if i added heartlsabyul onto here, the pacing doesn't taste well.

[ INDEX ] [ PREVIOUS ] [ NEXT ]

The very moment your feet takes a step outside the Room of Mirrors, this twisted world threatens to steal your breath for good. Heavy as Grim was, nothing could ever compared to how low your heart sank as you see nothing but thorns upon thorns. Much to your relief, it was nothing like shadows that a certain horned housewarden casted over the island. This was something different.

There was no overlooking sense of death this time. Rather, there is only melancholy and emptiness, akin to the exploration of a lost ruin. Vines had overgrown past the concrete and construction, almost swallowing every building hole in its wake. As you walk past the stone pathway, you could only hold your breath as you glance at the Great Seven.

Once polished and prim, now obscured with moss and rust.

Still, you carry on as the direbeast purrs against your neck. It almost astounds you how calm Grim has become. Memories of that hotheaded cat-like beast still runs fresh through your mind, and this is that very same beast on your shoulders. You wonder if he carries the same longing and sadness as you. Grim is a bigger now, more beast-like than feline if anything. Even so, he controls the fire burning from his ears, warming you lovingly as he had so long ago.

And you stare at what remains of the Ramshackle Dorm, seemingly unchanged compared to the rest of this world.

"You actually remember the way home, Henchman." Grim murmured, slitted eyes fixated on the old wooden door. It surprises you to see it untouched by any thorns. The building just looks the same as it did in your faint memories, from its pathway to the creaky window of the bedroom you once lived in.

Welcome home, voices whisper and you don't miss the slight luminescent figures hiding in the chandelier.

You don't expect the door to open itself without resistance, and you don't question it. With furrowed brows, you press your cheek against the grey fur. "Dumb and Dumber, are they here?" You whisper, quietly shutting the entrance behind you. It is dark, save for the sunlight that had filtered its way in through dusty windows.

This wasn't right, you think to yourself as your hand brushes against a dusty side table. The old run-down Ramshackle Dorm, truly befitting of the name. Except, the last time you saw it, it appeared so brand new and taken care of.

You put an end to the thought, feeling a slight pang from your temples the more you forced yourself to remember.

Grim huffed, finally jumping off your shoulder and landing onto a nearby platform. "Somewhere. They're always here somewhere." You narrow your eyes as you follow the direbeast up the rickety stairway. Dumb and Dumber, who could they possibly be? You don't register the way your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, struggling to recall a memory. Once at the top of the stairs, your hand tightly grips the railing as you force yourself forward.

Grim pauses, turning around to look at you with worry. "Henchman? What's wrong?"

You don't remember a thing at all. Something was horribly wrong. You know what those two people meant to you, and yet, you cannot remember it at all. Your nails are unknowingly scraping at the wooden structure, and you crane over as fog begins to overtake your senses.

"Prefect, why?!"

A cry is torn from your throat as you felt a heavy weight knock you onto the floor. Grim scampers onto your torso, baring his teeth towards a shadow creeping up the stairs. "Henchman, get back!" He screeches, and you do not take a moment to rest when you clambered onto the balcony railing. Your eyes are trained onto the stairway as a inky blotted shadow slowly approaches.

Blue flames breath out of Grim's jaws as he growls at the abomination, and you could only stare in awe at the large flames he can spit out. You recall how small those fire orbs were in the past, but now, they can even compare to a true mage's spell.

Alas, the blot does not respond even as it takes damage. It continues to crawl, ignoring the direbeast and only moving closer and closer to you. A hand-like figure is outstretched towards you, and you swear that you can hear it screaming your name.

That was all that took to make you run. Grim is hot on your trail as you make a sprint down the hallway. It is all slowly coming back to you, these halls that you once lived in. The shadow continues to wail, but it lacks the speed to truly catch you. Floors whine and creak with each step you take, and it ceases when you reach a dead end.

All that is left to you is a rusted book resting on a table top and a vase. None of these rooms will not help you, only delay the inevitable. Grim lowers himself onto the floor, ready to pounce onto that blotted monster that had now resorted to pulling itself on the carpet.

"PREFECT."

You choke back a scream of your own as your hand impulsively latched onto the book, throwing it onto the blot to no avail. The book only phases through the monster, and your back is now pressed against the corner. Grim yells at you, but you cannot register his words anymore. Instead, your breath is held in your chest as you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to wake up from this horrid nightmare.

—but the light that glimmered behind the shadow forces your eyes open, followed by a long gloved hand smiting through the monster. It wails, melting into an unrecognizable shape until it is cut in half once more. Your knees buckle as Grim shields you, nails buried onto the rough fabric of the carpet as the blotted monster is reduced to nothing.

In its place was a man with long legs, donned in a suit that never seems to meet its end. Perhaps if he stood at full length, the tuft of his hair could barely brush against the ceiling. His head was cast down, but you don't miss that grin that seems to be missing a tooth. He breaths out a dry laugh, brushing away the inky that seems to have splattered on his dark gloved hands.

He frightens you, and he knew it.

"Oh my! Did I scare you?" The stranger smiles, eyes obscured by the round shades that he wore. Your breath is stolen away as he takes a step forward, and Grim growls so quietly that you swear he is more lion than cat. The direbeast does not deter the long-legged man who had stretched out his hand for you to take.

Maybe it was the haze of exhaustion that suddenly took over you, or your poor judgement, but you find yourself lacing your digits onto his own, dragging your body up. The stranger grins, looking down on you as he bows slightly, pressing your knuckles against his cold chapped lips.

"Who are you?"

And the man's grin falters for a moment, only to be replaced by a content smile. He scares you, but you do not fear him.

"Skully J. Graves," He purrs, pressing his cheek against the warmth of your hand. "How I missed you, my dear."

Skully follows you like your own shadow, except he makes your true shadow appear taller than it should. You do not question his sudden attachment, nor do you address the slight discomfort you feel when he hovers over you as a lamp would while you read.

Grim is suspicious, and he had every right to be when the fellow claims to have met you in a distant past. It doesn't raise a flag for you, however, considering that you can't even recall the faces of those you promised to remember. Skully was the one who saved your life as well, and he didn't seem to have any ill intent at all.

You halt your steps as your eyes are trained onto a familiar door. You remember now as the flickers of a smaller direbeast rampaging through that door replays itself in your mind.

You do not recall ice encasing the doorknob which had been obscured with thorns. Barely brushing your fingertips over the cold substance, you hiss at the sensation.

"Can you melt the ice, Grim?" You ask, only to be replied with an upset whine. "No can do, Henchman. This doesn't look like ordinary ice." Grim's tail curls itself around your leg, tilting his nose up at the frozen doorknob. It drips, trailing from crystalline ice down into an inky puddle. "It's melting ink!" The direbeast hissed, and you shift slightly as the taller man crouched down.

Skully hummed, eyeing the obstacle with piqued curiosity. "How peculiar. The ice is infused with some sort of magic." He muttered, tilting his glasses down so his amber eyes lock onto your worried gaze. He takes a gloved hand to dip at the puddle of blot, much like a child would. "I suppose you will need someone who specializes in fire spells."

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. You can't imagine that Grim could melt it, and if Skully knew how to, he would have certainly done it by now. "We can come back to this later. I'm sure we can figure this out, somehow." You tell them, crossing your arms. A hand trails over your chin, and you knit your eyebrows in frustration. "But who did this?" The possibility of another person in this world is not lost to you, but the motive is clouded with mystery.

The tall man shrugged, a smile dancing across his dry lips. "I'd imagine someone didn't want that door opened." Your body does not stiffen as he dances his finger tips onto your shoulder, leaning closely into your ear like a tempting devil. "It leaves plenty to the imagination, don't you think?" Your nose crinkles, and Skully chuckles at your plight.

"What could the perpetrator possibly be hiding? A love letter? A dangerous weapon? A body?" Lips twisting into a frown, you whip your head to the side. "Skully!" You whine, all too uncomfortable with the idea of a corpse being on the other side of the door. The skeleton-like man grins, hands in the air as if he were innocent of a crime. "So many possibilities!"

You never even noticed that Grim had long departed from your side, not until you hear footsteps from the first floor.

Grim's voice is echoing and bouncing off the walls. "I'm telling you, the Prefect is here!" He cried out. "Quit your yapping! I heard you the first time!" Your eyes widened, ears registering that familiar voice. You can't even realize that your lips had suddenly curled up into a strained smile, flooded by a hazy memory of mischief. "Grim..." Blue. That voice is blue, and it sounds like clumsy yet gentle hands.

Your legs carry you to the stairway, and

"—tried using every key I could find. Even tried to pick the lock, but it wouldn't budge." Grim yowls in frustration, followed by another man's sigh. "We can try again later."

"Are you not listening to me?!"

You barely catch a glimpse of red hair, and there are two men at the bottom of the stairs. Seeing the standard Night Raven College Uniform seems so uncanny on them, not when their faces had long outgrown their youth. You know them now, and your heart finally stills.

The redhead runs a frustrated hand through his hair, turning around as the direbeast cries for attention. "Grim, look. We'll check the Prefect thing out after a nap, so calm do—" Finally, he sees you at the top of the stairs, along with your wide-eyed expression that had long wormed its way into his heart so long ago.

He looks upon you as if you came from a distant dream.

"Ace," It is your uncertain voice that catches his companion's attention. Quickly now, the dark haired man looks upwards and gasps. That dumbfounded look of his only served to coax a nervous yet warm laugh from you. "Deuce." You whisper, a hand creeping up to your mouth to conceal the way you threaten to cry on the spot.

You remember now—

"Prefect." Ace breathes out, unwilling to believe it is a ghost that called out his name.

"Prefect!" Deuce cried, relief evident in his voice as he rushes up the stairs with reckless steps.

—and so do they.

Unbeknownst to you, the key glows softly within your pocket.

TAGLIST: @jjsmeowthie @deviious @hellfirestarter @thatpersonuouknow @knorreine @nerenda @goths4gambit @ghostlysyntaxed @minkyungseokie @daeda21 @red1sg0n3 @hatsumekannazuki @driftaway27 @alienlatteinspace @michtellch @loyalkatniss

[stargirlygirl]

no, you can't buy my ranch

rancher!sylus x spoiled!city girl!reader

⭑.ᐟ part two: how do you do it?

summary: in your frustration, you go and visit sylus and ask him how he runs his ranch

contains: swearing, hurt comfort, sylus fat ass appreciation, 3k works

A BIG THANK YOU to @tragicvictoriantears for all of her legal advice in the comment section of part one. literally incredible research and an excellent explanation, you should check out her comments for insight into how taxation changes with different types of properties. i'm thinking of running with a blend of adverse possession and wishful thinking for our successful businessman here.

“Argh! How fucking long is this going to take?” You shout into the humid air settling across the green shrubbery. Whipping out your phone, you check the time.

“Two hours?!” You shriek. Shoving the device back in your jeans, you pull at your roots.

For the past two hours, you’ve been lawn mowing. You might be thinking, how is it possible to mow the lawn for two hours? There can’t be that much lawn to mow, right?

Wrong.

Your father purchased a very roomy block of land, and he cancelled his subscription to a landscaping service after the last tenants evacuated the property. This means the acres were severely overgrown by the time you moved in.

It’s only been one week staying in this fuck ass charming small town and your archaic dreamy ranch house, and you’re about to have a mental break down. You’ve only mowed one of the fifty acres of your property with your good ol’ push mower. 1 out of 50!

You can’t do this anymore.

Leaving the mower running in the middle of the field, you stomp back to your house. Up the porch steps, you push the door open with both hands, sending it clanking into the wall as you beeline to the kitchen.

Pouring yourself a glass of cold water, you gulp it down while sweat rolls down your dirty forehead and neck. You sigh, slamming the cup on the bench and wiping your brow. Slumping against the countertop, you think about how you’re going to handle this.

You could call up your father to reinstate the landscaping service, but part of the rental payments had been paying for it. The last tenants lived here around two years ago, and the vegetation had been left untamed. Now that you’re living here, free of charge, you can’t expect him to foot the ridiculously expensive bill for gardening when you could just do it yourself, or whatever.

You could mow one acre of the lawn each day for the next 50 days. Not bad, but by the time you finish, you’ll have to mow the first acre again because the grass will have already gotten out of control again.

You could give it a rest for today and pick things back up tomorrow, in the hopes that you’ll somehow mow the other 49 acres during daylight hours.

In the midday light, a red glint catches your eye. Striding over to it, you pick up the business card you had left in your fruit bowl days ago.

“Sylus Qin,” you mumble, reading his name on one side. Flipping it over, you type his address into Maps on your phone. Enlarging the lay of the land, you realise that he lives in the next street over. Huffing, you darken your phone screen and make your way upstairs, intent on getting ready to pay a certain someone a visit.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

Shutting off your ignition, you hop out of your rust bucket. Your low heels sink into the grass, and you groan internally about how ruined they’re gonna be when you get home. Shimmying down your pencil skirt and adjusting your blouse, you head to the huge ranch house at the front of the property.

If you thought your little place was big (you’re used to shoebox apartments), then this is fucking grand. It’s like the house has been dipped in dark mahogany; it’s moody yet refined. Your heels clack against the wide steps up to the porch. Every detail is exquisite, from the embossed door knob to the hanging lights to the quiet luxury chairs out front. Not to mention the huge windows you’re positive someone is staring at you through as your fist raps against one of the double doors.

Within moments, the doors swing open, revealing two of the same boyish ranch hands greeting you.

“Miss L/n, our boss has been expecting you,” the one on the left remarks.

The right one continues, “Please—”

“Follow us,” they say in unison while gesturing inside. With a fake smile, you nod politely and step past the threshold.

Somehow, the house’s interior is even more magnificent than its exterior. You quickly notice the dark colour scheme of the decor, burgundy, black, and deep browns, mixed with fur rugs and leather finishings.

The twins lead you to the back of the ranch house before guiding you outside and to the stables. Stepping in, the overwhelming scent of livestock curls up your nostrils. You cough into your palm, stifled by the various beef cattle glaring at you. Towards the back stands Sylus, intimidating as ever in his maroon button-up and dark-wash jeans, barking out orders to his subordinates.

They scurry off like beetles as you approach. Sensing you behind him, the ranch overlord pivots around and gazes down at you with those piercing eyes. Your breath catches, and you unconsciously clench and unclench your increasingly sweaty palms.

He smirks, “Already seeking me out, kitten.” You sigh, berating yourself for stooping low enough to come and see him in your desperation.

“I’m not selling my ranch to you just yet, Sylus,” you mutter. He hums, revelling in hearing his name from your lips. The fact that you even thought about visiting him has excitement tingling in every inch of his body. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Clearing his throat, Sylus orders Luke and Kieran (as you learn to be their names) to take care of the ranch while you two talk business. With a large hand on your mid-back, he leads you back to his exquisite home and into his office.

Indicating to the plush chair opposite his opulent desk, he instructs, “Take a seat.” You obey, sitting down and crossing your legs all demure.

As he assumes his place opposite you, elbows on his desk and slender fingers intertwined, he drawls, “Well?” You breathe in deeply, feeling the cool air swirling in the bottom of your lungs to prepare yourself for what you’re about to say. Guilt gnaws at your stomach lining and makes the bile churn. Is this wrong? You ask yourself.

You press on, “I’m not here to discuss pricing with you.”

He chuckles dollar signs, “What a shame, kitten.” Silence pervades the distance between you as you glance around, feigning interest in his trinkets when nothing could be more captivating than the man in front of you.

“I want to know,” you start, leaning forward slightly.

Lowering your voice, you continue, “How do you manage all of this?” Your finger points from side to side, and for a moment, Sylus thought you were referring to him.

Raising a brow, he clarifies, “Manage what, sweetie?”

“Your ranch,” you murmur. Ah, that sounds about right, he thinks.

Grinning all handsome, he corrects you, “Ranches.”

Shifting back, you scoff, “Yea, yea, whatever. Your ranches. How do you keep them in order?”

His smirk widens, “Having some trouble in paradise, kitten?”

You scowl at him, “Oh, just shut up! I get it, you’re a successful businessman with an inflated ego.” Rolling your eyes, you slump in the stupidly comfortable chair. The cushions are so soft and mould to your body perfectly. And the details on the trim are to die for.

For a few moments, you two stare at each other, your gaze heated while his remains cocky.

Finally, you sigh, “I’m not asking for your trade secrets, okay? But, I get it if you don’t want to help me.” Breaking eye contact, you glance down at your roughed-up hands resting in your lap. Petrol and grass cuttings are still lodged beneath your fingernails, and there are little tears on your palms from fighting with the mower.

After a moment of deliberation, Sylus offers, “I could teach you a thing or two, if you’d like?”

Gazing up, your eyes are the size of saucers. You stutter in disbelief, “R-really?” He nods haughtily.

“So tell me, what’s the issue? You asked about management,” he drawls.

You hum in agreement and ask, “How do you keep up with everything? Like maintenance-wise? Obviously, I don’t have any livestock. But like the mowing? And the house?”

He smirks, “You want to know about landscaping and house cleaning?”

“Well,” you pout. “When you put it like that…” You trail off, your voice quietening until no sound passes out your lips.

Clearing his throat, Sylus responds, “I outsource those tasks, sweetie.”

“Oh,” you mumble. Right, of course. That was so fucking obvious, you scold yourself.

“Another reason why you should sell your land to me,” he mocks.

Leaning forward, the rancher continues, “You’re not made for this lifestyle.”

“Hey,” you mutter indignantly, but it sounds like a kitten hissing rather than a fiery roar.

He says sardonically, “City folk, such as yourself, aren’t built for this. So why don’t you give up now? It would save you much trouble.” His words sting in a way they shouldn’t. He’s telling you what you’ve been telling yourself, all week and for the past month, preparing for your move.

All of this complaining about the inconveniences of life here masks that feeling buried within: you’re not capable enough to handle life here. It’s different; an unknown way of living. You hate it for how incompetent it makes you feel. And right now, you kinda hate him for bringing that to light.

Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, you retort, “Desperate much? You really want my property, don’t you?” But it comes out mellowed.

Sylus grins, “Yes, I do. You’re wasting its potential.” You stand up in a flurry of chest pangs and prickling tears.

“Forget it. Forget that I ever tried talking to you. How fucking stupid was that?” You murmur dismissively while striding to the door. Grabbing the brass knob, you try and turn it, but it won’t budge. Drawing back, you notice a keyhole in the centre. All of this stress and pent-up anger is bubbling to the surface, spilling over as you pull on the door knob like it’ll magically open.

Whipping around, you choke out with cloudy eyes, “You-you locked it?!” Sylus stares at you like you’ve grown a second head, perplexed by your sudden emotional outburst. You’ve always been a bit of a crybaby, which definitely doesn’t help at a time like this.

Rising from his desk, he saunters over to you. Placing one hand on the door frame, he leans over you.

“Desperate much?” He remarks, throwing your words back at you as the door rattles from your furious attempts to leave.

Turning around, you shove at his firm chest while sobbing, “J-just let me o-out! Please!”

He shakes his head while countering, “I can’t do that, kitten.” Crying harder, you hit his pec with your fist, hard. But he doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he liked that.

“Want to take your frustration out on me?” Sylus teases while grabbing your fist.

He places it over his heart and urges you to, “Go on, then. I won’t stop you.” You shake your head, hair catching on your tears streaming down your cheeks. Your fist softens against his fitted button-up; his heartbeat is steady beneath your palm. It’s calming, feeling the rhythmic thump against your clammy hand. You know you shouldn’t, but right now, you don’t care about crossing his personal space boundaries. He crossed yours first, you reason.

Your head tilts forward, forehead hitting his muscles while his shirt bunches between your fingers as you grip it tightly. And now it’s Sylus’s turn to be surprised. He goes rigid while glancing down at you with a million thoughts running through his mind. He’s momentarily unable to comprehend whether this was real. Whether you’re really crying into him. Had he gone too far? Clearly. To him, you were still playing, even if you were becoming increasingly upset.

But this? He didn’t know how to handle this.

He embraces you tightly, one hand encasing the back of your head while the other rubs your back soothingly. This is what he should be doing, right? Holding you as you fall apart in his arms.

Sylus coos, “So emotional, kitten.”

You mumble into his chest, “S-shut up.”

Time elapses as you stand there, releasing all of your worries and pains into a man who only cares about purchasing your property. He doesn’t say anything further, your wails alongside his breathing the only sounds reverberating throughout the office. Even with the sunlight streaming in, it’s characteristically dark. But you like it. It’s fitting for wallowing in your sadness.

You ramble through your cries, “Y-you think I don’t-I don’t belong here. I-I know that! I k-know, b-but I don’t hav-have a choice.” Sylus doesn’t respond, but his grip tightens slightly as a fresh wave of sobs rips through you.

Eventually, you calm down into sniffling. Lifting your head, you’re met with his tender gaze. Far too tender for your current relationship. His thumb comes to stroke your cheek, wiping away the tears staining your under eyes. Instinctually, you lean into his delicate touch, not caring if you shouldn’t be doing this. He’s the one who upset you in the first place, so it’s his responsibility to make it better, right?

Sylus teases, “All out of tears, sweetie?” You nod, regardless of whether his question was rhetorical.

“Can-can you p-please let me o-out now?” You murmur. He smirks and draws back, raising his arms to the side in surrender. You stare at him with a creased brow as you rub your nose.

He chuckles, “If you want to leave, then you’ll have to acquire the key.” Gesturing to his body, you blink dumbly. He doesn’t mean—

“You wan-want me t-to search you?!”

Sylus nods, “That’s right, kitten.”

You sigh while stepping closer to him, your hands flying back to his chest, “N-no more game-games, okay?” The silver-haired man grabs your wrist and traces your fingers along the buttons of his now ruined shirt. You can make out little mascara stains and your blush against the deep red.

“S-sorry,” you mumble, your hand now guided up to his neck.

Sylus asks confused, “For what, sweetie?” Your fingertips ghost his Adam’s apple. Gazing at your hands, you realise how much bigger his are. And veiny, too. It’s criminal.

“I, uh, stained your sh-shirt,” you sputter.

He shrugs, “Do you think I don’t own others?”

“N-no!” You blurt out as he makes you caress his collarbones.

“Then you have nothing to apologise for,” he says resolutely.

“Now,” the rancher continues. “You’re not very good at this little scavenger hunt. Do you need a hint?” You hum softly in agreement.

“Alright,” he grins. Moving your hand back down his body, he stops around his navel and lets go of you.

Sylus says confidently, “You’ll have to go lower.” At his words, heat flares in your cheeks, and suddenly, you realise that you’re not sniffling anymore. Locking eyes, you search for a sign of approval in his. They slightly narrow, and he tilts his head, prompting you to explore.

Inhaling, you trail your fingers down to his belt, never looking away.

You ask, “Is it here?”

He grins, “You’re getting warmer.” To which you’re puzzled if he meant your tomato-red face or if you’re nearing the key’s location. Praying it’s the latter, you slide your hand to the side and down. Wriggling into his front jean pockets, you dig around, searching for the key. Nothing on this side. Trying the other, you come up empty-handed.

You pout, “You said I was getting warmer.”

Sylus agrees cockily, “I did.”

“So where is it?” You ask, perturbed.

He chuckles shortly, “Did you search all of my pockets?” Oh.

You glare at him, “You just want me to feel you up, don’t you?” The rancher tips his head to the side, grinning even more arrogantly.

“I want you to learn the importance of working for what you want.”

You scoff, “Trust me, I already know that.” Wrapping your arms around his breedable hips, you slip your hands into his back pockets. Damn, that booty. You feel a twang of pain in your chest from how sumptuous it is. Bet he just did a few squats and this was his reward.

“Being a rancher isn’t easy, kitten. It’s a demanding job and can be difficult to make a living from. That’s why you have to be strategic with how you spend your time,” Sylus continues. The key is in his left pocket. Curling your fingers around the hot metal, you retrieve it.

Leaning down, he rasps into your ear, “You’re a clever girl, sweetie. Don’t mock me by wasting what I could capitalise on.” Pulling back, you stare at him with your heart pounding so loudly in your chest, you’re certain he’s counting the beats.

“Thanks,” you mumble. Giving him a curt nod, you turn around and slide the key into the lock. The door opens easily. You don’t wait for him to see you out. No, you sprint from his office immediately, not turning around as he calls your name. Bolting out of his ranch house, you’re panting as you haphazardly start your engine and pull out onto the dirt road.

Your thoughts are a blur. Whatever the fuck just happened replays over and over in your mind like a broken tape. You can still feel the warmth his body against yours, that 50-pound ass in your hands☹️. You’re unsure of how you made it back to your house in one piece. But it doesn’t matter.

You just sit there, in your car with the exhaust pipe wheezing, stunned. No words, no course of action spring forth. It’s like Sylus’s touch and teasing have rewired your brain. And for some silly reason, you’re smiling all goofy when you think of his arms around you and his lips near your ear. Those kissable, pink lips.

Sighing, you step out and gaze at your property. You grumble upon seeing your one acre of mowed grass while making it up the steps and into your house.

That night, Sylus’s pep talk interrupts your every thought. You’re a clever girl, sweetie. Don’t mock me by wasting what I could capitalise on. Maybe— just maybe— you’ll take his advice.

story masterlist

full masterlist

taglist - @stxrrielle, @peachystea, @harbingers-lullaby, @grlyeetswrld, @multisstuff, @heartyluv, @cuntphoric-main

[rustandruin]

A very important PSA for anyone else who wasn’t alerted to the fact that Ana de Armas wore a suit to the Knives Out premiere in London. 

[kerryshifts]

THE DISCOGRAPHY,

baby-doll, you need some rock n' roll. !!!!!!

for everyone who likes to scream in the void. no judgment is allowed. no fear will take control. music has always been a way to connect with the deepest part of you; and this is why they are always praised for. ladies and gentlemen… THE INKSTAINS.

with their raw, energetic and distorted sound THE INKSTAINS are meeting contemporary tastes and bringing back rock’n’roll at the top of international charts. they are a mania. founded in 2018 initially as a way for the group to disobey to their parents wishes, the four of them say to have found a part of themselves they have never seen before with their music. kerry colt (lead singer & face of the group), james potter (bass), remus lupin (guitar) and sirius black (drums), all in their teenagehood, are rebooting rock ‘n’ roll for a new generation of listener.

🎸 ✶ release date: september 20, 2019. DETENTION DIARIES.

alternative rock / desert rock / grunge. length: 54:20.

[ GEFFEN RECORDS ] & dan nigro, jack endino, butch vig.

TRACKLIST . .

i. pure games.

ii. true love knows no misery.

iii. frenzy.

iv. the time has come again 4 cocktails.

v. sweetheart inside destruction.

vi. my killer.

vii. someone new!!!!!

viii. hold me down with your games.

ix. social scars.

x. mess of a soul.

xi. stuck in my head….

xii. no sleep for dreamers.

xiii. lost signal.

xiv. over and out.

the debut album DETENTION DIARIES has received a lot of positive criticism. both the critics and the public admired the sound and the details put in each of the songs, such as special effects (ex: fireworks in social scars) in some of them, and how the sound and the lyrics matches each other while, when needed, can cause a sensation of discomfort and comfort. the album can both be raw and eccentric, capturing the essence of each member of the band. everyone can clearly hear how much all the people who worked on this project cared about the result. DETENTION DIARIES became one of the best selling albums of 2019, positioning at the first place on the globally billboards, along with nine of the songs placing on the top 30 songs globally. it became a global success, causing THE INKSTAINS to be 13th on the list of all artists.

THE AWARDS,

v mas 2019.

VIDEO OF THE YEAR: my killer.

BEST NEW ARTIST: THE INKSTAINS.

BEST ROCK: THE INKSTAINS / DETENTION DIARIES.

THE INKSTAINS performed my killer at the VMAS, causing not only a pop culture moment, but also controversy. the performance was raw to demonstrate the meaning of the song (the singer directly talks to anxiety, who is represented as a person, a femme fatale version of her, and who talks back to her). the two have two very different type of voices; with thehe anxiety having a very high-pitched voice). because of the sound & the lyrics & the outfit the band was wearing, they got ‘demonic’ accusations. the only response by the band was ‘you know you made it when they think you are demonic’.

grammy awards 2020.

BEST NEW ARTIST: THE INKSTAINS.

BEST ROCK SONG: my killer.

NOMINATED (best rock album).

DETENTION DIARIES TOUR.

from 5st january 2020 to 31th august 2020.

🎸 ✶ release date: march 4th, 2021. RUST&RUIN.

alternative rock / desert rock / grunge. length: 54:20.

[ GEFFEN RECORDS ] & dan nigro, jack endino, butch vig.

TRACKLIST,

i. the time has come again 4 introductions.

ii. serious teenager.

iii. unlikely magnets.

iv. mooore drugs.

v. it’s thought to make explosions.

vi. me n u and hellfire.

vii. in yesterday.

viii. out of anthems.

ix. please, no.

x. closer memory.

their sophomore album RUST&RUIN became a global success, easily beating their debut. the marketing for the album anticipation was, according to the critics, so in-style with the band that it almost felt surreal to assist in real time. all of the vinyls went out stock in less than ten minutes, and RUST&RUIN became the best selling album of 2021, making THE INKSTAINS the 6th artist most streamed on spotify. this is a more mature album, and everything seems to be even better than the debut one: from the melody, the voice, lyrics and production. the bandsurpassed all the expectations that everyone had. it wasn’t so different from DETENTION DIARIES, but it wasn’t neither the same. people loved it because it came with feelings, not only a good music.

THE AWARDS,

v mas.

SONG OF THE YEAR: me n u and hellfire.

BEST ROCK: RUST&RUIN.

( NOMINATED ) album of the year. best music video.

grammys.

BEST ROCK SONG: in yesterday.

SONG OF THE YEAR: me n u and hellfire.

BEST ROCK ALBUM: RUST&RUIN.

( NOMINATED ) album of the year. best music video.

RUST&RUIN TOUR.

from september 20, 2021 to august 5, 2022.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[yeyinde]

I’m begging for your opinions on regency era nasty Simon😭😭

i promised myself this wasn't going to become an anthology but here i am. anthologising.

he's from the absolute bottom of the social circle. his dad was the town drunk, and Simon made a lot of enemies. Price's shady dealings put him and Simon together. i want him to have gone to jail—possibly for murder—and it really shaped who he was as a person. made worse, naturally, when his whole family is killed as soon as he gets out. Simon is blamed, but there's no evidence. rumours start about how a rival gang tried to bury him alive when he was in jail, but he dug his way out. they say he died. he's a monster. a pariah.

he's probably a butcher by day but takes care of Price's dirty work by night. helps run the racket. is an enforcer. just a mean, broken man. spent his formative years in jail surrounded by horrible men.

and you!!! ahhh, Mrs Price's NOSY niece. she goes missing and you come down, sniffing around because this isn't right. why would your aunt run off when she's been raised properly? this isn't like her. it all seems so suspicious. and Price's accusations have tarnished your family's reputation - saying that she ran away with a lowly barkeep in the middle of the night. a decades-long affair, stole money from him. all sorts of nasty business that ruin your family. so, you come to stick your nose into things and ask the questions no one else will.

Price doesn't want you anywhere near his almost wife/servant girl, so he sics the biggest, meanest dog he has on you. only. instead of killing you, Simon takes a disgusting interest in the prim socialite who somehow manages to talk down to him even as he towers over you. it breeds an obsession. unravels all these awful thoughts he's had about the upper class. and his boss giving him the go-ahead to ruin this pretty little bird that always seemed so untouchable? well. sure.

he's keenly aware of how your circle works, and uses that tongue advantage. mocks you when you snap at him to keep his filthy hands off of you, and tells you that you should have stayed in your ivory cage, little bird. gets a sick, twisted pleasure dragging you down the social ladder just by lying his dirty fingers on you. from gold cuffs to a pair of rusting, iron shackles. he loves ruining you. gets off when you call him all sorts of nasty names, trying to act all prim and haughty still, even with his cum drying on your face.

you call him a monster and he pinches your face between his thumb and forefinger, cruelly asking you if he's a monster, then what does that make you? the little fool carrying his monstrous brood. who in your little circle is gonna want you now? knowing that a beast like him put his hands all over you and his babe inside of you? probs whistles to himself as he gets to work on "disappearing" your aunt for good while your whole world crashes down around you lmao

Price is miffed that you're not just as missing as your aunt, but. whatever. Simon's content. you're taken care of. and he gets to pretend to be a good man with his pretty little servant girl tucked into his side. everyone wins.

[dragonridernoobie]

For TFP how would each team atobots reaction when they found THE original prediction and not a clone like predaking

Who has been sleeping and been guarding a piece of Primus for many years even at their old age, they just wanted to protect the last thing they have as a family and sort of the reason of the mythology of the world serpent in Norse mythology and quetlaquotal in Mexican mythology by how huge they are

Hmmm, I like the idea, I will try my best. Like I have said before, I am sorry this took so long, I've been busy with my injured arm/hand.

TFPAutobots X OldPrediconReader

Optimus found another artifact location after doing some codes.

So, the autobot team got ready and head out. This time bringing the kids since they believe it would be safe enough.

On their way, Raphael was showing miko, Jack, and Bumblebee how they were going to the location that made the legend of the world Serpent originally came from.

They were excited, we'll miko was since shebwas hoping to see a real life serpent.

Oh, how she will know how her wish came true.

When they got close to the location, they realized how the mountain had some old ruins around it. Lost in time from the jungle around it.

While they slowly go into the ruins, they see art on the side of the ruins walls. It showed some type of creature that was fighting other giant creatures.

Raphael couldn't take pictures to figure out what they were saying since it was so badly run down from time.

When they got closer to the center of the mounting, they saw a gaint predicon laying down, covering the hole room.

It looked offline, but it was as huge as the decpticons warship. This offline predicon has been here for years since it had moss, fallen rocks, rust, and plants growing on it.

In the back of the room is the artifact. A artifact that can regenerate any cybertronian part from nothing.

The team approaches it and looks at it. More ancient text is above it, but again, it's too hard to read because of the years of erosion.

When the autobots grabbed it and started to walk away from it. It suddenly turns on, and let's go a powerful pulse that sent all the autobots back.

Once the autobots are able to get back up, the predicon body moves. Everyone stairs in disbelief as the optics of the predicon body turns on and the body starts to move.

The predicon slowly rises, debri falls while it rises. Once it's at its full height, it stairs down at the autobots.

Its mouth opens, and the most loudest and ear piercing sound comes from it. It suddenly charges a fire breath that causes the autobots to grab the artifact, kids, and run.

The fire stream follows them outside and burns the trees around the mounting temple.

The autobots wasted no time to transform and drive. In the review mirrors, they see the mountain explode and the predicon rises from it.

It roars and takes flight. It chases after them and blows fire. Burning everything. They eventually come to a cliff where there is no riffed at the bottom and no way out.

The predicon lands before them and walks toward them. They prepare for a fight.

Optimus decided to try one last option and prays for it to work.

He steps forward and with his most powerful and loud voice, he interduces himself as pptimus prime, the last of the primes.

The predicon stops and stairs. It growls and a old scratchy voice is heard from the predicon as it speaks.

"Prove it. Show me you are a prime."

So, pptimus opens his chest and shows the all spark. The predicon sees this and lowers it's head.

"Apologies for attacking you. I was only keeping the artifact safe."

Optimus asked why, and the predicon explains they were sent on earth by primus himself to portact the powerful artifical since dark times where to rise soon.

Optimus explains those dark times are the great war. The predicon understands and asks to join Optimus and his mission.

Obviously Optimus excepts. Thought, not even 3 seconds later, miko runs forward and up to the gaint predicon.

"Can you let me ride you! How much do you weigh? Have you ever fought something as big as you? How old are you? Are you a boy or a girl?"

Bullhead had to grab miko to shut her up and apologizes for mikos behavior. Though, the predicon just laughs.

"It seems humans have not changed at all in my 8000 year slumber. Hello little one. Hello to all 3 of you."

Arcee wasent on bored of (Y/N) being on the team because of them almost killing them.

Ratchet as in agreement, but optimus reminded them that they were only doing their job.

Bumblebee says they are excited since they want to ride (Y/N), which caused (Y/N) to say they aren't some creature to ride on.

This is gonna be fun.

[valacre]

: ̗̀➛ Grand New Life

Sentinel Prime x Reader - Transformers One

“Be careful—oh there it goes,” you say, throwing your arms up as your golden winged alien enters through the front door, shattering the glass sphere surrounding the ceiling light as he straightens up. Just shy of hitting the roof itself, though too tall for any unfortunate hanging lights. “I told you to wait outside!”

“Pardon me, but what about my previous – rather pathetic display – of begging in that infernal forest, did you not understand?” said he, far too cocky for his own good, and especially so since he had, indeed, been begging you not thirty minutes before not to leave him alone. “Besides, it is wet out there and I’d rather not have my paint ruined any more than it already has been.”

“It’s water, not acid, rain can’t harm you,” say you, but tipping your head you add: “Unless you’re prone to rust.” His shuddering confirmed your words. “Ah, well, you should still have waited. A few seconds out there wouldn’t have killed you, and I wouldn’t evaporate from being out of your sight either.”

Wings flicking, he sent you a sullen but unimpressed look. You couldn’t help but snort at the sight.

“I almost find it hard to believe you are an evil dictator from a different planet. You seem like such a sad little thing,” you say, and he bristles at your words, obviously offended by them.

“First, I am not a ‘sad little thing’. Second, I was not an evil dictator. All I wanted was to have my freedom from the Primes, and I kept the citizens of Iacon safe from the Quintessons too. I think it’s hardly seen as evil to wish for some luxuries at the end of a solar cycle,” he says, chuckling like a rich man who had no worries.

“Mhm, sounds like something an evil dictator would say, and I highly doubt you’ve told me the whole story,” you say, seeing him look at you with false hurt. “I think you cherry picked your words very carefully. Why would you be sent into space to die all alone, after all? Sounds to me you did something very, very bad.”

You didn’t wait for him to respond, only added: “Watch your head,” and went on your merry way into your home, sighing as you tried to sort through what your life had suddenly become. This whole thing was not what you needed. You hadn’t moved into the countryside to escape life’s more complicated struggles just to find yourself within the world’s biggest side quest.

“This, uh, home of yours doesn’t sound structurally sound,” said Sentinel, coming into the living room behind you, minding his helm as he ducked through the open doorway. “The floors are creaking terribly, and this material—”

“Wood.”

“… This wooden material seems far too weak.”

“It’s an old farmhouse that I bought for cheap. Trust me, it looked far worse when I just moved in. I’m not done restoring it yet, but it’s comfortable and antique,” say you, smiling a little as you glance around the room. You’ve yet to fully decorate, thrifting what you can, or being given what your fellow villages didn’t want anymore, but it’s become a lovely home in your eyes, and that was the most important thing of all. “It’s full of history, if you will. I like it.”

Sentinel gave you an odd look. You rolled your eyes and waved a hand at him.

“Anyway, I hadn’t planned on you staying in here. The old stable will be restored soon, so you can’t stay there, but the barn should be comfortable enough for you. At least the roof will be tall, and the straw will keep you warm once the weather turns colder.” Again, Sentinel gave you a look. “The barn is the wooden building you saw outside, the grey one with the turf roof and curved access ramp.”

“That one?!” Sentinel looked appalled at the thought of staying at such a place, and for a brief second that panic crossed his face plate. You took a subtle step back, not wishing to be tackled again. “Absolutely not! That place looked ready to collapse at the slightest gust of wind. I deserve—”

“You are in my home,” you say, voice firm and not accepting any excuses from him, “You begged me not to leave you alone, and though I admit I do feel sorry for your predicament, I will not tolerate any demands from you.” Walking closer to him, you set your hands upon your hips, a motion that has him briefly looking you up and down. You ignore it. “If you do not wish for me to leave you out in that forest with that pod you crawled out from, I suggest you do as I say and accept the hospitality I am willing to offer you. I promise I will do what I can to fix up the barn for you so you’re at least not miserable in there, but for now it will make do as it is. Got it?”

Sentinel suppresses a shudder as he looks at you, keeping eye contact with you even as his broken pride wishes to surge forward and make proper demands. But his gratitude of being taken with you, of being offered to stay by your side so crippling loneliness wouldn’t ensnare him again, is too loud within his processor. And so, as he glances over the bruise that discoloured parts of your face, he lowers his wings in submission.

“Understood,” he says, and you nod, walking past him, ignoring him as he reaches out a few digits to brush against you, feeling that softness again for the briefest moment. It was so strange but so wonderful all at the same time. Different from him, but lovely. He wondered whether you’d allow him to touch you properly again. He’d held you against your will within the forest, and if he wished to stay on your good graces, he had to behave.

One thing was for certain, though. He could never tell the full truth of what he’d done. He didn’t regret it, not at all, but he knew you wouldn’t approve, and you’d most likely toss him aside like rusted scrap if you came to learn of it. He could never let that happen.

This picture of a Norwegian barn was the inspiration for the one I mentioned in the story, though I added a turf roof to mine because I like it quite a lot. Sentinel’s new cosy home! <3

Previous / Next Music: Claudio Constantini – Reminiscencias & Rune Realms – Midnight Snowdrifts

[naffeclipse]

Forget-me-not

Reader x Sun and Moon

Commission Info

Thank you for @robinette-green for the lovely request! I adored writing this and making the boys so sweet to the reader! The reader is a clockwork animatronic who's trapped in an abandoned circus, and Sun and Moon step foot onto the forgotten ground and find someone in need of their help.

———

You watch another golden glow creep into oblivion upon the abandoned carnival and its sad, lonely inhabitants. The sun withdraws soundlessly like a stranger passing by. The Freak Show sign slumps, depressed. The once golden and galloping horses in the carousel have rusted into cruel, dark hues and no longer stamp or throw their wild manes back while children ride their once beautiful, gleaming saddles. The big tent—it hasn’t been big in years. It lies in sore tatters, wet from yesterday’s rainstorm with poles sticking up high and stringing along broken bulbs of once bright, yellow lights illuminating the darkness, promising fun to the humans who stepped onto the fairgrounds. 

You hate the darkness. You hate it more than being bolted down in place and left to host a game of ring toss no one has played in years. Your right arm is still extended in invitation over the green and brown bottles. The carnival owner couldn’t even allow you both of your arms, pinning your stance into place with bolts and leaving only your left hand to occasionally wave and flutter to catch the attendee’s eyes. 

After all the trouble he went to steal you away from your creator, you thought he would at least have taken you with him when the bright, colorful lights and happy, bouncing music came to a halt.

The soft words of your creator ring distantly, like a voice calling out through fog. You are—were his most beautiful creation. He whispered the words to you while he painted your lips red and bid you to take a look in the mirror.

You agreed. You were so, so pretty.

Perhaps it’s for the best that you don’t know what you look like anymore. You don’t want to look upon how rusted your clockwork inner workings have become. Your once pale and milky porcelain skin might be gray and slushy as the dirt along the pathways guests took, and that is not something you wish to know. There’s no doubt your red lips and silky red hair have been forsaken to the elements. You fear you are ruined. 

You are now worthy of abandonment.

In the darkness, you truly are forgotten. A hitch within your clockwork chassis catches and grinds before continuing, but the scraping pain remains.

Your attention is drawn back to the front entrance, a good distance away from you. Half crumbled with support beats cutting over the access in an ‘X’ shape, like a warning to not trespass this decrepit lot, shadows slink over the splintered and rotted wood. Long, lanky umbras move with a silence that is so strange and careful.

You squint your eyes. The urge to tilt your head slightly to peer better at the disturbance is cut short by the bolt in your neck, refusing to let your head tilt save from a slight side to side to give an enthralling smile.

You shouldn’t get too excited. It’s likely mere animals. A pair of raccoons or a stray dog who has lost its owner. Once, you watched a doe deer step softly through the wretched ruins, big wet eyes turning to you for one moment before the blurt of your automated voice lines jumped from your throat and sent the creature bounding away.

Nothing is yours here, not even the moment of daydreaming of you prancing out of this forsaken carnival like a doe deer. Free.

The shadows mingle into the dusky darkness. The blue-gray twilight reveals figures, and your mechanical heart chokes.

Two personages creep along the path winding from the entranceway. The same path leading directly towards the ring toss game; towards you. One dons a thick hood and cape, dark blue like midnight. The other’s head is sharper and unconcealed. A crown of jutting points frame the figure’s disk-like face, and a thick deep brown shawl gathers at his throat and falls down his chest and arms. 

As they pass into a silvery slant of budding starlight, metal glints on the crowned one’s face and the other hooded person’s hands spray out while scanning the darkness for threats, silver digits curling and uncurling.

Two automatons. Like you. But not.

A whirl in your servos thrums a loud, exhausted sound, and you stiffen—as much as you can while bolted in place. 

What could two automatons want with an abandoned circus? You were never familiar with the world outside of your creator’s home before you were smuggled out against your will by the circus owner, but at the circus, you learned much. 

You learned of scavengers and automatons gaining their rights. You always wonder if that’s partly the reason you were left here to rot too—are you too human now to own but robotic enough to be neglected? 

They could spy on you in the darkness and decide to strip you for parts. Your clockwork clanks heavily within you like a clapper within a bell, beating against your brass heart. Can they hear it? You have to stop. Be quiet. 

The two automatons prowl forward. Their optics and audio processors strain not unlike hounds searching for a fox. What do they prey upon? The crowned one gestures towards the carousel, the ride well within distance to your ring toss game, and you must clench your jaw tightly to keep from whimpering. The hooded one dips his head but keeps moving forward. Your gears crank in jarring motions, jolting and jerking while you hope they take the parts they desire from the circus and leave.

The hooded one continues down the path. Your chassis tightens, and your fingers tremble in place while you keep your eyes averted, held above the automaton’s head but keeping him in the unfocused corners of your optics.

Please. Please, don’t. Your bottom lip quivers.

“Step right up and toss a ring to win a prize!” The words blurt from your mouth and startle all the ruins and everyone within.

Two pairs of glowing eyes fall upon you. Straightening and alerted, the shrouded automatons stare into your fluttering eyelids as you attempt to beg them to leave you alone. A spark burns in your throat. Your voice lines refuse to give.

One stops and reaches silver and blue digits up and lowers the hood slowly. A face gazes at you, scarlet eyes glowing in the darkness with a face like a crescent moon. A blue nightcap, slightly frayed and worn, and decorated in yellow stars, covers his circular faceplate. 

The other steps closer with a curious tilt of the sharp points framing the automation’s head, and enters the last of the blue-gray darkness before night completely takes over. A yellow face, grinning with round cheeks, observes you. Pale optics beam. 

“Hello, friend,” he speaks, voice bouncing low but with intrigue. “Why don’t you come on out? It’s alright, don’t be afraid.”

Your optics dart side to side. Helplessness settles over you, pinned in place by rusty, dark shame. 

“Do you need help?” The one with the pale yellow sun rays steps closer, his eyes narrowing in the slightest. “Are you stuck?”

The moon-face automaton slips closer. The glow of his gaze sweeps over the game you’re bolted in front of, and he fixates on your right arm stiffly held out in invitation as your fingers curl and clench. You glance down at him, wondering if your eyes plead in the way your mouth cannot.

Biting your bottom lip does not prevent another voice line from bursting forth, and inwardly, you crumple.

“Try your hand! One ring around the neck of a bottle wins a prize!” 

“Not stuck,” the lunar automaton turns to his accomplice. His cloak shifts like shadows under the arc of the moon. “Trapped.”

“Oh, you poor thing! Here, let us help.” The sunny one steps forward, his hands raised as if to pacify a wild creature. “And, if I may be so bold, your voice box sounds like it’s not your own.”

You wish to nod but only succeed in cranking your head halfway to the right, as if in a gesture towards your hapless situation. 

You wonder if they can see the ugly, rusty bolts pinning your body in place, holding you shackled to the ring toss game. They must, for the lunar face man slips closer, stooping down by your feet behind the barrier as he inspects the heavy metal securing you in place. The solar gentleman energetically leaps over the barrier and stops right beside you, hand on his hips. His shawl drapes darkly around him but his grin is bright like a new dawn.

You don’t dare hope. The niceness will fall away like a curtain to reveal the snarling, roaring beast behind it. They will strip you for parts or worse, mock you, revel in your helplessness, and slip back through the night, leaving you with only the daydream of a rescue.

Facing the sunny one, you hold your metaphorical breath as he pauses. He stares deeply into your optics. You stare back into the foggy gray irises he possesses, like a cool, misty fog gathering in the night only to be touched by the sun’s first rays of light. 

“Your eyes are beautiful—the same color as forget-me-nots.” The sunny automaton smiles.

Your servos slow to a calm hum.

“Come on,” he says and carefully reaches for your neck to begin unscrewing the bolt stuck in your throat, “You won’t be left to rust here anymore, starlight.”

Your insides melt, touched by their generosity.

Below, at your feet, the dark blue and silver automaton begins to unscrew the bolts holding your feet down. Rust scrapes away and a harsh squeak of metal echoes. You grunt, jostled but, strangely, you hold to hope like a feathered, tiny thing in your hands, hoping to watch it fly again. 

“We can fix your voice box,” the lunar one speaks in a slight rasp you find endearing. His gaze remains focused on setting you free. “We have a shop. We repair things sometimes.”

“That’s right,” the solar one chimes in, “We scavenge as well. Don’t worry, we’ve repaired a few automatons or two. You can trust us.”

When he pries the bolt from your neck, you can dip your head in acknowledgment. A strange sensation burns through your wires, heating you from the inside out. Emotion. You wish you could ask for their names.

“You look very delicate.” The one at your feet finally frees one of your porcelain slippers with a slow, cautious tug. “We’ll be gentle.”

He tilts his head upwards and flashes a grin. You find yourself warming in the face. Is he being a tease or does he not know how he sounds? By the mischievous glint in your eyes, you fear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You try to pry your lips apart to find the right words, but all that leaves you is “Enjoy lots of fun! For a small price, of course!”

The automaton of yellow and gray hues glances briefly at you, tilting his heading in confusion while he begins to loosen the bolt stabbed into your right elbow. Holding his gaze, you speak with your eyes, almost pleading.

What are your names?

A spark of understanding answers in his pale optics, and he gasps.

“Moon, where are our manners? I’m so sorry, starlight! My name is Sun, and this is Moon.”

You dip your head again, bobbing up and down in excitement. You know their names. You haven’t learned anything new about anyone in so long…

When they free you from the ring toss game, you can hardly believe how the muddy path now leads you to the outside of the circus as Sun holds you gently in his grasp, how their strides are sure-footed and smooth, and how they look at you with concern.  

You vow silently to speak their names the moment your voice is free too.

*

You haven’t seen anything outside of the carnival in so long, you’ve almost forgotten the sight of dark, shiny paved streets and the lone lamp posts that light the way. Gray and dreary buildings line the streets. One, however, is cheerfully plastered in wooden stars painted bright yellow, and the door is a soft, sky blue with white fluffy clouds along the very top. 

Sun and Moon take turns carrying you. Their hands are careful, cradling you close against their cloak and shawl while murmuring that it’s alright. You’re safe. They’ll get you fixed up in no time. Moon cradles you in his arms now as Sun unlocks the door, and holds it open so you can be carried over the threshold. 

For an odd reason, it triggers your faceplate to heat up more than the colored rouge on the porcelain should allow.

Through the door, the interior of the workshop is set with tools ranging from smallest to biggest, shelves containing boxes marked, and small containers with different, shiny nuts and bolts. There are even some small containers with shiny, bronze gears. You haven’t seen a spotless floor in so long. There were always leaves and mud staining the path serpentining through the carnival. 

A table, coppery under a work lamp, awaits. 

“I’m setting you here,” Moon murmurs close to your audio processor before he lays you softly down with a gentle click of your frame against the metal. 

“I worry about how long you were left there.” Sun loses the shawl and locates a brown leather apron. Tools line the pockets as he swiftly ties it behind his back. His eyes are creased though he still smiles reassuringly. “By the amount of rust, I would guess years. For your sake, I hope I’m wrong.”

The answer is on the tip of your tongue. What comes out instead is a showy voice declaring “Whoever can ring three bottles wins the ultimate prize!” 

A whirl in your servos practically screams out your embarrassment. You lower your gaze. The stiffness in your joints is almost as unbearable as the voice lines the circus owner forced upon you. 

“Shush,” Moon says, his cloak falling away as he snags an apron similar to Sun’s off of a hook. “Wait for a moment, pretty thing, then you may have your words back.”

“That’s right,” Sun nods and shifts to stand close beside you. He grows still for a moment, his bright disposition falling behind a somber cloud. “We’re very lucky to have found you.”

You smile—not the forced, showy smile that has been plastered on your face while you lie in the ruins, but a true smile for the ones who rescued you.

Moon moves to the other side of the table. His hands, now gloved in black leather, hesitate. 

“We will open you up now.” The automaton turns flush along the spindle support of his neck. “Is that alright? It’s the only way we can fix your voice box.”

Sun leans forward, his smile still cheery while he modestly averts his eyes, “As well any other damage done from being exposed and negligent for… however long you were out there.” 

You never thought the solar automaton could be shy, and yet. 

You nod your head as it rests on the table. You feel safe, so much more so than when you were bolted in place. The circus owner did not ask you what you wanted then.

Moon and Sun move in tandem. It’s strange and beautiful, how effortlessly they weave their fingers to begin work. Sun unlocks your chassis and Moon gently lifts it open. You throw your gaze to the ceiling. You don’t want to know. You know they will find it horrible and awful, but you don’t want to see it and have it seared into your mind.

“You’re beautiful,” Moon utters.

You blink, as breathless as a machine can become.

“Your clockwork—is very beautiful,” a slight stumble from his raspy voice seals your fate. You say nothing. You press your lips together and wonder if you might overheat right here and now. 

“You are pretty,” Sun continues effortlessly, though there’s a slight trill to his voice that may give away his nervousness or bashfulness, you can’t decide. “Clockwork automatons are rare.”

The circus owner made mention of that.

You close your eyes as Sun and Moon narrate their every movement. Hands held down by your sides, you only occasionally shift or softly buzz as they clean and fix your voice box nestled within the bottom of your throat. They are so gentle. You never knew hands could be so kind, even if they are rummaging through your inner workings. 

Could they possibly let you stay?

The absurd thought enters your processor and you almost immediately shove it into a box and bury it deep into cold, black soil. 

“You’re doing so good.” Sun grins as he looks down into your chassis. “There. That should do it. Moon?”

“I’m done.”

Slowly, carefully, as if finishing a sacred rite, the two close up your chassis and tighten it back into place. You haven’t opened your eyes yet. A part of you wonders if you’ll only look out into the ruins of the circus again, and find this was all one blissful moment of a daydream. 

“Can you say something, starlight?” Sun’s voice washes over you.

“It’s alright if you’re not ready,” Moon answers in a low sound of comfort.

It falls past your lips before you realize you are not ready, but you so terribly want to speak anyway.

“Thank you.” Your eyes flash open, and you gape—the echo. Your soft, demure tones no longer strained into shouting and calling attention. 

It’s you.

Your hand touches your lips, and a sound between a laugh and a sob emerges from your voice box. 

“Thank you! Thank you!” You look between the two of them, overwhelmed. With the overhead lamp now touching their features as they sit back, grinning, you get to admire their handsome features. 

You two are very striking.

“Oh, my,” Sun chuckles, bleeding red in the cheeks, “Thank you!”

“You’re very sweet,” Moon murmurs, touching his nightcap with a slight bashfulness.

And you realize you spoke your thoughts out loud. You called them striking.

“Oh,” you begin to burn.

“It’s alright,” Moon says swiftly, interrupting your apology. “We would like to know what your plans are after this. Now that you’re free.”

“Free,” you whisper back. You clutch at your chest, over your clockwork heart, and marvel. “I…”

You have your voice back. Use it.

“I—if I may be so bold, may I ask to stay with you both? I won’t be a burden. I won’t stay longer than you will allow, and I—”

Sun sighs, dramatic and cheerful, as he finds your hand to hold it. 

“I thought you would never ask, starlight!”

Moon’s hand slips under your anxious fingers. His nod echoes his solar counterpart’s enthusiasm. You turn your head between both of them, your lips parting in awe.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Sun. Moon. Thank you.”