#how high do I have to be to understand things like this

[gusdeservedbetter]

You know what isn't a crime, but definitely should be one? The casual mischaracterization of Sentry in fan content. I'm so done😭

1. I hate how he's often depicted as cruel, he's not, look at him, fucking look? And when Ava asks about the hair dye, what does he do? He looks to Val for an answer, he's constantly fidgeting, trying to find an out for the bunch of misfits who previously helped him in the vault.

2. I hate how people try to turn it into a Marc Spector, Steven Grant and Jake Lockley situation when it's. Like. Not?? This is such a disservice to both Moon Knight and The Sentry, and real people who relate to the two characters' (very distinct very different) mental health issues. Bob doesn't have DID, if anything, the movie leans towards him being bipolar. Sentry is Bob, the guy literally tells Yelena in the vault that he has high highs and low lows, the high is Sentry, the low is the Void, that's it. Bob is both Sentry and The Void. What's so hard to understand? It's the mania (Sentry), followed by depression (Void) then he forgets. That's how Bob describes it in the first act of the film, that's how it happens in the third act.

3. This is not a contradiction to point 1, but Sentry is unhinged. He is awkward and somehow soft spoken? But he is unhinged, and invincible, and fucking terrifying. I'm tired of the stoic depictions in fics like🙂‍↔️ idc if you wanna write fics for comic Sentry, just don't tag them as mcu stuff. (WHO AM I KIDDING COMIC SENTRY IS FUCKING SCARYYY STOP THE BABYFICATION)

4. He is not evil (the fact that we have to spell this out... media literacy is truly dead huh), no shit the Thunderbolts* will be scared of him, of course they will be– he kicked the ever-living shit out of them. But he's not malicious, he doesn't use unnecessary force. Call it condescending, but he's going easy on them, toying with them, and deals arguably softer blows to Yelena, John and Ava, the trio he already met at the vault (because he's the same person, yk? jesus)

5. Prespective is a thing, the team wasn't there to see Sentry tell Val he doesn't want to kill them (they're no threat to him), it's the root cause of their disagreement, it leads to the New York Blackout TM, but we, the audience, were. So tell me why the fuck do I see stuff with this guy terrorizing that team for no reason? 😭 bfr guys.

6. So what? So while I can buy you showing me Ava or John or Alexei or Bucky or Yelena being fearful of the Sentry, or Val (hahaha eat shit Val), I simply can't get behind him actually being a threat to them, on purpose and beyond swatting them like flies, because hi hello have you seen the movie? Yeah.

7. Have I mentioned Sentry is unhinged? Yeah. Yeah. We got glimpses of it with Val before Mel pressed the kill switch but!! Sentry!! Is!! Unhinged!!

8. Find a middle ground, he doesn't have to be uwu or straight up satan or stoic as a rock, he is Bob in mania, so that's inherently Bob with high levels of energy and a higher self esteem (more like a GODLY EGO) and impulsivness and dillusions of grandeur (except they're not dellusions anymore? So rip), so do with that what you will.

Fingers crossed for more in-character Sentry content, at least the Sentry depicted by Lewis Pullman, who put his all into this performance but whose character is still somehow misunderstood? Anyways.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

[korrasera]

These are good points about generative AI, but there are some misconceptions in the above post that I want to correct.

Some of the points made above are just-so stories that sound good but aren't actually true.

1 - Oral traditions usually didn't memorize information word for word with high accuracy.

Memory recorded in oral tradition can drift over time as the information is retold, especially since not all oral tradition is focused on preserving literal accuracy. People would memorize concepts, associate ideas with places, and build things like poetic devices to aid in accurately conveying the same information, rather than focusing on word for word accuracy.

In those cases where people were trying to achieve high word for word accuracy, they had to build the same kinds of processes and procedures we build today to protect the integrity of data.

The human mind is not a good tool for recording and recalling data accurately. Cultures that relied on oral tradition just had more regular practice at memorizing things than we do, but they still faced the same challenges recording things accurately.

To put that in other terms, oral tradition wasn't usually like the end of Fahrenheit 451.

Just like photographic memory, the popular conception of what memorization in an oral tradition is often exaggerated.

(If anyone isn't aware, photographic memory like you see in film and TV is a myth, just like super-speed reading or people who only need an hour of sleep a day. The few rare individuals with superior autobiographical memory are usually observed as being meticulous about keeping journals of their lives that they review regularly.)

2 - Calculators didn't produce a generation of adults that couldn't do basic math.

To put that differently, slide rules didn't produce a generation of adults who were good at math.

The skills you need to operate a calcuator are the same that you need to operate a slide rule. It's just a different form of the same technology, a counting device, using a different interface, another example being the abacus.

What really differs between the devices is what they're good for. Calculators are the best and most extensible all around tool, but slide rules and the abacus can both perform basic math operations very quickly. None of them hinder the development of your math skills.

The problem is actually one of education.

Not only is it difficult to teach basic math skills, the quality of educational system has a significant impact on students trying to develop new skills.

As an example, US numeracy isn't great. About 30% of the adult population in the US doesn't have the ability to calculate using whole numbers and percentages. It's not actually that unusual to find an adult that could struggle to make change without an aid.

To look at a case where our tools really do change how and what we learn, consider graphing calculators. After they were introduced, students didn't have to focus as much time learning how to plot graphs by hand. Instead, they started developing the skills to accurately use a graphing calculator to visualize an equation.

3 - Point of sales systems don't automatically dispense change.

This one is a small nitpick, but point of sales systems haven't eliminated the need for cashiers to understand basic math.

You can find systems that dispense change automatically in fully automated checkout systems, but cashiers are still trained to work with bills, coins, cards, and checks the same way they were being trained to do so 50 years ago.

We haven't moved into a time where cashiers don't need basic math skills and the automated tools that have been around forever actually predate the modern calculator. Automatic cashiers, those machines that dispense coin change in the checkout line? They were invented in the 1890s.

-

Everything else though? Spot on.

You cannot trust generative AI to give you accurate results. Do not try to use it to replace thought.

generative AI literally makes me feel like a boomer. people start talking about how it can be good to help you brainstorm ideas and i’m like oh you’re letting a computer do the hard work and thinking for you???

[heesmiles]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said I’d think about it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He didn’t hurt me—” You started. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who cares?” 

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

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

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

“Don’t let them.” 

“It’s not that easy Jay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not telling you.”

“Jay —”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jay —” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cut the bullshit, Jay,” you snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[tessasinclair]

𖧷 𖧷 𖧷 　　 𖧷 𖧷 𖧷

𝗥𝗔𝗙𝗘'𝗦 𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗔𝗟 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗛 & 𝗗𝗔𝗗𝗗𝗬 𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗨𝗘𝗦 › 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖨 𝖺𝗆 𝖺 𝖱𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝖽'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘳

› 𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗥𝗮𝗳𝗲'𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝘂𝗹𝘁? 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓇ℯ𝓁ℯ𝓋𝒶𝓉𝒾ℴ𝓃

ℐ think there's a lot of talk about Rafe's mental health, but no one really focuses on what exactly led to him being so desparate for his father's approaval. These days, almost everyone experiences daddy issues, whether they want to admit it or not, or some other family problem. But what's it like to kill someone at this young age and then live with it for the rest of your life, knowing that half of your family knows and half doesn't?

We probably don't need to tell you what all happened to Rafe in the Outer Banks series, but we will focus on the fact that Rafe's trauma is, in my opinion, extremely overlooked and overrated.

┃ 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙋𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙠𝙞𝙣?

› Nobody thinks about this question much. I didn't think about it either when I first saw OBX. It wasn't until I saw it for about the hundredth time that I realized it. No one (of the characters) on the show ever focused on why Rafe did it - what drove him to do it. They just thought about the fact that he did it.

Of course, if you kill someone, it's your fault and your fault alone, but Rafe was high when he came onto the runway, probably hurt, because his dad had kicked him out of the house before and told him he didn't want him there anymore. So no matter how much anyone denies it, it's not entirely his fault. It's already a big argument, but Rafe was trying to prove to his father that he could be better, and he wanted to protect him and get Ward into believing it. Under the influence of drugs and emotions, he pulled the trigger.

Everything happened so fast, it was all due to bad circumstances and probably bad luck. But what was Rafe supposed to do when there was no taking it back, even if he didn’t want it to happen?

ּ ֶָ֢ .

┃ 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨

› He tried to do the best he could for his dad, to play along, to forgive him. But Ward was showing Rafe one moment that he loved him, and the next moment that it was all his fault ("You fucked us! All of us!"). This roller coaster of emotions destroyed Rafe, leading him to another mental breakdown and even more drug use. His father didn't understand that his son just wanted help from the nightmares that had haunted him every night since the incident, that he wanted someones help to free him from the fact that he was a murderer and that he was a failure for the rest of his life. Rafe, as a very loyal and emotional person, had strong trust in Ward, because Ward had made him think that Rafe had failed him and that he would never be a good son again and until the end of his life he made him think that he would never forgive him. That's why even in Outer Banks season 4 Rafe is defending his father so bad when he was already dead, even though he tried to kill him himself in season 3. First of all, he was his father - and I think sons have stronger bonds with their fathers in general than daughters. Secondly, he knew he would never earn his father's trust again.

ּ ֶָ֢ .

My opinion is that Rafe could have at least been excused and some blame could be placed on whoever sold him the drugs (even if he took them from this person himself). But Ward blamed John B because he thought it would be easier that way. Then, when things shattered, Ward took the blame himself because he didn't want to take the risk, tried to protect his family, so Rafe's case was practically not resolved even though he was in jail for a while, where all the police officers, blinded by the fact that he had killed their sheriff, didn't even have time to properly discuss him.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵 was when Ward yelled at Rafe in the dining room that he fucked them. From here on out, Rafe suffered the consequences. But the question is, what else could Ward have done when there was no going back? What is certain is that he manipulated his son and destroyed his mental health, causing him trust and attachment issues.

Personally, I will never get over Rafe's story, I will always think about it. It's a very debatable topic. But I will forever be a Rafe apologist because I'm convinced Ward is to blame - blinded by the gold rush and unsure to the consequences of his decisions. 𝗜𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝗼𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗥𝗮𝗳𝗲 𝗶𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗮 𝗯𝗮𝗱 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻. 𝗛𝗲'𝘀 𝗮 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗯𝗮𝗱 𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗲.

𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝗒: 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖺i𝗋, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗈 not 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒

₍ 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗈 resources : pinterest.com ₎

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 !

𝓈ℴ:

[moth2flamewriting]

Publicity Stunt

here we go.. i really love this story and am so excited for you all to read it.

Modern. Smoke x Annie

as always,

ENJOY.

She didn't want to fucking marry Joshua LeCreux. That was the last thing she wanted to fucking do. Why couldn't her father understand that? What did she have to do to get through to them?

"Baby girl, did you hear what I said?" Her dad inquired. Isaiah Bishop, the local preacher. Well known and respected in the community. Held to the highest standard by everyone.

She was tuning him out. "Yeah, Daddy I heard you."

All he said to her was that he's marrying her off to some random man with a good reputation and money.

She didn't want money, she wanted whirlwind romance. She wanted to be swept off her feet. She wanted butterflies and flowers. She wanted, the one she couldn't live without. Not some man with a creepy ass smile.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. The more she wanted to fight for herself.

"I'm not marrying that man Daddy," she held her head high.

"Like hell you not! Ain't no question about it," he boomed fist hitting the dinner table.

"I want love, like real love. You taking that option from me, how is that fair?" Her eyebrows were woven tightly together. Udder confusion on her face.

"Life ain't fair Annie," the tone from him had finality.

Stubborn as her daddy was, she was too. "I'm not doing it."

He rose from his chair, gripping the sides of the table so hard his knuckles were white. "Annelise," he grumbles.

"Daddy please, at least let me try before you ship me off," Annie sobbed. She broke down, face falling into her hands.

He felt sorry for not even considering her. For assuming she would just fall in line. He not even thought what she would think. He was so busy playing match maker.

"I'm sorry," he retreated to his seat. "How about we make a deal. I'll give you a year. If nothing pans out, then you must accept his hand in marriage. But at least say you'll give him a chance during this trial," he asked.

She was so happy she didn't care about the time frame at the moment. She got up and wrapped her arms around her father, thanking him repeatedly. "Thank you Dad!"

Annie scurried to her room, leaving her father at the table with a small smile on his face. Hoping for the outcome she wanted in this whole situation. He would give her a chance to figure it out.

She was not shy. She was beautiful. Full figure. Smart. Witty. Plenty of people wanted to have her hand or even a chance. But she vibrated higher than most. And that intimidated men. She wasn't a bow down type of woman. And men wanted that.

She had to figure something out to make her dreams a reality.

In her room she scrolled through her phone on a dating app. Trying to find someone interesting and attractive enough. It wasn't working at all.

She had the thought to call Elijah. Elijah Moore, her best friend. Her first friend in the Delta. She could talk to him about anything.

"Hello," he answered quickly.

"Hi," she replied.

"I have something to tell you," he stated plainly. He was not in a good mood. You could hear it in his voice.

"My parents want me to marry Sophia," his voice deflated. How could they possibly be going through the same thing.

Why did their parents want them married so badly? What was the rush. They were twenty-two and twenty-three years old.

"Elijah there's no fuckin way they want you to marry that nutjob," she giggled.

Sophia was.. interesting to say the least. She was eccentric outfits and had a ridiculously high pitched voice. And as much brain in her head as a mouse.

"Annie, it's really not funny. What the fuck am I going to do?"

"Well it looks like we're not too different. Daddy wants me to marry Joshua LeCreux," she sighed into the phone.

"Now that is laughable," Elijah chuckled.

It was funny. What the fuck was she going to do with Joshua? He was self absorbed. Never asked about her interest or anything about her really. Put a mirror in front of him, and he won't notice anything but that greasy hair and creepy smile.

"He gave me a year. Which now I am realizing is a very little amount of time. I'm fucked. I'm going to have to marry Josh greasy ass," she groaned. Flipping over to her stomach.

"Hello?" She thought the line disconnected.

When really Elijah was thinking. Of a way both of them could get out of this.

"Meet me outside in 10 minutes. I have an idea," and he hung up.

'This nigga always got an idea' she thought to herself.

He pulled up on her exactly 10 minutes later.

Elijah: Here

Annie:Coming

When she came out he was leaning up against the passenger side door. Exhaling, he knew her dad didn't like it when he smoked in front of their house.

"Put that out before my dad has a fucking heart attack," she demands.

"You right you right," he says thru his last puff before he puts it out.

"What was this bright idea you just had to talk to me about right now?" Even though she was skeptical, she was still interested in what he had to say. She would take anything at this point.

"We both don't wanna marry these people, right?"

"Right," she agrees.

"So how about, we.. date eachother?" It came out sheepishly. He was rubbing the back of his hand.

She snorted. "Elijah what the actual fuck."

"Annie think about it though," he encouraged her.

And she did. She didn't know what exactly to think. Elijah? I mean her dad liked him, his parents liked her. It could be possible?

"Elijah I don't know. It sounds good but like," she froze.

She had worries. There were concerns. About everything.

"Annie, we could really sell this!" He was excited.

"I don't know Elijah," she was hesitant.

"Would you rather, fake it with me or actually have to marry him?" Eyebrow arched, presenting her with an easy to answer question.

"Okay, but we need ground rules."

She was nervous and excited. Scared and felt free.

"I don't want to ruin our friendship," she starts off. "So I think we should only kiss if necessary, appropriate touches and such," she shyed away a bit,

He walks over to her, rubbing her arms trying to get her to breathe.

"ANNIE STOP! I'm a gentleman. You're my best friend, I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable. I'll always confirm with you first," he reassured her.

She let out a deep breath. She trusted him. She always has. Who better to fake it with than Elijah?

Even though everything in her was telling her not to. She did it anyway.

"How will we break it to our parents?" she asked.

"You just leave that up to me," he replied.

The stood in a comfortable silence. Both breathing easier since the agreement was made.

"Do you think we should go on dates? To make it believable," he inquired.

"Yeah, I think that would be ideal," she agreed.

"Okay then, I'll pick you up in a few days. Wear something casual," he responded.

They hugged and he got in his car.

"Be safe," she called after him then returned to her house.

Inside, she smiles to herself. Thinking she found a loophole around this silly ass situation. Thanking the stars for a friend like Elijah.

Finding hope in such a shitty situation.

She went to bed that night with Elijah on her mind. They really were doing it for eachother.

to be continued..

[fraeyyassblr]

Someone on here said that thewizardliz manifested getting cheated on by saying that she kept saying all men were horrible creatures and will always hurt you (no she did not) anyways. I think I was blocked so I'll say it here:

BEFORE YOU ACCUSE HER OF THIS, PLEASE DO THE FOLLOWING:

"liz is the perfect example of the law. she kept saying that all men are horrible creatures and will always hurt you—" EXCUSE ME???

watch all her videos and learn that she has manifested making millions of dollars helping people with their lives after getting out of a heavily abusive household until she would almost face d3ath with her sister sabrina. she knows the law, you think she's not aware of this??

watch all her videos and learn that she never said that all men were horrible creatures. I REPEAT!! she never said that all men were horrible creatures. instead, she teaches girls to have higher standards out of a perspective of self-love and self-respect because she knows what happens if you settle for something toxic to even straight up abusive. HER PARENTS WERE IMMIGRANTS. HER DAD WAS CHEATING ON HER MOM. SHE CRAWLED OUT OF THIS BARELY ALIVE.

this, she understands that there are hundreds of kinds of people, because if you truly had no faith in men, why would you be strict on your high standards? she never said that there were only bad men. she said TO NEVER BE AVAILABLE FOR THOSE KINDS OF MEN because abundance is real and good men are out there.

watch all her videos and see how graceful she is. she cut off that cheater despite being manipulated and babytrapped, sold her engagement ring and are donating to single mothers. before that, she was HEALING THROUGH THE RELATIONSHIP. go study all her videos and see how she's been wearing more pinks, changing her hair, trying out new hairstyles, got softer and more confident and playful BECAUSE SHE WAS NEVER ASSUMING OR AFFIRMING THAT HER RELATIONSHIP WAS BAD OR THAT SHE WOULD GET HURT. nu-uh, never had that belief.

go to her fans and personally interview them one by one of how liz saved them for heartbreak or toxic relationships. if too much of a hassle, go read comments from youtube and on tiktok or videos instead. I WILL BE THE FIRST ONE FOR YOU: I was with a guy for 2 days but something felt off. I ignored it until the 5th day and I was watching thewizardliz. She kept repeating in all her videos "trust your intuition. Trust your intuition. Never settle" so I broke things off after 5 days. He was spamming me on my messages about how dumb I was and I felt like I wanted to cry but I couldn't care less anymore when I continued binge watching Liz and she was right. If your standards are high, you wouldn't care. It's for a good cause. 2 months later.. He physically abused his current girlfriend. Like a bruise or something. I could've been that girl. that's only one story.. She HEALED ME. She gave me wisdom AND SHE IS A BIG PART OF MY MANIFESTATION JOURNEY.

HOW ABOUT YOU NOT TALK ABOUT PEOPLE'S RELATIONSHIPS AND NOT TALK ABOUT MANIFESTATION AFTER SOMEONE'S BIGGEST HEARTBREAK. ESPECIALLY WHEN SHE'S 4 MONTHS PREGNANT. GIVE. HER. A. BREAK. "PERFECT EXAMPLE OF THE LAW??" MY ASS.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Royal Duties Chapter 2

Summary:  Princess Y/N is betrothed to Prince Bucky Barnes, a political match to form bonds and alliances.  A friendship is formed between them built on understanding and allyship.  But can real love grow from forced circumstances?

Warning:  Language, eventual smut, miscarriage/pregnancy, mentions of possible cheating

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The honeymoon was a nice reprieve after feeling so high strung for the past month and a half.  Bucky was always patient and polite with her, giving a show to the cameras that they knew were hiding around every corner documenting their newly wedded bliss.  She really didn’t want to admit to herself how much she liked those moments when he would hold her hand while walking along the beach, playfully push her toward the water then chase her through the shallow tide until he inevitably caught her around the waist then would kiss her neck.  Or the moments during dinner at the restaurants in the resort when he would constantly be touching her somewhere.  Or the moments when she would sunbathe by the pool and subtly watch him swim, enjoying his naked torso and the metal arm glittering in the sunlight.  When he would get out of the pool and approach her, sitting on his own chair, then she would get up and sit with him next to his legs, helping reapply sunscreen and then hold his metal hand affectionately and play with his wedding band on his finger as they talked.  He even picked up a nickname for her, calling her “Peaches” since she tended to snack on them often or choose peach flavored drinks.

The cameras were eating it all up, and Steve would give her proud winks whenever he checked in with them.  They were pulling off the ruse, giving their now allied peoples hope and faith in their combined futures together.  The news cycle was constantly about them, and Y/N was grateful that the hardest part seemed over.

Well, mostly over.  Her mother and father would not stop trying to contact her.  A flood of calls and texts and messages being sent to her and even to Steve came in with subtle questions about her sexual advances on Bucky.  She ignored them, trying to enjoy her holiday before they would be forced back into regular life, where she would have to put on her mask as the princess she was, and soon-to-be-Queen.  Bucky’s coronation would happen a few weeks after their humanitarian campaign, which meant she would automatically become Queen consort.  

On their last night as she packed her clothes and got ready for their departure the next morning, her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.  She picked it up and rolled her eyes at seeing her mother’s contact on the screen.  Bucky was taking a phone call out on the porch, so she decided to finally answer, putting it on speaker so she could keep packing.

“Y/N!  What is going on?  Why haven’t you been answering our calls or texts?  I sent messages to the Royal Advisor!  Did you not get them–”

“Mother,” Y/N interrupted her firmly.  “I got them all, but I was trying to enjoy my honeymoon.”

“Oh,” her mother sounded more pleased.  “I see.  Very good, my dear.  Have you kept him busy this whole week?”

Y/N’s jaw ticked in irritation.  “No, Mother, I haven’t.”

“What?” she hissed.  “What do you mean?  Why not?!  After all the time and effort your Father, the advisors and I have put into teaching you…after all the diplomatic bullshit we had to pull to make this deal, and you haven’t fucked him?!”

“For Christ’s sake, Mother,” Y/N scoffed, folding her new swimsuits.  

“What is wrong with you?  Why couldn’t you do this one thing right?  It’s not that hard, just lie there and take it!”

Y/N bristled at that.  “I’m not some bitch for you to sell off and breed,” she snarled.  “I knew my role in all this, and I wasn’t happy about it, but I did it, didn’t I?  I have helped make peace, true peace, for our people for the first time in decades.”

“But–”

“An heir will come when it comes.  Thankfully Bucky is much more than the ravenous, power-hungry dictator you painted him to be,” she said.  “You, Father and the advisors failed me.  They don’t expect me to reproduce in a year.”

“What?”

“They don’t want me to starve myself for the sake of keeping up propriety and appearances,” she continued, getting louder as she hovered over the phone.  “I’ve learned so much within just a week of being with him, with them, the supposed enemy, and now I’m realizing that everything you taught me was a ridiculous lie or a means to control me and the narrative.”

“You little–”

A metal hand snatched Y/N’s phone off the bed, and she gasped as she watched Bucky bring it close to his mouth.  “Choose your next words carefully, ma’am,” Bucky said, his voice low and gravelly.  Her mother gasped, and Y/N could just imagine her shrinking away from the phone.  “You are speaking to the next Queen of Brooklyn, and will treat her with the respect and austerity that she deserves.”

“Y-Yes, Your Majesty,” her mother’s voice shakily replied.

“If you ever reach out to her again, I expect that all communications will be of the highest praise of her character,” he continued.  “And if I may be frank, she is your daughter.  How dare you treat her the way you have?”  There was silence on the other end, then a short sniffle.  “Consider this your one and only warning,” he grumbled.  “She and I outrank you now, Your Highness.  You would do well to remember that.  And I’ll send a little reminder to your husband and his court.  When or how your daughter fucks me is none of your business or concern.  Do I make myself clear?”

Y/N blushed deeply, biting back a chuckle at his wording.  There was another pause, then the sound of a deep inhale echoed through the phone.  “Yes, Your Majesty.  My apologies,” she said.  

“Apologize to her,” Bucky commanded, then held the phone towards her.  

There was a longer pause, the sound of some kind of shuffling, then a huff of breath.  “I’m sorry, Y/N,” her mother said, sounding like it was coming from gritted teeth.  

“Very good, Your Highness,” Bucky cooed sarcastically at her as he raised the phone back up to his mouth.  “Goodnight.”

He hung up on her before she could say anything, then flung the phone on the bed, closed his eyes and let out a deep breath.  Y/N watched him, frozen on the spot.  Neither of them said anything for a long moment, then he opened his eyes, turned to her and stepped forward, kneeling down before her.  She was surprised once again, seeing the future king kneel in front of her, then again as he hugged her, wrapping his arms around her waist and tucking his face into the crook of her neck.  Y/N froze for a moment, her heart beating rapidly, before hugging him back.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, his flesh hand rubbing her back.

“I’m fine,” she answered.

“Are you sure?” he asked, pulling away to look at her but keeping himself close as he studied her face.

Y/N’s hands stayed on his shoulders, grounding her as she thought for a moment.  Was she okay?  She didn’t realize she was crying until his hands reached up and swiped tears away from her cheeks before cupping her face in his hands.  “I…I’m fine,” she repeated, staring at him.

Bucky looked unconvinced.  “I’m sorry for intervening.  You were standing up for yourself fine, and I’m proud of you,” he said with a smirk.  “I just couldn’t stand hearing her speak that way any longer.”

Y/N chuckled, sniffing quickly before moving her hands to his wrists.  “You snuck up on me.  I didn’t mean for you to hear any of it,” she said, squeezing his wrists reassuringly.  

Bucky smiled sheepishly.  “Sorry,” he laughed.  “Sometimes I forget to make my steps louder.  Product of the war, I guess,” he trailed off.

Y/N’s thumbs rubbed the back of his hands comfortingly.  She had witnessed his nightmares over the past week.  He had warned her before they married about his bouts of PTSD flashbacks and nightmares, and usually at night he did well at waking himself up and calming down, but her heart broke for him as she watched the pain and memories roil behind his eyes.  She gathered her courage and leaned forward slowly, watching for his reaction.  Bucky didn’t move, his expression turning from sadness to curiosity as she got closer.  She closed the distance and kissed him.  It was short, just a quick peck, but he kissed her back before she pulled away.  “Thank you for standing up for me,” she said, slightly nuzzling his nose.  “And for reminding me that I can do it for myself.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered across her face, his brow turned upward now.  “You deserve better than that,” he replied.  “I know we don’t know each other that well, but just within what we’ve learned about each other this last week, you deserve better.  I hope you know that.”

Y/N smiled.  “I do now,” she said.

The air between them suddenly felt like it was vibrating, a strange tension and anticipation hanging in the air.  Bucky’s gaze flickered to her lips repeatedly.  “Can I kiss you?” he asked.  “I mean…really kiss you?”

Y/N blinked rapidly, desire flowing through her veins insanely fast, making her cheeks blush as her eyes looked at his lips.  “Yes,” she breathed.  

Her desire was reflected in his eyes and in the way his expression shifted into something she could only call yearning.  He barely nodded, his fingers slightly tightening on her face, before he leaned in and kissed her.  It was soft at first, both of them seemingly holding their breath.  He broke it off first, but didn’t move away.  His lips hovered over hers, the featherlight touch igniting an excitement deep in her belly that she hadn’t felt in a long time.  A short whimper escaped her throat, and his eyes snapped back up to hers.  His breathing picked up and his metal hand moved to the back of her neck, like at their wedding, pulling her in to close the distance and kiss her hard.  

She gasped against his mouth, her eyelids fluttering shut as he angled his head to deepen the kiss.  All the kisses and touches that they’d exchanged over the week for the public eye were nice, but this was exhilarating.  Her hands instantly moved from his wrists to around his waist, hugging him close and scratching down his mid-back.  He moaned at that, the sound vibrating into her mouth, and she opened her mouth and licked at his lower lip, silently asking for permission.  He almost sagged against her at that, letting out a long sigh through his nose as he opened his mouth and let her taste his tongue.  Their touches became more insistent, the sound of their breaths becoming more frenzied and shaky, and the more she touched him, the more Bucky moaned and whimpered.  Her heart broke again realizing he was touch starved, and her hands slid from his chest up to his neck, then cupped his face in her hands.  Her thumbs slid along his cheeks, and his fingers gripped her sleep tank at her back tightly.  She then moved her hands up and ran her fingers through his hair.  He shivered hard, a deep groan vibrating in his chest, then he suddenly pulled away gasping for air.

“Mmh, I’m sorry,” he huffed, pressing his forehead against hers.  “I’m sorry…I told you I wouldn’t push you–”

“No, no no,” Y/N quickly shook her head, also trying to catch her breath.  “I liked it, it’s okay.”  She kissed the tip of his nose to lighten the sudden somber mood, her fingers gently scratching through his hair at the back of his head.  “You can kiss me like that anytime.”

Bucky laughed, dropping his head down to her shoulder as she joined in laughing with him.  He hugged her again, giving her shoulder a small kiss.  “Even so, I don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to take advantage of you.  I haven’t done…this…for a long time and I think I’m just a little too excited–”

“You’re touch starved,” Y/N said gently.  He pulled up to look at her.  “It happens to soldiers a lot,” she explained, keeping her left hand in his hair as her right hand moved toward his shoulder where skin met metal.  “Especially those who have been hurt,” she said, glancing at the scarred skin and softly running her fingers over it.

Bucky’s face crumpled in sorrow, glancing down at his shoulder and watching her fingers touch him so easily.  He raised his metal hand between them then met her gaze.  “You’re not afraid of it?” he asked, looking and sounding perplexed.  “You’re not afraid of…me?”

“No,” she replied immediately.  Her hands left his face and shoulder and took his metal hand in both of hers.  He watched her as she brought the hand toward her mouth, spreading his fingers open then lowering her face as she kissed his palm.  She moved his hand to cradle her face again, leaning her head into it as she looked at him.  

Bucky’s eyes brimmed with tears, his lips trembling as he fought back tears.  He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers again.  “Thank you,” he whispered.

@unicornqueen05 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @roslynsworld

[seitmai]

He grunted and reached for the wrench, not understanding what the problem was. He was handy, and had fixed everything around the house. So far he patched holes in drywall, replaced windows, repaired the roof, and remodeled the kitchen, to name a few. Sam could vouch for his skills since he fixed things on the boat. Surely he could repair this. The former brainwashed assassin had faced worse: superpowered enemies, a world war, experimentation, losing a limb, brainwashing, torture, PTSD, and more. For Christ's sake, he was dusted by Thanos. He refused to let a kitchen sink defeat him, especially since he had promised you he'd fix it, and he always kept his promises to you.

Forget Thanos or Hydra brainwashing, the kitchen sink, the true final boss 😅

Bucky stared down the pipe with a withering death stare. Why the fuck wasn’t the hot water running? “I’m not going to let you break me, you piece of shit.”

😂😂😂

As he crawled out from under the sink, his gaze softened at the sight of you. Your bare feet gently padded across the floor as you moved toward him, a tender smile on your face and a hand on your belly. He hadn’t grasped what pregnancy glow was until you became pregnant with his child. It was like a soft ray of sunlight that glowed through you and touched everything within its reach. It was beautiful, just like you. Sunshine to his moonbeam.

That is the cutest thing ever 🥰🥹

Additionally, the idea of another man checking you out, which he knew would happen because you were stunning, both infuriated him and filled him with pride, as he didn't want anyone else to admire your beauty, but was happy to call you his own.

Someone is possessive 🤭

Fatigue hit you out of nowhere earlier, and you went to rest, which he felt a pang of guilt for. It was a common symptom in pregnancies, but he couldn’t help but wonder if any of the serum would pass on to his kids or what it would do to your body. But you didn’t complain, didn’t show any signs of worry. He may be a super soldier, but you were the one with the strength. Bucky hoped so. He read books to your belly and sometimes talked when you had fallen asleep, telling stories of his past and how excited and nervous he was for the future. He also talked about how amazing you were, how he was lucky to have you as a wife and how lucky they’d be to have you as a mother.

🥹🥹🥹

“And your mother is a stubborn woman, don’t let her fool you. She also suggested calling a plumber, which I’m against,” he said, keeping a hand beside his head. “Give me a kick if you think I can fix it myself.” “Bucky, we-” Both of you gasped when your baby kicked where Bucky’s palm rested. He stared up at you with wide and happy eyes, his heart swelling in his chest. “D… Did you feel that?” he whispered.

Well it's decided then 😅

“No plumber,” you promised with a sly smile. “Unless you want to pretend to be a plumber and help me clear out my pipes.”

Oop 🤭👀

“Tell you what,” you smirked, picking up one of the peanut butter pretzels. “If you get the sink fixed before I finish this bowl, I’ll reward you." When you popped the treat into your mouth with a hum and licked your lips, he bit back a groan. “And if I don’t?” he asked, determined not to lose. You shrugged and inspected the next piece. “Then you don’t get a taste of me for a whole week.”

With the stakes being this high, there is no chance he is not doing it 😅

“Domesticity is really sexy on you.”

It truly is 🙂‍↕️

Make It or Break It

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky is determined to not let the kitchen sink defeat him.

Word Count: Over 2k

Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, swearing, implied smut, fluff, feels, domestic life, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Another new AU? Why not? Inspired by a wonderful nonnie. And thanks @targaryenvampireslayer for letting me discuss this. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was a peaceful day for Bucky. Well, it was supposed to be a peaceful day. He should’ve been snuggled up with you on the couch, reading a book or watching a movie. He could’ve taken a ride on his bike, or gone to that bakery you love to surprise you with something sweet. Instead of doing any of those things, he was stuck under the kitchen sink that suddenly decided to stop running hot water.  

Heaving a heavy sigh, he mentally reviewed the list of things he had checked: the shut-off valve, a possible leaking hot water line, and the aerator for blockages. No such luck. He hoped it wasn’t a water heater issue. That was the last thing you needed to deal with.  

He grunted and reached for the wrench, not understanding what the problem was. He was handy, and had fixed everything around the house. So far he patched holes in drywall, replaced windows, repaired the roof, and remodeled the kitchen, to name a few. Sam could vouch for his skills since he fixed things on the boat. Surely he could repair this.  

Or it might be the thing to finally defeat him.

“Fuck that,” he muttered, gripping the wrench so tight he nearly bent it.

The former brainwashed assassin had faced worse: superpowered enemies, a world war, experimentation, losing a limb, brainwashing, torture, PTSD, and more. For Christ's sake, he was dusted by Thanos. He refused to let a kitchen sink defeat him, especially since he had promised you he'd fix it, and he always kept his promises to you.

Bucky stared down the pipe with a withering death stare. Why the fuck wasn’t the hot water running? “I’m not going to let you break me, you piece of shit.”

“Bucky?”

As he crawled out from under the sink, his gaze softened at the sight of you. Your bare feet gently padded across the floor as you moved toward him, a tender smile on your face and a hand on your belly. He hadn’t grasped what pregnancy glow was until you became pregnant with his child. It was like a soft ray of sunlight that glowed through you and touched everything within its reach. It was beautiful, just like you.

Sunshine to his moonbeam.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he rasped, still in awe of your beauty.

You ducked your head and smiled to yourself, something you had done from the first time he called you that term of endearment. “Sink still giving you trouble?” you asked, keeping your tone light since you knew it was a sore subject. With a clench of his jaw, he nodded. “Maybe we should-”

He cut you off with a point of his finger and saw you struggling not to smile. “Do not suggest a plumber.”

He felt his resolve begin to crack when you batted your eyes. He couldn't resist that look, which always got you what you wanted, but he couldn’t bend on this. “We don't have to call a plumber, but it might not be a bad idea to have someone take a look.” Bucky’s lip curled in a snarl, but you just smiled. “I don't mind.”

“I mind because I said I can fix this and I will. I promised you that,” he argued.

It was irrational for him to feel jealous at the thought of someone else fixing the sink, but he didn’t want you depending on someone else to fix stuff around the home you made together. If he couldn't take care of your home, it meant he couldn't take care of you, which he would always do. Just as you took care of him, being partners meant you relied on each other.

Additionally, the idea of another man checking you out, which he knew would happen because you were stunning, both infuriated him and filled him with pride, as he didn't want anyone else to admire your beauty, but was happy to call you his own.

You shook your head after a moment, as if you read his mind. “Okay, He-Man. We don’t have to call anyone.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, but then sat up abruptly, his heart racing in alarm as he was about to go back under the sink. “Wait, why aren't you lying down?”

Fatigue hit you out of nowhere earlier, and you went to rest, which he felt a pang of guilt for. It was a common symptom in pregnancies, but he couldn’t help but wonder if any of the serum would pass on to his kids or what it would do to your body. But you didn’t complain, didn’t show any signs of worry. He may be a super soldier, but you were the one with the strength.

“I’m fine,” you assured him before a sheepish smile crossed your face. “Except I'm a little hungry.”

He chuckled and sat up to wipe his hands, relieved that there was nothing wrong. He couldn’t help feeling protective. “You or the baby, sweetheart?” 

Rubbing a hand over your stomach, you giggled. The sound wrapped around him like a warm hug and urged him to exhale his frustration. “I think we’re both hungry. Something sweet and salty.”

He crawled on his hands and knees, making you giggle again, until he reached you and sat back on his heels. Pulling you close by your hips, he pressed a gentle kiss to your stomach and smiled. “Hey, sprout,” he whispered. 

A blossoming life was growing within you like a sprout.

“Sprout loves your voice,” you whispered, running a hand through his hair as he closed his eyes.

Bucky hoped so. He read books to your belly and sometimes talked when you had fallen asleep, telling stories of his past and how excited and nervous he was for the future. He also talked about how amazing you were, how he was lucky to have you as a wife and how lucky they’d be to have you as a mother.

Despite everything life had thrown at him, he got a family, a dream come true he had tried not to hope for.

“Well, I’m glad our little sprout hasn’t heard me swearing today,” he joked, kissing your stomach again. “That kitchen sink is trying to get the better of me, but I won’t let it.”

“Your father is a stubborn man,” you smiled, clutching Bucky’s head to you as he rested it on your belly.

“And your mother is a stubborn woman, don’t let her fool you. She also suggested calling a plumber, which I’m against,” he said, keeping a hand beside his head. “Give me a kick if you think I can fix it myself.”

“Bucky, we-”

Both of you gasped when your baby kicked where Bucky’s palm rested. He stared up at you with wide and happy eyes, his heart swelling in his chest. “D… Did you feel that?” he whispered.

“I did,” you smiled, your eyes shining with unshed tears. Your baby kicked, and it was one of the most incredible things he had ever felt. 

He let out a slow breath. For years, he was forced to fight. The war, HYDRA, and everything that followed. No one ever really asked what he wanted. At the end of the day, it all came down to this: building a home with a loving family.

As he knelt there, you smiled down at him, feeling your baby move, and he realized he'd do it all over again for this moment. 

“Help me get a snack, and then you can finish fixing the sink,” you suggested.

“And no plumber?” he smiled, more determined to keep his promise to you, since your baby believed he could do it.

“No plumber,” you promised with a sly smile. “Unless you want to pretend to be a plumber and help me clear out my pipes.”

His nose crinkled when he laughed. “Earmuffs, sprout. You don’t need to hear those things your Mama is saying.”

“Me?!” He chuckled when your voice went up an octave. “What about all the dirty things you say? Like this morning when I woke up to you doing that thing with your tongue and-”

Bucky suddenly stood up and silenced you with a deep, sensual kiss that would send your hormones into overdrive. As he pulled away from your lips, he was met with your shuddering breath, and he trailed soft kisses along your face. “Now, sweetheart, we both know you seduced me in your sleep, and I couldn’t resist having a taste.”

How could he ever resist you?

“I seduced you in my sleep, huh?” you asked with love shining in your eyes. His eyes reflected the same. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered, giving your ass a gentle pat and smirking when you gasped. “Now sit tight while I get us a snack and finish fixing the sink. You said something sweet and salty, right?”

“Right,” you nodded.

“Peanut butter pretzels?” he suggested, hoping he was right. He’d hate to see your face fall if he guessed the craving incorrectly.

When your face lit up, he breathed a sigh of relief, especially since he had just stocked up. “Yes, please.” Guiding you to the island stool, he felt your eyes on him as he moved around the kitchen. “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” he said, setting a filled up bowl in front of you. He didn’t care if it was the middle of the night. If you were hungry, he would get you something or go out to find what you wanted.

“No, I mean, thank you for… everything.” He stopped when your eyes welled up, his heart aching at the sight. “God, these hormones,” you teased, wiping away tears as they spilled over.

“Hey,” he whispered, turning you on the stool, and gently framed your face to wipe away the remaining tears. Your hormones made you cry at the drop of a hat, and he was thankful that you allowed him to comfort you whenever that happened. “I should be thanking you.”

Bucky had found love and a family thanks to you, which filled his heart to the point of overflowing. He had purpose, and he was still a hero. He had a life he wanted, one worth fighting for. To him, it meant everything and more.

“You do thank me. Every single day,” you reminded him, bringing your hand up to trace his wedding band. 

“Does that mean I get a reward after I fix the sink?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows before you smacked his arm. “Worth a shot.”

“Tell you what,” you smirked, picking up one of the peanut butter pretzels. “If you get the sink fixed before I finish this bowl, I’ll reward you.”

When you popped the treat into your mouth with a hum and licked your lips, he bit back a groan. “And if I don’t?” he asked, determined not to lose. 

You shrugged and inspected the next piece. “Then you don’t get a taste of me for a whole week.”

He gawked at you. Withholding that delicious nectar between your thighs from him for a whole week? That was cruel and unusual punishment.

“Listen. I know you can fix it and our baby knows you can fix it, too,” you said, nodding to the sink. “So get to work because I’m hungry.”

He kissed you for luck, tasting the sweet and salty snack on your lips. “You’re on, sweetheart,” he said, winking and rushing back to the sink as you watched. 

“Domesticity is really sexy on you.”

He winked again. “Don’t I know it.”

It turned out that your belief in him, along with your baby’s and the promise of a reward, provided the exact motivation he needed to fix the sink. Just as he had kept his promise to you, you kept yours and rewarded him right there in the kitchen. After carrying you back to the couch, ignoring your protests about your weight, he felt lucky once again to have such an incredible wife and mother of his child. 

And if he was really lucky, you two would have more than one.

What other domestic things do we want to see Bucky get up to? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[mikkomacko]

Mob Jack and Luke thought partially inspired by Luke getting a matching bionic shoulder after Jack did this season and partially inspired by my own relationship with my older sister.

Luke has a habit of being like a baby duck with Jack. Whenever he’s even the slightest bit unsure about anything in his life, he instinctively turns to the singular constant in his life for guidance. It’s almost comical seeing the two go out together because Luke is almost always hiding behind Jack, despite being much taller, because Jack is familiar, safe in a way that nothing else had ever been in their lives. He is trustworthy and kind and the most important person in Luke’s life, so Luke starts mirroring him from a young age. If Jack decided he liked something, Luke would love it just as much. If Jack complained about a certain subject, Luke would act out in that class the next day. At some point Jack figured this out and he would use it to keep Luke safe. All he had to do to get Luke to listen was tell him that it was something he would do himself and then Luke wouldn’t want to do anything else. This routine continues past high school and well into their mob days, although not as pronounced. For the most part the other boys don’t notice it, but Reader sure does. Not immediately, but a few months into being around the boys consistently they all go out drinking and end up crashing at Nico’s. In the morning Reader makes a disgusting looking hangover cure concoction and Luke won’t even look at it. He says something like food is supposed to taste good and make you happy, not assault you with the scent. And then Jack asks for a glass and Luke quiets. A few minutes later he would take Jack’s glass and finish it without complaints and something clicks in Reader’s brain, right where the mama bear instincts live. She doesn’t say anything then, but she understands the two’s dynamic more. However she does say something after Luke goes and gets himself injured in the same stupid way Jack had just a week before. After that they have a long talk about “just because Jack does it, that doesn’t mean it’s safe” and “Jack stop being dumb, you have a shadow that does everything you do”. Of course Luke still follows Jack around everywhere and Jack always looks behind to make sure he’s still right there behind him. A platonic and slightly less tragic Orpheus and Eurydice if you will. Bound to continue as long as the universe allows.

-🦉

Ahhh 🦉 anon I’ve missed you! And you’re back and better than ever because this is so so cute.

Imagining pre-teen Jack realizing that Luke genuinely hears and remembers everything he says, follows him like he’s Bible. It’s how he learned to raise Luke pretty much, always telling him things like “Well I always eat the vegetables in school lunch because I want to be big when I’m older.” and sure enough Luke starts eating the vegetables he used to claim were too soggy.

And it just grows and grows from there. Jack tells Luke he’d never hook up with a random girl in high school that way they can rule out any teenage pregnancy because let’s be honest, no adult was making sure those boys know to wrap it up. Just the general lessons like drinking responsibly, staying away from drugs and people that do them, showering at least twice a week type of stuff. If Jack says he does it or makes it a habit himself, Luke picks it up like a sponge and makes it a part of his life.

When Luke gets to New Jersey, he trains with Timo and Jack since Nico is preoccupied with taking care of reader, and Timo doesn’t really notice it because he lets Jack take a lead on most of it, but he’s so shocked by how quick Luke adopts to their training. How easily he makes it a habit. And it’s really just because he’s following Jack, has his whole life so this is just as easy.

But you’re so right about Mama Bear reader recognizing it. And she does so from the first moment she meets Luke. When Nico takes her to get lunch with the Hughes boys one day, after weeks of Luke anxiously asking to meet her.

The whole time they’re sat in the pizza place, even with her not acting like herself because Philly is still hanging over her, she notices everything. How Luke waits to sit down at the table for Jack to do it first. How he doesn’t hug Nico until Jack does it. How he looks to Jack to voice his order.

Reader doesn’t comment on it because Nico doesn’t either. Luke is only 18 and in a new city with his brother, of course he’s going to turn to him a lot.

It’s still something she picks up on for months after though. Luke trailing behind Jack in the bar, hiding behind him when girls stop them like his much shorter brother is a human shield or something.

The more she learns about them, the more it makes sense. Especially after she starts hearing the way Jack will pointedly say things to Luke disguised as just talking. Or the hangover cure, that’s 100% them. Luke hates smoothies, hates the texture and the bland taste of the healthy ones. He doesn’t reject reader’s glass she makes him but he doesn’t drink it either, moping at the counter and mixing it around with the straw because he’s waiting for her to look away so he can dump it.

She knows it too which is why she’s hovering around him. But when Jack sits next to him, grabs his own cup with a muttered thanks and downs the whole thing, Luke is eyeing him curiously. Waits for Jack to wipe at the back of his mouth and set it in the sink before he does the exact same.

Jack raised Luke by being his role model, and even now he’s still doing so.

There’s no harm in it really, so she doesn’t bring it up. No reason too. She does start telling Jack things she wants Luke to know though, giving him advice like what vitamins he should be taking because she knows Luke will get them too. For the most part though she leaves it alone because Jack knows how to take care of his little brother, has been doing it for so long and it’s worked. But when she has to stitch up Jack’s thigh because he left his pocket knife open in his cargo pants on a mission, she’s scolding him about it. Telling him that she doesn’t care if he thinks it’s quicker to leave the thing armed, he near to close it before putting it near his body.

She doesn’t think about the fact that this habit of Jack’s was picked up by Luke until he’s coming to her a little over a week later with the exact same injury.

That’s when she knows she has to tell him something, sitting him on the kitchen counter in just his boxers as she cleans the slice in his thigh.

“I could’ve sworn I told one of you Hughes boys to close your knives,” she murmurs casually, keeping her voice low because Jack and Nico are hovering close by.

Luke makes a guilty face when she peers up at him, beginning to thread her needle and he shifts uncomfortably.

“It’s a habit I guess,” he deflects. She’s careful and gentle when she starts stitching him up, keeping her tone just as tender because she knows him having more than one person trying to parent him is new. The last thing she wants to do is overwhelm him or make him feel like he did something wrong.

“Jack does a lot of smart things,” she says, “and he’s good at a lot of things. I know he’s got perfect aim and his brain thinks fast. And I know you do too because you’ve been around him your whole life.

“But he also messes up sometimes and gets injured. Like he did last week. So when that happens, I need you to try and not follow that ok? It sucks enough when one of you is hurt, I can’t stand it when it’s both of you. Especially you Luke.”

“Especially me?”

“Yeah you.” She assures. “I love Jack, I always have. But he’s Nico guy, ya know? More than he is mine. But you’re…I don’t know. We both got here at the same time and I just feel like… you’re my Luke I guess. And I don’t want to lose you.”

He looks utterly shocked when she finally meets his gaze, like he can’t believe she cares for him that way. He’s a little shaken when he nods, voice heavy when he agrees. “Ok y/n,” he murmurs, “I think you’re like my Nico too. Like how he is to Jack.”

[sapphcblues]

listen i’m an avorah girlie too but reading some people’s posts about the finale makes me feel like we’ve been watching a different show. that finale was emotionally devastating but so, so good.

ava and deborah are ride or die for each other at this point, the writers have said so, but the finale always sets up the emotional atom bomb we’ll spend several episodes of the next season unpacking and BOY did 4x10 deliver on that. because even though deborah can do these big scary gestures when emotions are running high and she needs someone to understand how much she loves them, she is still a deeply, deeply traumatized person, and that doesn’t just go away by magic.

like, deborah wasn’t just an ice queen bitch in earlier seasons for fun. it’s a defence mechanism covering her very fragile sense of self. these massive emotional wounds that she feels she can’t let anyone see, and would not know how to process even if she wanted to. of course she isn’t going to ride off into the sunset with ava and have an idyllic honeymoon in singapore, because accidentally barring herself from doing the one thing that keeps her devastatingly low self-esteem afloat (and let her take some degree of control back after frank betrayed her) is going to be terrifying and traumatic. yes, instead of a betrayal causing the show to be taken from her it was a choice she made, but that doesn’t make the sudden loss of control any less scary. that contract thing showed her that she’s still vulnerable in a lot of the same ways she was when she was younger. so she regressed into her worst coping mechanisms, because of course she did.

the question is what ava does with it. she’ll go with deborah to write new material eventually, i’m sure, but we never get a view of ava’s face after deborah says they’ve gotta go back and start writing and i think that’s deliberate. she’s still hurt and upset, she said so, and i think the whole singapore thing was a pretty big wake-up call for her. the problem was never “deborah doesn’t love me”, the problem was “deborah protects herself from emotional damage in ways that hurt the people she loves”, and ava being terrified that she was dead didn’t stop that from being true. ava loving her doesn’t stop that from being true. and i think ava has matured enough that she knows how to (gently, lovingly) hold her accountable for it.

so i don’t think the finale is supposed to be a comment on whether or not ava and deborah are endgame or whatever, it’s a comment on what deborah still has to do — not just to maintain her relationship with ava, but with everyone. it was such a good character study episode and i will be thinking and talking about it for the next 3-5 business decades.

[jasontoddscrowbars]

Part 49 of snap crackle pop?

(Emotional breakdown)

The boys were cleaning the cave. Jason sighed as he stacked some books on a table before standing straight, wiped his brow.

Jason: don’t know why we do this.

Tim: oh?

Jason: well never get it as clean as Alfred. Man has some serious OCD-

A snap came from behind them. Dick held a broom broken in half, Jason slowly blinked in shock.

Dick: that’s not OCD! Being tidy isn’t OCD!

Jason slowly blinked. Hadn’t realized he’d been treading on some sort of minefield but apparently he’d stepped on quite the large one as Dick was hysterically bawling.

Dick, throwing the two ends of the broom down as he held hollered, half sobbed: OCD is checking you plugged the cable into the wall outlet twenty times because you’re scared you’ll start a house fire!

Jason hadn’t really ever thought about something like that as being OCD. Or anyone doing that at all. Hadn’t considered why Dick might know that but as he went to ask, Dick continued.

Dick: OCD is checking the stove is off for half an hour straight because you’re scared to burn the house down! And you take pictures! But everytime you take a picture as proof that it’s ok, you’re scared you’ve touched it in the process- even though you know you didn’t- so you do it again! And the process repeats. And you look at the knobs over and over and they don’t change but you’re convinced they could have. What if?

Dick: OCD is cleaning your glasses fifteen times in a row. Sobbing because they just won’t fucking get clean. And you get so fustrated that you scream, cry, hit yourself, hate yourself. And you feel this constant sense of dread and on edge because something is always wrong.

Dick: because you’re never satisfied. You always feel like if you don’t succeed in your routines or doing your checking of things, the world will end or you’ll get hurt or someone else will and you’ll never feel happy.

Dick: OCD is counting, its shower routines, its germophobia, skin picking, checking your apps or if your accounts are how you left them, hell, it’s even seeing if you shut the door or locked your car!

Dick: OCD eats you raw. It is not just being tidy unless being tidy is something that makes you itch and crawl and you can’t stop worming in your skin until you do it, your mind can’t stop diverting to it and clear until it’s done.

Dick, panting at this point: OCD ruins relationships. Friendships. It distances you. It’s made to look like something less than because nobody understands how HORRIBLE it is to really have it. How many times you’d wish it all just…

Dick took a big sigh before deflating a bit. He stared a bit as Tim wrapped his arms around him in a big hug. Then smiled a bit as he reached back hugging him around his shoulders.

Dick: but with support, I know OCD can get better. Because it has. Now I only wash my glasses maybe twice.

Jason ran forward, leaping as he tackled them down in a hug. Damian just stared forward.

Damian: Dick wears glasses?

I have diagnosed OCD and these are just a few of the things I go through. This is not to say people with OCD do not have cleaning or organizational ticks. I do. It’s about how people who are just clean or tidy say they are OCD is sometimes hurtful, especially when someone with OCD is going through a high of their symptoms.

[kuroposting]

I’ve had a long winded reply in my drafts for a while that I’m afraid I’ll never post if I don’t make myself brief instead, so without further delay:

I’ve thought about this too, why it was worded that way. Sebastian not lying is what I believe to be the most constant and reliable rule of Kuroshitsuji, while he smugly tuts at humans for being hypocrites and liars.

Undertaker also said that the bizarre dolls don’t have loud mouths that spout lies, so I think that the narrative suggests that hypocrisy and lies are uniquely human traits. Sebastian might even take it for granted that he can’t lie to himself either. Instead, devils have to come up with convoluted misdirections to avoid telling the truth (which is very human imo). If you check between scanlations and official translations, especially in the blue memory arc for some reason, there are a lot of changes in the official version that destroy conditional phrases and give other lines completely different meanings. The lie about how he can grant our ciel’s wish for his brother might be an example, this is what the scanlation says:

He does not promise his brother back, or promise “many peaceful, happy days.” Here and the Japanese version, he merely promises a peaceful time. It was a shit test.

Sebastian doesn’t consider his own insincerity to be hypocritical or to be lies, he is a demon and the onus is on you to catch these deceptions, he doesn’t think people who brazenly accept indulgences are even interested in the truth at the end of the day. He’ll let you live a lie. He doesn’t let Ciel, though, because he’s already given him special consideration. The dog that is his namesake clearly intended to be an allegory.

So when Ciel makes his first wish “never lie to me”, Sebastian laughs and calls it a novel idea… sarcastically. He’s mocking him. Ciel was smart enough to see through his deception, but he wasted his first wish on a demand so human, because he didn’t consider what Sebastian did to be anything but lying and this has kept him from realizing Sebastian never could lie to begin with. So for the following wishes, he antagonizes Ciel in order for him to see his own slip-ups.

I think that there’s probably a good chance that all three of Ciel’s wishes were wasted on things that Sebastian was already obligated to do- maybe by some curse that all demons are under- but his priorities gave Sebastian the impression that they were a match. This goes into your next point, on his aesthetics.

Sebastian has morals, but he characterizes that as a vain endeavor. I think that this is a result of him holding “honesty” with high regard, he believes that this cynical view of himself is closest to the truth, while he still holds his demonic nature with contempt. I understand his reasoning, because what he told Ciel was that while other demons’ greed and gluttony might make them take on more contractors (though I suspect doing so breaks the contract), he doesn’t find that to be “beautiful”. It’s phrased differently in English, but that’s what he originally says. So Sebastian’s aesthetics are not superficial, they are virtues he strives for. The beauty he is in pursuit of is a personality and determination which he admires, like what was suggested during his cinematic record.

you can go back to almost every arc and that’s what it’ll be about. Somebody who is ugly and somebody who wants to be pretty. A true ugliness is a lie in order to obtain beauty at the expense of others. A real beauty accepts all that which is ugly and true.

Main conflict? It’s not a lie, if you believe it.

Sebastian Michaelis’s lies & affection

We always, always, have to remind ourselves that S lies…. BUT is forbidden to lie, not allowed to lie only to Ciel Phantomhive. He is beholden to Ciel and Ciel only.

The teenager trained that demon on the day they made a covenant in which Ciel played it like a movement in the chessboard as it was detrimental to his aim to live for his revenge. And in order to keep the demon in line, he conceived this idea.

Ergo, S can lie to anyone but Ciel P.

So if S lies his way to get what he wants to other people, including having casual sex with suspects, etc., and telling people the opposite of what he intends to do, in order for their mission to succeed, it is only natural that he still does lie.

From Yana T’s editor during one of his live reaction commentaries:

Episode 03:

Sebastian's line: "I've met demons and grim reapers, but never a werewolf." Sebastian has a contract with Ciel to "not lie." This scene reveals the truth openly, but it seems no one believed him. If he truly wants to hide something, he avoids it with indirect wording.

What is spectacular is the amount of affection he shows or the way he cares for his contractor in the course of them living together. Like S has suddenly become attuned to Ciel’s emotional needs without hesitation. A notable instance was after the Book of Circus arc where Ciel was not only exhausted physically but also mentally. He began to dissociate himself from everything even though Elizabeth was still there to perk him up. Nina Hopkins dropped by to sew him new clothes, for an Easter theme and a new dress for Elizabeth. The other wing of the manor where Ciel kept his clothes was completely destroyed due to the attack of the circus troupe and the servants had to protect the residence. Ciel was simply out of it. Perhaps shocked of what he discovered of the children/youths murdering/kidnapping children. Maybe all of it.

That’s only one example. There are dozens more as the events above happened on Chapter 37.

One has to go back to the Indian Butler arc. Particularly one has to thank partially or completely to Agni for influencing S’ growth. The demon, whose aspiration in this lifetime is to be the best good-looking butler in the whole universe, took Agni’s advice when it comes to putting the profession of being a butler in the highest order. Like it is the highest form of art. He took Agni’s tips to heart. Agni has become his role model. During one of the promotional sessions for the Valentine’s, where the cast of Japanese voice actors had to live-dub the scenes, there was that extra portion of the show where once again S asked Agni’s advice how to make one’s master the happiest and healthiest person in the whole world.

It has become S’ ethos to emulate Agni’s subservience without compromise. This makes S care for Ciel Phantomhive more. Perhaps it is arrogance, a part of his design and his contract, but one can see, without any prompting—even though the two are having a banter or playing their games—that he does indeed care for his master. That’s his desire talking.

But there’s another thing that I find interesting: that is, a prerequisite to his master’s satisfaction, he even finds the way to appreciate the Phantomhive servants’ unique abilities and dearly respects Tanaka-san.

For the demon: Credit where credit is due.

[ofbreathandflame-archive]

I see your point, but don’t you think Feyre’s decision to go UTM did end up being about more than just guilt? Even if her initial motivation wasn’t to save Prythian, her actions still had major consequences for the people there, which complicates the narrative a bit.

Hi anon! This is a very good question!

Before I answer in totality I do want to clarify that post was not making the argument that Feyre's motivations take away from her accomplishments. This isn't a 'Feyre did not do anything for Prythian!' kind of take! I should also note that I am only making this argument in regards to the elevation of Feyre to High Lady, under the assumption that her actions before and after UTM are proof of that. I don't care that Feyre was made high lady (and it really shouldn't matter - this is quite common in this genre). I just don't agree with certain narratives put forth in relation to her because the story says otherwise. I also think that allowing Feyre to have conflicting and complex thoughts, emotions, and actions is just better storytelling. I'm not say things out of like hatred, but because the complex widening of the narratives makes Feyre a stronger character. Flaws strengthen that.

To answer your question. Unfortunately, no. Please feel free to disagree/elaborate, but I don't see evidence of that. There is never a widening of the narrative - which I believe is necessary for the kind of story the novel is trying to tell. Feyre goes UTM never truly understanding the severity of the situation. When Feyre initially decides to return UTM, she decides to go...alone. No back-up, no letters, no troops. And the thing is at this point in the novel Feyre has access to these resources. And if her purpose was to save Prythian...what did she think she could accomplish? I'm not saying this to put her down, but to think critically about the validity of her actions. Because...Feyre just dies. And the only reason she accomplishes Tamlin's freedom is because the story just decides to make Amarantha inept. The same villian who essentially imprisons seven of the most powerful beings in this world, kills three of them, and keeps a stalemate on progress for fifty years would somehow...give a random human girl, not one, not two, but THREE quite easy (for fantasy) ways to efficiently break her curse.

Like - the backup and troops could just immediately die - and the story could reiterate how much Feyre does earnestly try to ring the bell about the severity of the situation. The story could even feed into the idea that Feyre is an outsider, and have the people reject her for even trying to give attention to it.

But, in short, I think the situation we are given shows that she never had a real plan to actually help herself, Prythian, or Tamlin. And that could have just been one scene or a sentence. There was no real plan about how she was going to actually save Tamlin - which is weird because the story throws a hissy fit that other characters could not help Feyre. In my opinion, Feyre is still brave for attempting - but she is also reckless, negligent, and to some extent selfish with her decisions, especially her heroic ones, and its the responsibility of those around her to rectify or absolve the situation (see: Downfall of Spring, stealing the book, attacking Beron and injuring LOA -- or even Amarantha's bargains + riddle).

And EVEN when Feyre is allowed an audience with Amarantha, and makes the bargain - there's never that widening of the narrative, in which Feyre realizes 'I could make a real change - right here and now.' It's never beyond Tamlin. It's why I called it noble, while still being self serving

[storkmuffin]

Okay, new anon take 2 :)

Sorry about asking about content that makes you uncomfortable :( I feel like it is hard for me to distinguish between what is uncomfortable from my cultural perspective vs what would also be uncomfortable from the Korean perspective (e.g., I find all discussion about weight/dieting deeply uncomfortable, but it seems like not everyone sees it that way).

I really liked the way you framed Yunho as super competitive, even about being seen as nice, friendly, etc. It feels like a very natural reaction to the weird idol dichotomy of, on the one hand, spending years in a super high pressure environment where you or someone you get close to could be cut at any moment and, on the other hand, needing to appear super close/friendly/supportive/etc. of the people who eventually become your members. It makes being nice in all of those ways a competition too.

Which brings me to the question - how do you see this affecting Yunho's relationship (on camera) with Jongho? I feel like Jongho is also very competitive (the "monster of capitalism"), but unlike Yunho, he does not seem to have the same need to be loved by everyone always. I think this is especially interesting because Ateez have said that they tried to push Yunho/Jongho as a pairing and Jongho never reciprocated.

Hopefully this one is better :)

Hi~

I think a Yunho-Jongho pairing would have been kind of a terrible idea, and I'm relieved that KQ (I assume you meant KQ) dropped it and/or Jongho forced them to drop it.

First and foremost, Yunho and Jongho look too similar. Before they matured out of their babyfat faces and prior to their plastic surgeries and make up choices, Yunho and Jongo actually looked exactly the same in the face. This is not to give permission to the racists who go All Asians Look Same, but! During my own baby-Atiny (what am I now? Toddler Atiny?) days I had a really hard time telling Jongho and Yunho apart, and I wasn't the only one. The yellow writing is a highlight of the Korean youtube comments that were commonly left on early Ateez performance vidoes, and it reads: Are the blue haired and blonde haired ones twins?

From this compilation of their moments

I later realized there's a significant height difference and demeanor difference between the two, but they really look very alike, and not in a way that enhances each other's beauty. This is no good. This is the antithesis of Yunho calibrating himself to Yeosang to create a 4DX Stereo-Surround Geisha Boy Effect in their joint TokToqs that I've written about here. Yunho and Jongho tend to make each other disappear.

But beyond the unfortunate visuals (which is such a weird thing to say about two extremely handsome guys but hopefully you understand what I mean), there are Jongho specific reasons why any pairing between him and the others would not work.

Jongho is very straight. He does not find playing at queerness either amusing nor worth it. He just finds it blatantly unbearable, and I've wondered if this is part and parcel with him being more a vocalist and less a dancer (though obviously a very skilled dancer). Dancers just touch each other a lot, singers less so, no? (Neither singer nor dancer here, so I'm just making this part up whole cloth).

Speaking of worth it - Jongho doesn't need to fight for attention from the audience in the same way as the people I am going to call the Corps - Wooyoung, San, Yunho, Yeosang, Seonghwa - have to. He's kind of got his own space that's very powerful, sometimes more so even than HongJoong, because the two rappers often are paired with each other, and Mingi also does double duty as Tall Dancer/ Formation Maintainer with Yunho. Jongho holds a featured soloist position for almost every song. He starts out already having won, so there's nothing to compete for, as far as he's concerned. So why do a pairing, when he hates that concept?

Jongho has the most definitely solid plans for a post- or apart-from-Ateez career. He has an extremely distinctive voice and for someone coming out of the Idol world, a very rare powerhouse vocal capacity. I think, honestly, he can take it or leave it in terms of being an Idol.

Jongho and Yunho together to me give off an old fashioned Korean masculinity (positive) vibe, that doesn't fit with what sells right now to the Western market, where Kpop boy bands are generally making their money. The caretaking that Yunho gives Jongho, for example, is to be the only one to think of bringing out something warm for Jongho to drink while he's shivering on the terrace alone, barbequing. Jongho will say he's fine, Yunho will insist (this is the dance) and then Jongho will sip gratefully at the cup of broth or whatever while Yunho leaves him alone to do the meat scorching. Being a Korean woman from a conservative family, I find these moments extremely charming, because I see this sort of exchange all the time all around me, and it makes me feel affectionate for these guys, to see them be ordinary Korean men. But this sort of thing, I assume, doesn't set Western fandom panties on fire, because you can't eroticize it or read lore into it. It's extremely dry, as fan service, is it not?

Post Script:

Thanks for trying to begin a discussion with me again. I'm glad I didn't come off too harsh for not wanting to look at the Jewel Box stuff. And I think - I can't gauge but - I think Hong Seokchon at least is now considered something of a mainstream star just from sheer longevity, so it's not like Koreans in general dislike him or find his content objectionable. You didn't make a cultural faux pas or anything. This is very personal and specific to me, and how could you possibly have known until you asked?

As for Yunho competing to be the best at everything, but especially at being Good and Kind and Lovable, two examples for you to consider:

Left: Here is Yunho threatening a plate of pasta with defeat, because he's going to eat the whole thing. This is just funny.

Right: This was him talking to San trying to see who would win in wishing each other well (this was his birthday). (In this second one I'm not doing a literal translation, which would be "You think I'd lose?")

But Yunho's vocabulary is generally about winning and losing, very frequently, about things that normally don't have anything to do with either.

[el4ise]

bittersweet﹐

feat. ⤷ snowcrow x reader (seperate)

genre ⤷ angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

contains ⤷ mentions of insecurities & jealousy

✦ the night was supposed to go by well with a nice dinner. how will the lads li consult you when something seems to trouble you?

𝘀𝘆𝗹𝘂𝘀

as usual, sylus took you to one of the fanciest 5-star restaurants in linkon. it was the night that you both celebrated your first anniversary.

the restaurant was filled with people wearing white-fluff coats, suits, expensive dresses. you looked around and saw ladies who looked like they spoke money. and the only reason why you can afford to be here is because of sylus.

you felt a flush of insecurity wash over you, seemingly feeling poor and unworthy amongst the people inside. you only wore a red silk dress— that was bought by sylus. the two of you waited for the orders, sylus sipped his red wine while you played with the rim of the glass with your fingertips. your mind absolutely gone.

sylus was way out of your league. he screams money, he could choose any girl he wanted to, yet he chose you? someone who wants to go on picnics instead of going on high-end bars?

“what’s going on in that pretty mind of yours, kitten?” you were snapped out of your daze when he speaks. “oh! it’s nothing.. just, hungry.” you brush it off. not wanting to ruin the mood. but as sylus saw the way your other hand covered your body, your eyes darting to the other people in the restaurant, biting your lip as you heard their conversations— he knew. ‘cause he knows you.

“sweetie, do you not feel comfortable here?” he breaks the silence once again, his hand laying on the table, waiting for you. you place your hand on top of his. he holds it softly. “I.. well..” sylus gives you a look, one that always made you feel safe to be honest. “..I just don’t feel like I belong here, sy. this is for riches and class and I’m none of that. I couldn’t even pay to be here if it weren’t for you.. and I just.. I feel so little because you’re all this and I wonder why you chose me. I’m way out of your league and I’m not even all tha—” sylus listened, tending to your complains. but when he heard you downgrade yourself? no.

“sweetheart,” he squeezed your hand lightly. “look at me, please?” you slowly lifted your head, meeting his soft crimson eyes. “I understand if you don’t want to be here. but you know the type of person I am and I don’t put people in places where I think they aren’t meant for, no? you are everything and so much more in my eyes. It pains me you’re belittling yourself into filth. have you forgotten how dashing of a woman you are? you’re the greatest hunter in linkon, turning your face into the fields of wanderers, and I bet these people would cave and run when they see one. and you? I fell inlove with you because you’re so perfect in my eyes. and I’ve seen hundreds if not thousands of things in this world. okay, kitten?” he presses a kiss on the back of your hand. “we can go back home and i’ll cook your favorite meals or we can eat at your favorite instead, hm?” you smiled. “the first one please?” he chuckles, standing up and dragging you with him.

“I love you, sylus.”

“I love you most, sweetie.”

𝘇𝗮𝘆𝗻𝗲

zayne took you as his plus one to a party for workers in akso hospital, celebrating it’s success throughout the years. the halls were filled with chatters between doctors and nurses, most of them sharing the same aura as zayne.

you were clinging onto his arm as he spoke to other surgeons. everyone spoke off high matters, sometimes you couldn’t even keep up even if you wanted to.

zayne proudly showed you off, but you we’re still feeling unworthy. “zayne? I’ll just go to the bathroom real quick.” zayne gave you a slight nod and you went off.

you splashed water in your face, it drips off to your cheek then your chin. you felt stupid amongst these people. doctors and surgeons were incredibly smart. and you barely made it pass highschool. grades fluctuating and mostly going down. you knew these people were insanely smart— including zayne. you felt dumb, knowing that you were only praised by bravery and not wits. you envied his co-worker, lily. she was calm and composed, just like him. you overthought, did zayne prefer someone similar to him instead of a childish, giddy person like you?

you hear a soft knock on the bathroom door. “darling? are you alright in there? you’ve spent quite a while.” you quickly pat your face with a towel. “yeah.. I’m goin’ out.”

you turn the knob and step out, seeing zayne with the ‘tell-me-before-I-make-you-tell-me’ look. you hastily laugh. “what’s with the look?” he silently grabs your hand and drags you to a much less crowded spot. “I know something’s wrong. what is it? we can leave right now if you’re uneasy.” you quickly shook your head. “no! it’s fine.. I just.. I feel so dumb compared to all of you, I’m just a hunter and I can barely compete with the knowledge you guys have..” your arms trailed down to your neck, embarrassed. “.. and I don’t know!.. I thought maybe you didn’t like me being all goofy and smiley. maybe you wanted someone more.. calm. someone who’s nonchalant.” zayne listened intently, but his heart ached at the thought of you thinking he’d choose someone else over you.

“darling? will you look at me please?” he held both of your hands in his, and you slowly look up. “you are not unintelligent. one of the main reasons why I even adored you was because you were well-educated. your wits outgrew in the battlefield, thinking precisely even when death is just on your palm. I love your bubbly personality. it lights up my day especially after I finish a tiring shift. I would not even consider aomeone else,”

his hand then cupped your cheeks and gave you a kiss. “do you want to leave?” you nod. and he smiles. saying goodbye to his colleagues and guiding you back to the car. already searching nearest restaurants with a drive-through.

© el4ise ✦ do not repost or translate.

# taglist ──── @nishikio, @jeondyy, @ruenaie

[sunrisecaminus]

Before reading this: two for egg laying stuff. If that's not cool, I get it. The rules said ask about kinks so I'm shooting my shot.

I have 2 only vaguely related things to offer to your ask box and then a related request if you'll have it.

1) y do we assume seekers r birds and not bugs? All the bird qualities ppl give them also apply to most species of bugs... More ppl should do stuff with bug seekers.

2) experienced a canon event irl and have discovered that laying eggs is.... Good. 🫣

Like, inserting anything just feels like inserting anything, but laying an egg was a completely unique experience and I don't think I've ever cum like that before? Like I legitimately have a condition called Anorgasmia, so I have only been able to do it twice before in a total of 30+ years. Laying an egg did not feel like giving birth (done that, don't recommend) or like how sex normally does. I have no way to explain the weird euphoria that happened and it had me questioning my life. 10/10 recommend to try all least once in your life everyone.

Whole ass came, everything was quite, looked at the person I was doing this with, who also looked shocked and we both had a "wtf was that" moment (first time trying this for both parties, not sure what the normal reaction is).

Tl:Dr the ask:

Can I request seekers having an afab reader who has their egg(s) inside them and has to lay them?

Message - This was the fic that took me way to long to try and make good. I have never written something about the laying eggs kink and so I wanted to try and make it seem like I am not stupid in this category. Hopefully it is ok, but please have mercy on me. ;-;

Starscream x AFAB Reader NSFW

Summary - You lay eggs and Starscream is there as your emotional and physical support.

Warning - NSFW, Laying eggs

Custom dress, draped down to the floor. Made out of expensive high quality cervelt, your outfit gave you a comfortable hug around your curves as you dipped the tea bag in your mug. Making tea while giving soldiers nothing but fear when they walk past you is your new hobby. You were told to not do anything while holding Starscream's eggs. Starscream was very over protective of you and after getting impregnated, he has non stopped told everyone to not touch you or do anything to make you angry. Someone tested it before and got their head blown off. Megatron is honestly a bit surprised in Starscream's new brave emotions, but he wishes the aggression would be more targeted on the Autobots.

It looked like you were not pregnant either…or it did…but only like if you were 3 months pregnant. With a baggy shirt or hoodie, it was very easy to cover it. If you wore a cropped top though or something revealing, it was honestly quite obvious you had a bump. Knockout said something along the lines of you having two or three of them heating up inside of you. It was fascinating for him and Shockwave to check up on you, knowing you are the very first ever organic to be impregnated by a Cybertronian. There was some concerning theories about if the eggs would even make it, but thankfully the amazing care you have been given on the ship has helped the eggs stay as healthy as they could possibly get…but it comes at a cost.

Knockout had said many times that the healthier the eggs are, the harder the shells are. Yes, it will still be very wet enough to slide right out of you, but it will be just a bit uncomfortable if they get too big. This would be a sacrifice you knew would happen before Starscream even impregnated you, so you and your Conjunx had enough materials and emotional support to understand the risks that your body might be damaged. Honestly you don't understand why Starscream was so caring for you, but you weren't going to complain that the second in command caught feelings for you. Sometimes he still acts like you were the one fan-girling over him, but it was the exact opposite. He was on his knees, bowing for you to be with him. It was quite amusing, because of course you said yes. Being together for so long, Starscream hasn't told you how much he has bene wanting to give you his eggs. It was one of the many things he thought about, but he was very worried about the risks and knew he needed to study more into human anatomy before he gives the idea to you that you could have his kids.

Sipping your tea, you walk through the massive hallways of the ship. Soldiers bow their heads to you anytime they pass, making you smile, knowing Starscream has scared them half to death. Take a few more steps, you feel movement in your lower abdomen. You put your hand down to feel what was going on, feeling around to find the eggs moving from your uterus. "…Fuck…" Immediately you call Starscream's coms and kneel to the floor. Starscream picks up and sounds like he was working on something. "What is it, my pretty?" You wanted to laugh from his little weird names, but right now the eggs seem to want to leave your body so you tell him exactly the matters at hand. "They are ready, it's about to happen, dear." After that you hear things dropping as Starscream tells you he is on his way. It seemed like he just threw whatever he was doing and ran to you the second you said that the eggs were ready, because you see him just a few seconds later in your hallway. Starscream bends down to your level to scoop you up. "There you are, it's ok, I got you." He was trying to be really brave about this, but you could see through the mech that he was horrified.

Getting into the birth room, you feel yourself being placed on the pillow with a bunch of soft towels. Starscream sits down next to you and rubs his digit over your belly as a way to try and massage you. All it was doing was making the eggs push further down from the pressure he was putting. You gasp from your insides moving around, but it didn't hurt at all…surprisingly. Taking your time and getting the dress to move away from your legs, you now just have to wait for the eggs. About ten minutes pass, you and Starscream are just talking about random things to keep your mind off of it, you feel your walls stretching out. "Oh! I d-didn't know this was going to feel g-good." You blush from the embarrassment as you try to put your legs a bit closure to each other. Starscream smirks and glides his digits from your stomach, over to your legs and spreads them with two of his sharp claws. You gasp and feel the eggs moving inside you from your legs widening, feeling as thought that the round shaped objects inside you just slid closure to freeing themselves from this fleshy cage. Knockout was right though, you felt them being hard shelled and quite big, so it was making you moan from each one of them rubbing against your walls. "Starscream! Ah, they are s-so big!" You turn your head up to watch Starscream stare at your pussy, patiently observing as your entrance opens. One slides out of you slowly, to the point where you wanted to just grab it and get it out of your system already, but it was taking it's time. It was probably a safer speed anyway to land on the towels below. Thank god these things were slimy, holy crap you don't know if you could have made it if they were stuck in your tubes. You don't have to push them out yourself either, it seems the eggs were working with your own body to slide out themselves.

One egg finally slides out of your body fully in view and it looked great! It had a beautiful palish color with nothing cracked or bruised (I didn't know eggs could bruise until I looked it up. It is rare though I think. I am definitely not an expert). Your body gave you some time to breath and relax before the next egg starts to prod itself out of you. Goodness this was torture, but somehow your mind was blanking and feeling nothing but joy. You thought it would be quick, but your body seems to like this feeling and doesn't mind that they are taking their time. Starscream seems the second egg lay next to the first one and puts a digit at your entrance and widens it just a little. "He said two or three. Lets wait it out for just another hour just in case ok?" You nod at him and try to breath slow and steady. In Starscream's optics, you were taking this so well. He didn't know he would feel proud in this moment, but goodness the way you are handling this important life event was amazing.

Some time goes by and Starscream rubs your belly to check. "You feel anything?" He looks down at you to check your physical body for anything bad. "No, nothing…I feel so tired." You were, for some reason, out of it from all this. Caring those eggs took all your energy and finally having them out was a relief. This seemed a lot less painful than normal human pregnancy, so honestly you could not complain. Starscream wraps you up and puts the eggs somewhere you couldn't see at the moment. He walks back to the bed and snuggles you. "You did so well, my love. I am so proud of you~"