#window perf | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heesmiles · 14 days ago

Text

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

#enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #enhypen #jay enhypen #enhypen x reader #enha imagines #park jongseong #jay imagines #jay smut

952 notes · View notes

ironstrange1991 · 8 months ago

Text

The Healing Touch

Pairing: Stephen!Strange x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: The Reader has a terrible headache and Stephen goes full doctor mode to take care of her

Word Count: 4,1k

A/N: This fic is total self indulgent. The entire medical part is based on my experience with the worst headache I've ever had in my life. I had to take something positive from the whole situation. Hope you guys like it and have a nice reading ;)

You had never had such a bad headache in your entire life. It was strong enough to bring tears to your eyes and prevent you from working. It had all started with an allergy attack due to the renovation work in the office building where you worked. Even taking the anti-allergy medication you were used to taking, things only got worse and soon your airways were completely blocked and you had an incessant cough that made you want to vomit your guts out.

But things got worse when you woke up on Friday with a headache that simply wouldn't go away no matter how many painkillers you took. The persistent pain got worse over the days, reaching its peak on Monday morning. When you woke up, you simply couldn't open your eyes, and when you tried to get up, your head hurt with a piercing throb that made you sit down again and fall into silent tears.

It was a nightmare. Stephen was on mission and you hadn't been able to talk to him in the last few days. You were practically married to a doctor, but you couldn't count on him to help you when you needed it most and that only made you cry even more, giving in to despair.

After a few minutes you forced yourself to get up and staggered to the bathroom where you forced yourself into the shower, hoping that the cold water would somehow help you, but there was no improvement. As you were changing your clothes, feeling dizzy from the strength of the pain and the throbbing in your forehead, you decided that you would take a taxi and go straight to the hospital. By that point, your anxious mind was already telling you that you had a brain tumor.

You were slowly walking down the stairs, each step you took making your head ache even more, when you heard the familiar hiss of a portal opening in the entrance hall. You didn't feel excited, already imagining it was Wong and the light coming from the windows and the door barely allowed you to open your eyes to see anything, but then you heard a baritone voice informing you that it was Stephen who had arrived.

"Sweetheart? What's wrong?" His voice was a big relief, although it sounded extremely worried and as if by magic - which it was - he was by your side, helping you to put your arm around his neck and picking you up. He quickly went downstairs and took you to the nearest sofa in the main hall and knelt in front of you. Cloaky let go of his shoulders and flew nervously across the room, stopping behind the sofa and watching you.

Stephen's presence, although a relief, made you succumb to tears again.

"Hey, Y/n, look at me, tell me what's going on, you look pale. What are you feeling?" He asked, going into full doctor mode and forcing your eyes open so he could examine them.

"My head is exploding." You finally managed to speak. "It's been hurting since Friday, but today it's unbearable, Stephen. I can't handle the pain."

Stephen conjured a small flashlight to examine your pupils and then hummed to himself looking relieved. "The pupils are normal. That's good. Can you follow my finger, please?" He asked, raising his index finger to the level of your eyes and directing it to the left and then to the right slowly. You followed the movement with your eyes to which he praised.

"Very good. Now tell me how many fingers you see." He asked, showing you three fingers.

"Three."

"Very good. And now?" He showed you one finger.

"One."

"Good. One more time. How many fingers?" He asked, closing his fist.

"None."

He nodded, sighing in relief. But the small wrinkle that always appeared between his eyebrows was still there.

"How is your vision? Can you see perfectly or is it blurry? Any black spots or spots of light?"

You shook your head. "I can see, but I can't keep my eyes open because the light makes it hurt even more." You whimpered. "The pain is too bad, Stephen. I don't know what to do."

Stephen shushed you, putting the small flashlight aside and bringing his two thumbs to your forehead, positioning them just above your eyebrows and pressing them there in circular motions.

"Fuck." You hissed.

"I hit the spot, didn't I? Here is where it hurts the most?"

You nodded. "And inside of my eyes and on my cheeks. It feels like my whole face hurts. Even my teeth."

He hummed positively but remained silent, moving his fingers from your forehead to your cheekbones and down to the joint of your jaw, putting some pressure there.

"It hurts so much, Stephen. What if I have a brain tumor? Or... or an aneurysm? What if I have an aneurysm?" Your voice was getting shakier and shakier, and heavy tears fell from your eyes. "I don't want to die, Stephen. I don't want to." You said, clinging to him and hiding your face in his neck as you gave in to crying again.

Stephen wrapped you in his arms, one of his hands stroking your hair as he shushed you. "You're not going to die, sweetheart, and you don't have an aneurysm or a brain tumor." He said, trying to reassure you.

"But it hurts too much." You whimpered.

"I know. I'll make it stop. I promise. I'm here now. But you need to let me go so I can go to the drug store to get your medication."

But the idea seemed absurd to you and instead of letting him go, you tightened your arms around him even more, which made him grunt softly and pull your hands away gently.

"What you have is called sinusitis. It's a serious inflammation of the airways that causes secretions to build up in this region here." He explained, pulling you away enough so he could illustrate what he was saying. He ran his index finger along your cheekbones and above your nose. "Because of the inflammation, you feel pain here." He continued moving his finger down to your jaw. "That's why your teeth hurt too." You nodded.

"But why does my head have to hurt so much? I don't understand." You asked, wiping away the tears with the back of your hand.

"Because the inflammation causes the facial muscles to tense up, which causes all the pain." He explained, standing up, but you held his hand tightly.

"Don't leave me alone. Please."

Stephen sighed. "I really need to go, love. The sooner you get your medication, the faster you'll get rid of the pain. Isn't that what you want?" He asked and you nodded, but kept holding his hand anyway.

"I had an idea. What if Clocky stays with you while I go, huh? Do you think that's a good idea?"

Before you could even answer, you felt the sentient relic moving excitedly behind you.

"It really loves you, you know?" Stephen insisted and you finally let go of his hand and watched him gesticulate with his head for the relic to come closer. Cloaky quickly flew over the couch and wrapped you in a comfortable hug. One of the things you loved about it - besides the fact that it was a magical piece of clothing that had thoughts and feelings just like Aladdin's carpet and you thought that was amazing - was that it smells like Stephen.

The warmth and soft touch comforted you somehow and you leaned against the back of the couch and curled your legs up trying to get as comfortable as possible.

"That's great, sweetie. I'll be back in a minute. I promise." He said and with a quick gesture of his fingers his robes were exchanged for jeans and a shirt and he walked quickly towards the door.

...

Stephen hated waiting in line. He had always been impatient, but ever since he learned the mystic arts he simply couldn't accept that there were things he couldn't solve with magic. Sure, he could open a portal and get the medication he needed, but that would be stealing and he considered himself an honest enough guy to do that. So there he was waiting in line at the checkout with a basket in his hand, waiting for the woman to pass the purchases of the person in front of him with an almost deliberate slowness while everyone in the drug store continued to stare at him in the strange way that everyone else stared at him when they recognized him.

When it was finally his turn, the woman named Katia looked at him with a sour face and said in a tedious manner, "Prescription, please."

Stephen sighed, "I don't have a prescription. I'm a doctor. The medication is for me." He lied shamelessly.

The woman cast a suspicious look at the basket and then at him. "I'll need to see your license."

Stephen sighed, letting his irritation show. "Come on, you know who I am. Everyone knows I'm a doctor."

"I'll need your license, sir."

Stephen sighed, taking out his wallet and opening it with difficulty because his hands were shaking more then usual. He took the document and showed it to her, then put it back.

"That's 145 dollars." She said, finally putting the boxes inside a plastic bag and handing it to him.

"Keep the change for the wonderful service." He said ironically, handing her the money and finally leaving the drug store and returning to the usual movement of Manhattan.

When Stephen finally returned home, it seemed like it had taken hours, but it had only been 25 minutes. He found you still in the same position, cuddled with Cloaky and with your eyes closed. He quickly moved his fingers, closing all the curtains in the room and approaching.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I tried to go as fast as I could..." He said and Cloaky gently pulled away from your hold and flew up the stairs.

He sat down next to you and conjured a glass of water and handed it in your hands while he opened the medication boxes and took out the pills and put in your hand.

"This is an anti-inflammatory, this one is an antibiotic and together they will cure the inflammation and relieve the tension."

You nodded, putting the two pills in your mouth and swallowing them with a sip of water. He couldn't help but smile at the fact that you didn't question him, just trusted him completely. He knew that a big part of that trust was because you loved him, but an important part was because you trusted him as a doctor and Stephen missed that. He missed being a doctor, having people's trust in that way and feeling good about being able to save a life or help someone in that way.

"This one is for the pain. It's a strong painkiller and should take effect within a few minutes. It will make you drowsy, though."

You took the pill and threw it in your mouth, swallowing it quickly while you poured the glass of water. Stephen smiled tenderly, taking the glass and placing it on the coffee table. Then he took a small bottle from the bag and opened it, showing you how to use it. "This one you spray twice in each nostril, and it will help decongest your nose and make you breathe better."

But instead of taking the bottle from his hand, you just got closer to him and put your head forward, waiting for him to apply the medicine to you. Stephen let out a small chuckle, feeling his chest get warm. You were so cute. Even in that situation that wasn't the least bit funny, you managed to be extremely adorable.

"There you go." He said, finishing the application of the medicine and putting them all back in the bag and placing the bag on the table. "Now come here." He asked, stretching out his arms so you could snuggle into his chest. “I think you need cuddles.”

He hugged you, gently resting his chin on the top of your head. "I'm sorry I wasn’t here for you, sweetheart. I hate these missions sometimes, especially when we can't communicate." He confessed. Deep down he was feeling extremely guilty about the situation, even though he knew it wasn't his fault. If he had been there, he would have diagnosed the problem sooner and spared you so much pain. After all, what was the point of dating a doctor if you couldn't count on him when you needed him most?

"You're here now. That's all that matters." You answered, lifting your head to look at him and it broke his heart to see your eyes red with tears like that. He cupped your cheek gently. "Can I kiss you? I heard that getting a kiss from me is the best medicine for sinusitis." He joked, managing to get a small smile from your lips.

"Kiss me all you want then." You said with a tired smile and he giggled, kissing you softly on the lips and then giving small kisses on your cheeks, on the tip of your nose, finishing on your forehead.

You hummed softly. "I love you, Steph." You said, laying your head back on his chest.

"And I love you, sweetheart. More than you can imagine." He confessed and you hummed again, but remained silent and he respected your silence. He knew that the pain you were feeling wasn’t small. Sinus headaches could be extremely painful, and you had endured it for as long as you could without asking for help. He only wished you had gone to the hospital sooner. He hated seeing you in pain.

...

You didn't realize you had fallen asleep until you woke up to the sound of soft voices talking. Stephen hadn't moved a muscle apparently, possibly to avoid waking you up, but now he was talking to someone.

"I'm glad she's okay now. Give her my best wishes when she wakes up." You heard Wong's voice and kept your eyes closed. The excruciating pain had passed, but your head was still sore and there was still a slight throb above your eyebrows.

"Are you going back to Kamar Taj yet?" You heard Stephen ask.

"Yes. Lots to do as usual. I'll let you rest for the night, Stephen. We'll talk tomorrow morning. Send me an update on Y/n when she wakes up." And as soon as he finished speaking, you heard the squeak of the portal opening and closing and then silence followed only by the sporadic sound of cars passing by on the street.

When you finally opened your eyes, you were surprised to find the Sanctum plunged into darkness. A single lamp was on, emanating a dim light from the kitchen. You had no idea how many hours you had slept, but you were completely dizzy, probably due to the effect of the medicine. You yawned and rubbed your eyes slowly, noticing that the pain behind them had also diminished considerably. Stephen moved slowly and then stroked your hair.

"Are you awake, sweetheart?" His voice was hoarse and heavy with sleep, which made you wonder if he had fallen asleep too.

"What time is it?" You asked softly.

"Almost nine." He answered. "You've slept for almost ten hours."

You rubbed your eyes again and then looked at him in surprise. "You've been here this whole time?"

"I left you in Cloaky's care so I could shower and eat, but I basically spent the day on this couch. I ended up falling asleep too, which is a rarity. I woke up to Wong calling me and asking for a book."

You smiled to yourself. "I'm glad you got some rest too."

He hummed positively. "How are you feeling? Better, I hope."

You nodded, slowly lifting your head to look at him now that your eyes had adjusted to the darkness.

"My head is sore, hurts a little, but the excruciating pain is gone."

Stephen smiled, cupping your cheek and stroking it slowly with his thumb. "That's great. But I'm afraid you'll need to take another painkiller now to give the anti-inflammatory time to kick in before the pain starts to come back." He explained.

"But if I take another one of those I'll sleep for another ten hours." You complained, to which he shook his head.

"I think a Tylenol will do for now. I'll get it for you." He said, threatening to get up, but you held him in place and cupped his face.

"Stay. Just a minute more."

He smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, sweetie, I'll be back in a moment."

You let him go reluctantly, but took the opportunity to sit up. Your body was limp and you felt like you were slightly drunk, so you avoided getting up. Suddenly you saw your bag on the coffee table and remembered that you hadn't even texted your boss, but before you could think to do so, Stephen was back answering the question you hadn't even voiced.

"I called the office and told them you were sick. You're staying home tomorrow too, by the way. Doctor's orders."

You nodded, watching him approach. He was wearing gray pajama pants and a white t-shirt. His hair, always impeccable, was messy and a few strands fell over his forehead. He looked handsome as always, but you couldn't help but notice a nasty cut on his cheek that you hadn't noticed before.

"You're hurt." You said as he sat down next to you, handing you a Tylenol pill and picking up the empty glass on the table and handing it to you. With a simple gesture of his hand, the glass filled with water.

"It's nothing. Drink it."

You obeyed, and the whole time he looked at you with tenderness in his eyes, but the crease between his eyebrows was still there.

"I'm fine, Stephen. Really."

He nodded, taking the glass from your hand and placing it back on the table.

"Seeing you in pain was a horrible experience, Y/n. It made me think that I would never forgive myself if something happened to you, and I'm not just talking about illnesses. The work I do, the things I deal with are extremely evil. It makes me think about the risk you run by living with me."

You smiled, trying to ignore what he was saying, but deep down you knew he was right. Living in the Sanctum with the Master of the Mystic Arts was a risk, but one you were willing to take because you loved him. "Let's not think about that." You simply said. "I'm fine and you came back from your mission safe and sound. That's all that matters."

He nodded, taking your hand in his and promptly changed the subject. "You need to eat something before taking the next dose of medication."

"Pizza." You asked immediately, which made him giggle.

"I was thinking about a salad..."

"I thought I was going to die today from a brain tumor. Fuck the salad, I want pepperoni pizza with lots of cheese and chocolate ice cream for dessert."

Stephen smiled broadly, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "Whatever you say. I'll order and while we wait, I'll help you take a shower. What do you think?"

You nodded. "I don't think I can stand up on my own to do it anyway. Whatever you gave me made me totally dizzy."

"I told you it was strong, didn't I? But the important thing is that it took the pain away."

You nodded. "Thanks for taking care of me, Steph."

"That's what you do when you love someone, isn't it? You've taken care of me so many times, sweetheart. I lost count of how many times you patched me up after I came back from a mission. That’s what people who love each other do."

You smiled "I really do love you."

...

Stephen had never seen you eat pizza so eagerly and then devour two bowls of ice cream. It was cute. Even your childish palate was something he found adorable about you. He ate four slices of pizza himself and found himself having seconds of dessert, which he rarely did. After a day like the one you had, he was sure you both deserved the comfort of the food.

Finally, you got ready for bed and ended up in bed with the lamp on, giving the room a low, comfortable light.

"How are you feeling now?" He asked to confirm, but it was clear from the look in your eyes that the medication was taking effect.

"Better. I barely feel any pain, but my head is still sore."

He caressed your face, watching you settle into the pillows next to him. "It's normal after such intense pain. You'll be better tomorrow."

You smiled, biting your lower lip and making that little face you always did when you wanted something, but you didn't say anything, you just brought your hand to his hair, tangling your fingers in it and scratching gently. Stephen closed his eyes, indulging in the touch and only then noticing how tired he was. The mission had been energetic, it had been a really hard few days that had taken a lot out of him physically and although he had managed to sleep for an hour or two, he could feel the exhaustion taking over him.

"Hm, it feels so good." He found himself confessing as he melted into your touch. "I missed you, sweetheart. Every day all I could think about was that I wanted to go home." He opened his eyes to see you smiling sweetly at him and slowly you snuggled closer to him as he automatically reached out to hold you impossibly close.

You cupped his cheek and pulled him to your lips, kissing him slowly, but with a growing desire. "I missed you too. I had plans for when you got back. I wanted to surprise you with a special dinner, but it wasn't possible." You said and he smiled reassuringly.

"Well, even though the day wasn't the most pleasant, it's safe to say we had a special dinner tonight. The pizza was very good." He said smirking.

"But there was something else I wanted to give you when you got back." You said, hooking your leg around his hip teasingly and Stephen soon understood what you were up to, but even though he wanted it as much as you did, he was forced to reason.

"Unfortunately, it's not a good idea, sweetheart, even though I really want it."

You frowned, clearly annoyed. "Why not? After the day I've had, don't I deserve a little affection?"

Stephen nodded with a smile. Of course you did. You deserved everything you wanted and he believed he deserved it too after the mission he had just returned from, but it wasn't always possible to get what you deserved. "Trust me, you do, but I don't want to risk making your headache worse."

You stared at him, not understanding what one thing had to do with the other, and he chuckled, trying to explain in a way that made sense.

"Remember what we talked about the tension in your facial muscles making your head hurt?"

You nodded.

"When we make love and you have a good time, which is always, I hope, the pleasure makes you tense the muscles of your entire body, even those on your face and especially during orgasm, which could lead to an orgasmic headache."

You rolled your lips, trying not to laugh. "Did you just make that up?"

Stephen let out a soft laugh. "Of course not. I'm serious. It's a real problem that you don’t have, but given the sinusitis, orgasm could be a trigger for a worsening of your condition."

You buried your face in his neck, laughing softly, and the sound was very welcome after he had seen you crying in pain earlier. "Believe me, I would never make that up, especially since I'm climbing the walls after so many days without sex."

"It hasn't been that many days." You contradicted him. "But I believe you, as stupid as it may seem. I just hate this fucking sinus thing even more now." You groaned.

"Your treatment will last five days, but after that we will have plenty of time to make up for it, trust me."

You sighed, lifting your head to look at him. "You'll have to make it up to me tonight with lots of kisses."

Stephen smiled. "As many as you want, sweetheart." He said, pulling you back to his lips.

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing!

BACK TO DOCTOR STRANGE MASTERLIST

BACK TO MAIN MASTERLIST

Tag List: @withalittlehoney @thelostsmiles @thealleydog @anadlockfan @dementeddoll @strangesgirls @dontmindme262 @iamsherlocked1479 @rmoonstoner @sassenach-on-the-rocks @dragonqueen89 @insanelyobsessedwithdilfs @wickedscribbles @agathassscribbles @captaincarmel416 @hobimysolecito @geeky-politics-46 @iobsessoverfictionalmen @bobateadaydreams @pinkthick @groovy-lady

@doctorstrangelovemusic-blog @rachelessfreedom-world @ppatricia34me @strangesgirls @dreamxonxx @benaddictcumberpatch @iamsherlocked1479 @veryladyqueen @notglucose @wickedscribbles @agathassscribbles @rmoonstoner @nicoletk @azu21 @harlekin6 @coffedraven

@dontmindme262 @dementeddoll @yourmajesty13 @strangeions @bloodyflowerrr @insanelyobsessedwithdilfs @dragonqueen89 @newtsniffles @xourownsidee @kakashibabe02 @hobimysolecito @geeky-politics-46 @lykaonimagines @d0ct0rstrangewife @classickook @iobsessoverfictionalmen @bobateadaydreams @aphroditesdilemma

@thealleydog @anadlockfan @pinkthick @loverofallbroken @butchers-girl @ironstrangeheart @asgards-princess-of-mischief @slytherinqueen4life @spideybv28 @pxanonymous16-blog @kinavet

708 notes · View notes

bookshelf-dust · 1 year ago

Text

soul made of honeybees

billy hargrove x fem!reader

gif by @biillys

word count: 6,418

warnings: brief swearing, mentions of smoking, reader deals with body insecurities/dysmorphia, uses exercise as a punishment, all of the struggles that come with trying to accept oneself

synopsis: on a journey of becoming more active and trying to be happier in yourself, you find billy, who helps you develop a healthier relationship with exercising and shows you that your body should be celebrated for all it does for you.

a/n: well, what do we have here? my creative juices have begun to flow again, and this is the first fic to be born of that particular affair. in my head i’ve set this in the late 80s, maybe early 90s, where i imagine billy still works at the pool during the summers when he’s home from college. this is a situation i’ve found myself in over the past year, and i wanted a chance to explore it in this way and sort through some of my own experiences. i hope you will enjoy it. as always, happy reading! <3

————

Jane Fonda is a fucking fantastic woman. But right now, you hate her.

She manages to look stunning and effortless with each kick of her legs; while you are sweating profusely, your shorts are up your ass, and your fingers are swollen from overheating.

You hate exercising in the moment, but once her thirty minute video is over and her group of people in tights and tiny shorts are gone, admittedly you do feel better. Rinsing the sweat from your face, feeling your muscles ache the next day—it brings you some sort of satisfaction.

Your body likes that you’ve gotten more active.

But your own hatred for your body was the reason you allowed Jane Fonda into your home to begin with. Sick, right? You know it’s bad, and yet each time you squat, crunch, and press, you can’t stop yourself from wishing you were shaped differently. From looking at the toned and athletic bodies in Miss Fonda’s videos and imagining what it would be like to feel that comfortable in your own skin, to be so graceful and…perfect.

So, you continue to push yourself, in hopes that you’ll become more appealing, that if you keep doing this, there will come a point where you aren’t totally and completely disgusted with the body you’ve been given.

Because at this point, you’ve truly convinced yourself that you cannot be happy in your body. Even if you have noticed your strength levels increasing and really want to push yourself more. But you won’t let that positivity ring free like the woman on your television always wishes you would.

“You did a great job!” Jane’s voice rings throughout your living room as the workout video ends, and you scramble for the remote, having had enough of these cheery attitudes for one morning.

You sit back on your hands, stretch out your legs, and try to steady your breath. Your knees have carpet burn, and you can feel sweat dripping down your temples.

You may be a heaving mess, but you need more. The workouts have gotten easy, and you need something new.

A woman runs by outside your window in a bright pink leotard and blue jogging shorts, matching pink leg warmers meeting her tennis shoes.

I could try that, you think. Maybe I’d like running.

You certainly didn’t like it in school, but most of that was the result of shitty phys-ed teachers and the fact that you were never the athlete those instructors wanted you to be.

You push off the floor and stalk to your room, digging for the sneakers you know are buried in the back of your closet. You have to try this. You need to keep pushing yourself. And if you don’t do it now, with this sudden spark of energy, you probably never will.

Five minutes. You can run for five minutes. And if you feel like you can after that time is up, you’ll do ten.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you’re tying your shoes, shoving away the thoughts telling you that you’ll definitely not look as cute as that woman on the street or any other woman that goes for a run, their ponytail swaying and their cheeks perfectly pinked.

But what does it matter? You have to try. You have to be productive and make something out of yourself. You can’t deal with the pulsing, clawing thoughts of self-hatred anymore. Your body has to change.

The only problem is that you haven’t yet realized your mindset must too.

The heat that swallows you up when you step out of your front door is almost enough to send you right back inside. But how disappointed will you be in yourself if you retreat that quickly?

You let your body begin to walk before your brain can start to argue. Your street doesn’t really have a sidewalk, so you keep to one side as the cyclists and other joggers do, ensuring you won’t be in anyone’s way. Subconsciously, you’re already making yourself smaller even though there’s no one outside to judge you.

You look down at your watch, noting the time, and start to run. Not as though you’re being chased by a serial killer—or a man—but enough that it counts as a run. Those first few seconds are blissful. You feel like a little kid as the adrenaline spreads through your veins. Like your mom has just called you in because dinner is ready, like you're racing against the sunset so that your feet land inside the door just before the streetlights flick on.

You forgot what it was like to move your body in this way. To feel this momentary freedom. You make it about three minutes before your side starts to hurt, a telltale sign that you haven’t done this in far too long. The heat is starting to get to you too, but you said you’d go for five, and that’s what you’re doing.

It’s pitiful, the way you press yourself to the inside of your front door, trying to catch your breath from that little bit of work. Why did it hurt so much more than everything Jane Fonda tells you to do?

Maybe you’re not meant to be the athletic type. Or maybe I need to eat something, you think. I need to make a plan for myself. That could make it easier.

You can’t eat with your shirt sticking to your back though, so you strip and turn the shower on, practically jumping under the cool stream of water. But not before you glance at your body in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. Your hands find your stomach, eye each stretch mark and bit of cellulite. Each extra-soft spot of skin, every part of you that doesn’t conform to the vision you have in your head.

You wish that five minute run had fixed everything. That you could magically look like an aerobics instructor and be happy in your own skin. Your eyes fill with tears, and you think for a minute that it could be better to just stop before you get ahead of yourself. What’s the point? You don’t know if you have it in you to wait and see results. And you know you won’t turn into someone else, won’t form a new shape…and then you’re spiraling. You can’t think of a single reason why exercising is worth it.

Because it can be fun. Because it pushes you and makes you stronger. You shove this tiny voice away and let your gaze flick back to the shower, where you’ve completely abandoned your cold sanctuary. You hop in and start scrubbing your hair, trying to think of anything that isn’t your body in that mirror, anything other than how much you looked like a fraud trying to fit in with everyone else.

————

You continue on this way for a while longer: running in the mornings, doing as many of the Jane Fonda videos as you have access to at work, drinking more water, blah blah blah. One of the perks of working at the library is that you can check out as many tapes as you want. But you’ve done all of Jane’s workouts, and you need more.

You could swim, but when is the community pool ever not full to the brim during the summer? You could try jazzercise. No. That’s just not for you. You could…go to the gym.

The pool also has small gyms for both women and men, and you know the men’s one is usually very busy, but most of the women in Hawkins take part in other forms of exercise. And if you went in the mornings…you might have the place to yourself. You might could try and tone up.

God, this sounds so stupid.

And your heart rate picks up just thinking about doing this very new and very big and very embarrassing thing, but you want to do it. You’re going to try.

Hopefully you’ll just go unnoticed. This is a totally normal thing for people to do, right?

The community pool opens at ten during the week, but the doors to the gyms open at seven. And that’s what time you get there, out of pure fear that you’ll have to interact with another human and make a fool of yourself. But the universe must be looking out for you on this particular morning, because the door is unlocked, and you slip in without any hassle.

Billy isn’t a morning person. He never has been, but an excuse to get out of his hellhole of a house before anyone else is up to fuck with him? Yeah, he jumped at that opportunity.

Usually the manager opens the gyms and stays to open the pool during the summer, but he volunteered. Especially because he can usually get in a workout before his shift technically even starts.

He’ll bench as much as he can without a spot, work on the pull ups he never tells anyone he struggles with. It just feels good to be able to use his muscles and push himself. Billy is proud of what his body can do, what it does for him, how it protects him—and he’s not ashamed to admit that.

His body is one of the only things he has control over, and he’s heard his share of people talking about how vain he is, how he shouldn’t spend so much time doing this or that. But he doesn’t give a fuck. He’s built a body he’s proud of and feels comfortable in, and truthfully he feels like everyone should be comfortable in their body without anyone else pushing them to look another way.

Billy is leaning against his car, hands tangled in his hair in an effort to tie it up, a cigarette dangling loosely from his full lips when he sees you for the first time.

He watches you get in your car, bag slung over your shoulder, interested only because he never sees another soul here this early.

You’re pretty, he thinks. Your hairline shines in the morning sunlight, damp with sweat, your neck the same. Your sports bra peeks through your pale shirt, and one of your slouchy socks is hiked up higher than the other. You’ve clearly just finished working out, but he thinks you look breathtaking.

There’s something about you. Something light and sweet that he can feel even from this distance, like something is telling him you have a good soul.

The next time Billy sees you, you come out of the door looking frustrated—he assumes at yourself. He doesn’t want to bother you, but he would like to talk to you at some point.

You turn around when you go to unlock your car door and lock eyes with him. Your heart stutters at the fact that someone has caught you, probably knows you were exercising. But he is gorgeous. You give him a small smile, and climb into the driver's seat. All you can think on the drive home is that it must be nice to be so effortlessly gorgeous.

————

You continue on this way for weeks. Close to a month. You workout, you wave and acknowledge one another. This other person who you share this tiny thing with and who you are not judged by.

On this particular day, you decide to be brave though. You packed a swimsuit, and you’re going to speak to that gorgeous boy and hope he doesn’t get freaked out by you.

You place your weights back on the rack, the muscles in your thighs pulsing, your arms feeling like jelly. You’ve only worked your way up to the set of fifteens, but that’s something, right?

You’re sweating, and dread walking outside into the swath of steadily climbing heat and humidity. Your heart pounds at the prospect of speaking to him.

With your bag over your shoulder, you push open the door and step outside, jumping almost immediately. “Shit!”

Billy laughs at your reaction, both because he hadn’t expected to frighten you, and because your jolt was pretty entertaining to witness.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, “I didn’t mean to make you lose your shit, it’s just too hot to stand anywhere without shade.”

You lean against the cool metal door behind you. “Fuck,” you sigh. “My survival skills are clearly not what they should be.”

Billy laughs into his drink, taking a swig from the Coke he bought at the vending machine.

“You headed out?” he asks, subconsciously fussing with a belt loop.

“Well, yeah, I was. But um, I was going to ask a favor from you, if that’s okay?” You must sound like a dumbass, speaking to this man for the very first time, only to ask him for something.

“Shoot,” Billy responds.

“Do you think it’d be okay for me to swim a few laps in the pool? I know it’s not open yet, and I haven’t even told you my name, but I promise not to be a bother or anything. I just kind of wanted a chance to swim when there was no one else around, you know?”

Billy finishes his drink and tosses the can in the recycling bin inches from your hip. It lands with a resounding ping.

You start to think this was a very stupid idea, and that maybe you should’ve just kept yourself at home like always.

“You can totally say no—”

“Yeah, sure I don’t see why not—”

Your words clash together and the both of you start to laugh. You raise your hand, gesturing for him to continue his thought.

“It’s fine by me if you swim a little. I doubt you’re gonna trash the place.” He grins at you, dimples forming in his cheeks. “I’m Billy, by the way.”

A heat rises up your neck and washes over the tips of your ears. You tell him your name and thank him for letting you bend the rules.

“Ah, fuck the rules. It’s just a community pool,” he winks, opening up the gate for you and telling you to have at it.

You’d put your one-piece on underneath your workout clothes this morning, and you try to ignore the prick of shame, even disgust, that you feel having put your body in it as you wade into the pool.

The water is cool, and as it drenches you, you feel lighter, somehow. You swim out to the deep end and push off the wall with your toes, propelling yourself underwater and kicking for as long as you can go while holding your breath.

The little girl that still lives within your soul leaps to the surface, giddy with each push off the wall, each stroke of your arms underneath the water. She is excited. Free.

She isn’t thinking about what your stomach looks like in this swimsuit or how stupid you probably look with your sloppy swimming skills.

You swim for maybe twenty minutes, or at least until your shoulders are aching. You kick over to the wall, hoisting yourself up just that little bit so you can prop your elbows up on the warming concrete.

You feel so light here that it almost makes you forget why you came.

You hear footsteps and Billy appears from around the corner, a fluffy white towel in hand.

“You getting out? I figured I’d come and make sure you hadn’t drowned.”

You giggle. The sound makes him smile, pearly white teeth on display. Your eyes are drawn to his, where the summer sun has multiplied his freckles so much that they blanket his nose and the tops of his cheeks, washing over his temples.

“I appreciate you looking out for my safety,” you say, climbing up the short ladder. Billy holds out a hand to help you steady yourself as you stand. You’re hesitant to take it because you’re all wet, but your hand moves before your mind takes control. “Thank you.” You give him a shy smile.

He grins at you and hands you the towel. You wrap it around your shoulders and follow him back under the awning when he starts walking away. Billy leans up against the cold brick wall and you stand, a little nervously, in front of him, trying to think of what to say.

“I’ll admit, uh, it’s been nice to see someone else here so early in the mornings.” Billy lets out a huff of a laugh. “I was gonna ask though, why’d you pick this shithole to workout in?”

You pull the damp towel tighter against your torso. “It’s a quiet shithole,” you say. “And this whole exercising thing is pretty new to me, you know? I didn’t want to be somewhere people could see me like that.”

You realize how self-deprecating that comment was, realize you’re being too upfront, and try to quickly cover your ass. “What about you?” you ask, daring to make eye contact just to make sure he’s not disturbed.

“Well, it came with the job,” he laughs, “and I love working out. Always have. Plus, it might be a shitty place, but the older equipment is a lot better than what newer gyms are using. So it works for me.”

Huh.

“Oh. Nice.” You chew on your thumbnail. What a fuckup you are.

Billy tilts his head, trying to encourage your gaze to raise to his. “What just happened?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

You look at him, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair and arms crossed in front of his chest. “It’s nothing…I just don’t really know what to say to someone who enjoys the gym? Who has a positive relationship with it and everything.”

A crease forms between Billy’s brows. “You’ve been crazy consistent with it, but you don’t like it?” He asks you, but based on your body language and how you’ve acted the past month every time you head out, everything adds up and Billy knows the answer before it even leaves your mouth.

You shake your head, ashamed that you even brought this up. “No,” you laugh nervously. “I hate it. I only started because I’m unhappy with myself? So it’s more of a punishment than something that brings me joy.”

Billy’s chest squeezes at your words. That is exactly why he started working out all those years ago. To make himself stronger because he was ashamed his father had power over him. Because he wasn’t good enough for anyone, so out of anger he made himself more powerful.

But he doesn’t want you to feel that way. You shouldn’t be working out purely to punish yourself for some absurd reason your mind has come up with.

And even though Billy has had very minimal interactions with you, he likes you. He wouldn’t wish the horrible thoughts he’s had for himself on anyone else, but he gets the feeling you already know.

“Well, I’m not gonna berate you or nothin.’ But uh, if you ever want help, or want to workout together so it’s not so miserable, let me know alright?”

You smirk at him, hoping to make the situation a bit less awkward. “Are you implying you’re the reason working out would become less miserable?”

Billy laughs, glad to see you’re not totally opposed to the idea of him offering help. “Yeah. But really, you shouldn’t have to hate it y’know? If I can help you figure out not to hate it…I’d like to try. And we could get to know each other better.”

Billy fidgets with the lighter in his pocket. He’s weaned off cigarettes, but he keeps loads of lighters around so he has something to occupy his hands with. If not, it’s usually not a good situation for him to be in.

Your heart squeezes at the genuine quality in his words. You feel like you’re a lost cause at this point, but there’s a big part of you, the soft and squishy and easily flustered one, that wants to take him up on this offer.

You nod, wrapping up your towel so you can drop it in the bin and go get changed. “Okay. I’ll think about it, Billy. Promise.”

————

“One more.”

“I can’t, Billy. I told you, I’m not strong enough for this shit.”

You swear when you’re frustrated. Billy has learned that over the past few weeks.

He crouches, leveling with you. Your knee bounces, the dumbbells in your hands sitting on the tops of your thighs. “Yes, you can. You’re already up to twenty-fives for your presses. Try one more for me and then you can rest a minute.”

Your eyes well with tears that you quickly blink away as you settle back against the bench. This is the point in a workout where you just start to hate yourself. You think it’s pointless, you know you’re body hasn’t changed enough, you feel like total shit—everything just feels fucked.

You use your knees to help lift the dumbbells and slowly lift them to the appropriate height, making sure to protect your shoulders like Billy taught you. You inhale and raise them up. Your arms are shaking, especially your non-dominant one which is really fighting this shoulder press, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to lift them fully until you do.

“Fuck, yeah!” Billy’s voice reaches your ears just as you’re lowering your arms, completely out of breath. You set the dumbbells on the floor.

Billy is thrilled for you. He can see the progress you’re making, how much stronger you are and less hesitant to try new exercises.

When you look up at him the expression on your face tells him you are not thrilled.

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s the matter?”

You stand and walk over to the mirror that covers one whole wall. You put your hands on your hips and bite the inside of your cheek. “Billy, will you look at me, honestly?” You gesture to your body. “This is the matter. I don’t look any different than the first day I showed up here, do I? Even if I’ve been busting my ass, I’ll just never—”

You stop, rubbing your hands down your face and over your bloodshot eyes.

“You’ll never what?” Billy locks eyes with you in the mirror.

You set a hand on your chest, nails digging into your skin. “My body will never be good enough for me. I’ll always look at every other person that walks by, jealous that they have the figure I want and I’ll never have. Why did I have to get stuck with this shit? Why couldn’t I be given a body that I’d be happy with. Life if fucking hard enough, why couldn’t I have this one thing?”

“And you’re just so effortlessly gorgeous, you know that? I wish it was that easy for me, too. It’s just like, why am I even doing this anymore when I know I’ll never look the way other women do? I’m bullshitting myself, aren’t I, Billy? Working out like it’s gonna do anything.”

You exhale and drag your arm across your nose, avoiding Billy’s gaze.

“Hey. Look at me.” Billy’s tone is firm. “Listen for a second, will you?”

“You are getting stronger. You’re using heavier weights all around. Shit, you’re up to fifty for your deadlifts. Hold your arm up for me—yeah, and squeeze, yep. Look at that.”

He taps his index and middle finger on your bicep, on the bit of muscle you’ve grown and shape you’ve built. “You are absolutely not bullshitting yourself, you hear me? If anything, you’re bullshitting yourself by thinking you can’t be happy in this body. You don’t have to look like other women. Who the fuck put that idea in your head? I don’t know if you see how I look at you, but I think you’re gorgeous, and I love to see you becoming more comfortable in the movements you do, in your own strength. Your body does so fuckin’ much for you.”

Billy is still keeping eye contact with you in the mirror. You can feel the warmth of him behind you, and you swear you sweat more because you know he’s right and you know you are getting stronger but fuck you just can’t believe that. You look at him and you just wish you were that lithe, that comfortable in your own skin.

“I’m doing this with you—hey, take a deep breath, alright?” He clocks the way you’re shaking out your hands, trying to keep yourself from breaking. Crying. Screaming out of frustration. “I’m doing this with you because I used to be just like this, you hear me?”

He hates being vulnerable, fucking despises it, but he knows that giving you this information, giving you this little pathway into his life just might save you right now.

“I worked out all through junior high and high school because I fuckin’ hated myself, and I thought if I could get bigger, if I could make myself look intimidating, then maybe other people wouldn’t treat me like shit. That part worked in some places, but I didn’t like myself any more because I hadn’t sorted through any of my mental shit.”

He says your name. Slowly. You like the way it sounds when he says it, hating the way it sounds when it leaves your own lips.

“I know we aren’t all that close yet, but I see so much fuckin’ potential in you. I’m not gonna let you suffer with all this shit alone. I know you hate your body, but this is the one you were given, and there’s no point spending so much time destroying yourself over that simple fact.”

You turn around to face him, your hands on the sides of your neck, rubbing as if that will stop the emotion from rising in your throat. It doesn’t work. Billy’s eyes move back and forth between yours, across your face, tracking every change in your expression. He recognizes what you’re doing, trying to suppress all of this.

“C’mere.”

You go before your mind can fight back. Billy takes you in his arms, tucking your face into his chest, resting his chin on your shoulder.

You breathe unsteadily into his skin. You don’t care that he smells like sweat and you smell like sweat and that you’re shaking and tears are slipping from your eyes. His arms are strong, and the feeling of his biceps squeezing you closer, his hands running up and down your back, it makes it all feel like it’s okay.

“It’s just so fucking hard, Billy,” you mumble, lifting your head up slightly. “It’s not fair. I just want to be pretty and normal and have a body I can accept like everyone else.”

Billy gently touches his index finger just below your chin, coaxing your gaze up to meet his. “I know it is. And I mean it when I say that you are pretty. Honestly, you gotta think about how many ‘pretty’ people there are out there, people who have the bodies the tabloids tell them to have—and are absolute dicks. Hell, that’s how I was in high school.”

Your eyes crinkle at the corners, signaling that he did get a little joy in you having admitted that, even if it’s not a full on smile. His thumb swipes down your cheek, mopping up the little track left by a tear.

“Point is, this, what I’m holding right now, is your body. No one else would know it like you do, know how to take care of it, know where each mark has come from or each thing you’ve put it through. Each thing it’s gotten you through. You can accept it, because I’m going to help you get to a point where you can look in the mirror and not shit-talk yourself.”

You pull back a little, pressing the palms of your hands to your face, your elbows slightly poking the top of Billy’s rib cage. “I’m just so scared.”

“I got you, you hear me?” He pulls your shirt away from your collarbones just so it’s not sticking to your skin so much. “You don’t need to be scared. Not with me.”

You nod. And you keep doing that until it feels a little more believable.

————

Billy can’t stop looking at you.

And he really needs to focus before he runs off the sidewalk and into the road.

But for the first time in the few months he’s known you, you look free. You look happy. You look all of these things and you’re running. There’s a baseball cap perched backwards on your head, one of his from forever ago that he lent (gave) you when you mentioned you didn’t have any.

He can smell the sunscreen you’ve slathered all over yourself, see the sweat dripping down your spine. This is the first time you’ve felt brave enough to go out in just a sports bra and a cropped sweatshirt, bright colored biker shorts covering the tops of your thighs. Your frilly socks make it too, just because it shows how much more comfortable you’ve gotten with doing this.

It turns out you never hated running. You just needed to do it in a different atmosphere, with different thoughts running through your head. And having a good running partner helps, too.

“There’s a bench up here if you want to rest a second before we finish,” Billy says through a rather aggressive exhale. You’re glad the sun is setting, because that makes it so much cooler than when you try to run in the morning with the sun beating down on you and seeping into your veins.

You sit down, taking a long drink from your water. Billy crouches on the sidewalk, shaking out his hair and retying the mess of a bun he was wearing.

“You’re doing so good today,” he tells you, winking at you from his place just a few inches to your left.

You grin into your water bottle. “How long was that?” you ask.

He rises and sits down next to you, his arm slung behind your back on the bench. His thumb brushes the shell of your ear, rubs over the little hoop you’re wearing. You watch as he does a little math in his head, checking out where exactly you are. “Little over two miles, bee.”

Bee. Your heart skips every time he says that. It’s a very new thing, but it sort of slipped out one day, and you’ve loved it ever since.

“What movie you wanna see this weekend, honeybee? My treat.”

When you’d asked why he chose that name for you, he’d teased at first, telling you it was just because you’re so damn sweet. But really it was a little more sappy than that.

“Well, you are sweet. And bubbly when you want to be. But think about how much shit those little fuckers get done. How persistent and focused. They’re all cute and fuzzy n’ whatever, but they’re like, badass lil’ things, y’know?”

Your knee bounces excitedly on the pavement. “Really?” That’s the farthest you’ve run so far. And you didn’t even hate it. You had…fun.

Billy laughs, throwing his head back a little and bearing his neck to you. It shines with sweat and it almost looks like he’s glowing. “Fuck yeah. You’ve been kicking my ass this week. I hate running.”

“But you do it with me,” you say.

“But I do it with you.”

You reach over your shoulder and squeeze his hand. “I like running better when it’s with you. Just for the record.” He squeezes back, lifting your hand up gently to press his lips to it.

“I’m proud of you, you know that?”

A crease forms between your brows as you meet his gaze. “What for?”

“For not giving up.” You start to argue with him, but he continues before you can belittle yourself even the slightest bit. “You’ve kept at this, at trying to get yourself stronger and to try and feel more comfortable in what your body can do. I know you probably still wish you looked like some fuckin’ model or some shit, but I can see how much you’ve eased up, you know?”

You nod, giving him a small smile. “I do still wish that sometimes. It would be easier. But I’m getting better, I think. I hate to tell you you’re right—,” he shoots you that cocky, prideful grin, “but my body does do a lot for me. I’m starting to accept that it can do a lot for me…”

You trail off, tapping the toes of your sneakers on the concrete below you. “And I did squat with the bar and those little plates yesterday without a spot.”

The spot in question was watching you carefully from a few feet away, ready to sprint if you needed help.

“Yes, you did, bee. You’re kicking ass.” That dimple forms in his cheek, and you know he’s about to say something smart. “Speaking of ass—”

You stand abruptly, turning around quickly so that the area he’s speaking of isn’t directly in his face. You’ve learned he has a staring problem, specifically with that part of you. Not that you mind. Maybe that’s where your pride comes in.

————

The sun has slipped beneath the horizon by the time Billy slips his key into the gate, pulling it securely shut behind him. The first spattering of stars are trying to show in the purple-blue sky.

The pool is calm, empty, and lit only by the pale bulbs built into it and the two light poles on either side of the patio.

It was Billy’s idea to sneak in for a late night swim. He thought it would be fun, and he knows you hate swimming in an overcrowded pool. But truthfully, he just wanted to give you another space where you could feel completely without judgment and just exist.

“What’s the plan here, Billy? I didn’t even think about taking a detour to get a swimsuit.”

It’s true, you’ve felt so carefree around him that you weren’t overthinking, overanalyzing a scenario like this. You weren’t worried about running inside and finding the most full coverage bathing suit you have because you’re afraid of Billy seeing your body. But right now…you just feel calm. Your body isn’t perfect, but it’s okay if he at least sees your legs.

Billy is already slipping off his shoes and taking off his shirt. “That’s because the point of this is being spontaneous, bee.” He walks to the far end of the pool and dives in, just in his little running shorts, before you can even blink.

You’re nervous, just that little bit because this is so different from something you’d usually do, and now you’re just stripping? You’re just living and having a good time? Who the fuck are you?

You step out of your own shorts and pull off your socks. You’re left in your underwear and your little cropped sweatshirt. You register, as you walk down the stairs, that your underwear are blue, and you look just like Lisa from Weird Science. It makes you smile.

You track Billy’s movements once you're up to your waist and realize he’s heading for you. He squeezes your ankle beneath the water before coming to the surface, a wide grin on his face. His necklace is stuck around his back and on instinct you reach out to straighten it.

His eyes drag up and down your figure. “Hi, gorgeous.” The low drawl of his voice makes the tips of your ears burn.

You wade a little deeper into the water, circling behind him. When you’re drenched up to your chest, you splash him. Billy cackles. It is possibly the most joyous sound you’ve ever heard.

He dives for your waist, hooking an arm around you and swimming off, making you howl with laughter before you have to hold your own breath when he pulls you out deeper than you are tall.

He hoists you up out of the water and gently tosses you to the side, letting you fall into the water on your back. The adrenaline coursing through your veins is magical.

You keep playing with him, playing, like you’re both kids who’ve never been in a pool before, until you’ve run through most of your energy. You try and teach him a game you played as a child, where one person spreads their legs and your goal is to swim between them without touching their skin, even as they move their legs closer together each time.

It’s silly, because you inevitably know you’ll touch your opponents legs, but it’s fun. You don’t think about anything else when you do it. He teases you though, trapping you with his calves most times so you automatically lose.

Now though, you and Billy stand nose to nose, at a depth where you’re not up to your chin so that you can actually speak to him. “This was a really good idea,” you tell him. You push some of his wet hair out of his face and then, rather than pulling away, you set your hands on his shoulders.

He wraps his arms around your waist. “This okay?” he asks, lowering one arm so he can show you he wants to lift you up. You give him a sweet yes.

Billy’s hand grips your thigh, coaxing you upward so you can get your legs around his back. You adjust your arms behind his head, him respectfully keeping his hands on the backs of your thighs. He steps back just that little bit more so he can submerge himself further in the water now that you’re held up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile for this long before,” Billy says. His blue eyes flick back and forth between your own.

“You’ve given me a lot more reasons to.” Your hand cups his cheek and he swears he could fucking collapse. You’re so gentle with him and Billy never knew he even wanted that. But now he craves it. Craves you.

That cocky smirk you’ve started to recognize before it even begins makes an appearance. “Yeah? Can I give you one more reason to?”

You hum in agreement, and then Billy is pressing his lips to yours. They’re damp and he tastes a little like chlorine, but…he was right. You smile brilliantly into the kiss, and you’re not sure you stop the rest of the night either.

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

#savannah’s fics #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x fem!reader #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargove imagine #billy hargrove comfort #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove fluff #billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove oneshot

672 notes · View notes

misctf · 1 year ago

Text

Selection Day

“Mr. Wagner, this is an impressive application.” The man mused, “Graduated college last year with a 4.0 GPA in biology. I see you completed prep courses to become a physician.”

James Wagner nodded, “That would be ideal.”

His father promised he’d have nothing to worry about on Selection Day, which occurred during the month of one’s 23rd birthday. Judges reviewed your file: extracurriculars, criminal record, education, etc., to determine the perfect career for you- and give you all the tools to succeed.

“I see here your father is Senator Wagner and your mother is Dr. Wagner, both distinguished in their fields. Quite a tough election year though.”

“Dad isn’t too worried though. His campaign manager says he has a plan.” James leaned back in his chair, “Already planning the victory party.”

“You should celebrate too. I think you’ll be perf...” The judge’s phone rang, cutting him off, “Excuse me Mr. Wagner, I have to take this.”

The judge left James to himself. The young man sighed in relief, despite some growing anticipation. When his brother went through the process, they didn’t change too much. They enhanced his attractive features and gave him a greater sense of ambition- all fitting for his career in finance. But he was still his brother. James hoped for something similar. He knew his application would let him select from “tier A models” so he was feeling good. And afterwards, he and his dad would go golfing and get dinner down at the country club to celebrate.

“Mr. Wagner, come with me” The judge said as he returned to the room.

James nodded, “Uh by the way, I was hoping to go with a Tier A physician model...”

“No worries James, just follow me please.”

James followed closely entering a room filled with various pods. A knot formed in his stomach. This is where it would happen. He gulped and watched as the judge walked towards a pod and pressed some buttons. This was it. Calmly, James undid his button shirt, revealing his lean and tanned body. Years of track and caddying on the golf course gave him a nice tan and lean physique. As he finished undressing, his attention shifted to the pod as it whirred to life and opened.

“Here it goes.” He whispered.

The young man stepped into the pod and watched the door shut. A small window allowed him to see the outside world and he nodded at the judge, who frowned in return. And then it started. The mechanical hands that lay dormant suddenly came to life, scanning James’s body.

“Applicant: James Wagner.” A soothing mechanical voice stated, before rattling off demographics that James simply tuned out, “Model: Gym Staff, Front Desk, Tier D.”

“Wait what?” James called out, “Hey! I think somethings wrong.” He tried to convey, “That’s not...”

He barely had a moment to speak as a metallic substance wrapped around his legs. He cried out as it burned his skin. And slowly, his legs began to expand, filling with raw muscle. His slender calves popped with muscle, while his 10.5 inch feet expanded to size 13. He held back tears as his thighs expanded with firm muscle. And then, his lower extremities were freed.

“Holy fuck!” He shouted, as he wriggled his new toes, “Please, I think there’s been some kind of mistake!” The judge wasn’t paying attention anymore, just talking to someone on the phone.

Before he could continue, a saddle emerged from underneath him and wrapped around his ass and cock. A gentle warmth encompassed them, causing James to shudder. But as he focused on the sensation, more of the substance covered his chest and torso. Similar to his legs, he felt an intense warming sensation. And as the warmth intensified, he felt himself growing. He watched as a strong core and bounceable pecs formed from his once lean physique and groaned as his torso stretched, adding height. But it wasn’t just height. He was becoming wider as his back expanded with muscle. When the mold finally released him, he was left with a physique he could only dream of obtaining naturally. But this wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to be a hulking beast of a man.

“You need to...” James started to cough as a green haze entered the pod, “What... fuck... bro please...” He kept coughing, barely noticing his use of the word “bro” and his deepening voice, “Dude, this ain’t cool!”

He watched as his arms were encased. Biceps and triceps exploded from his lean arms, while his forearms grew with muscle. When his arms were released, he could gawk at them in awe.

“Dude, check it out, my guns are lookin' massive!” James’s eyes widened, “Dude, why do I sound all weird? Not stoked about it, man!” Try as he might, he couldn’t control the new bro lingo that left his mouth.

And before he could say another word, a mask wrapped around his face and neck. He cried as his face was remodeled. Simultaneously, personal details were added to his physique. Tattoos of some meaning to James were carved into his body. Meanwhile, he was sprayed with a different solution that caused hair to sprout from his abdomen and chest, eventually thickening and forming a dense treasure trail. His arms and legs were not spared, nor were his ass or dick. And with a mechanical screech, the mask finally left his face. His new eyes were dark, topped by thick dark eyebrows. His light brown hair replaced with darker brown. His clean shaven face now adorned with stubble. And his angular face just a bit rounder, with a pair of thick lips. The young man felt his new face and rubbed a hand across his hairy pecs.

“Seriously, dude? No way!” He grumbled, ““Dude, I'm not a bro, change me back, seriously!” James felt tears well up in his eyes. This wasn’t him, he didn’t sound like this. He still had his intelligence, but no one would take him seriously.

But his thoughts were interrupted as the his privates were freed. James’s eyes widened. His dick was never that big, nor did he have foreskin before. He watched in awe as it started expanding and he wrapped his hand around it.

“Whoa, bro, check out the size of that thing!” He started pumping his new cock, “Bro, this is epic! It feels so damn good!” A new mist filled the pod as he continued to jerk off, causing James to scrunch his nose, “Dude, it totally reeks in here, like a locker room or something.” From this point on, that smell would stick to him. He’d always smell like a dirty locker room.

However this did little to deter him as he jerked off. And as he did so, he felt a quick jab in his arm as the contents of a syringe were dumped into him.

“Dude, my head's all fuzzy right now, it's weird.” He moaned as his IQ plummeted and new knowledge filled his brain, “Heh, check this out, dude.” He moaned as he bounced his pecs, “Dude, wait, my brain's acting up. I'm, like, still smart, yeah?” James tried to remember facts that he once memorized but found nothing. His golf skills replaced by workout routines, his adherence to social norms evaporating, and his desire to present himself well replaced with a need to wear tank tops and gym shorts, “Whatever, bro, it doesn't matter. I've got this, and that's what counts.” He winked at his dick and continued to jerk himself off, moving his hand faster and faster, “Fuck yeah, dude!” He moaned as he came, covering himself in cum and falling to the ground. And there he sat, totally spent until the door to the pod opened.

“Hey James,” James looked up and grinned.

"Yo, what's up, campaign manager bro?"

The older man smiled and turned to the judge, “Very good job, James here is perfect. No one will think Selection Day is rigged if even Senator Wagner’s son isn’t safe.”

“Nah, bro, it's Jim, not James.” Jim chuckled, “Like ‘gym’, get it bro?”

“Here Jim, get cleaned up.” The judge said, throwing the man a towel.

After wiping the cum from his hairy abdomen and chest, he got dressed in a tank top and gym shorts. And as he walked through the building, he barely cared at the glances of disgust and the people holding their noses. Nor did he care for the judgmental stares as he scratched his balls and pits, completely oblivious to social norms. When he finally got outside, he smiled when he saw his father’s limo. He quickly walked over and jumped in with a grin.

“Who are you?” His father asked, scrunching his nose.

Jim grinned and pulled his dad in for a hug, “Yo, dad, it's me, Jim. What's good?"

Several months had passed since then and much changed for Jim. His father quickly disowned him, believing that James hadn’t been honest with the family if this was the outcome of Selection Day. Besides, appealing outcomes was a lengthy process and for Jim’s dad, there could be great political repercussions given his support for the process. So Jim would remain. His life on the golf course and dining in the country club just a memory.

But Jim didn’t mind as he entered his small studio apartment and tossed his gym bag to the ground. He walked over to the dirty mattress in the middle of his room and plopped down, scratching his pits and flipping through his phone.

“Bro, check it out! Dad crushed the election, fuck yeah!” He cheered with a grin. His grin only widened as he read the text from the cute blond guy from the gym.

Even if he couldn’t celebrate with his family that night, Jim was going to celebrate. And as he texted the guy his address, he could feel the monster in his pants start to grow.

#male tf #male transformation #mental change #personality tf #jock tf

964 notes · View notes

yearningaces · 2 years ago

Text

Thinking and thoughts here

Could you just imagine the impossible with me? Being in a loving marriage with your beloved husband -who you believe is human because why wouldn't you? He looks and acts like every other human and monsters aren't real. And he just adored you so very much, he communicates when he doesn't understand something or when a miscommunication is had. He never fights with you but you both work together to fix any problems, and focus on showing how much you care for each other. Truthfully he's the model husband. Almost to a scripted degree, but you've never felt so adored. Especially when he mirrors your affection and never seems to expect anything explicit, nor want it either. It feels safe, and comfortable... So why do you feel the sense of dread in your gut as you're looking at him right now?

Well, it might be how he's standing in the doorway, bag of takeout in hand, smile on his face. Mirroring how he always stands. But it's a brief moment, a flash of dark lines almost like thread wrapping around his joints, moving him like a giant flesh puppet.

And just as quickly as they were seen- they're gone again. Just your loving husband, Dorrin. Standing tall and gazing down, as though the mountain was watching the river below. Absolutely enamored and unyielding to everyone except you who he'd mold himself to better love as time goes on.

At your expression, his smile fades into a look of concern. His gaze follows yours, to his hand. And the brief flash of threading is gone but he knows exactly what you've seen.

His gaze returns to you, hollow. Slowly setting down the bag he was carrying and slowly crosses the room to get to you.

He seems... Empty. As if any signals for how he should be acting have been cut off. His looming figure almost listless as he gazes down at you with a dull gaze, no life behind his eyes. After a moment, his voice finally rings out. "Has this one displeased you, little love?"

You feel an inherent wrongness about how your beloved husband is speaking presumably of himself as if he isn't even here, with a slight stumble back it answers his question well enough.

Dorrin slumps, like a wind up toy who's finished it's final dance. The voice that drifts through the air is so familiar yet leaves your brain trembling at the sheer magnitude of the being behind it even if unseen. "I apologize, this puppet has proven defective for its sole purpose. Rest assured, such an oversight will be rectified promptly. Only the best shall be allowed closest to you."

With a horrified expression you can only watch as Dorrin- what you know to be Dorrin is... Folded away. Limbs snapping together into a ball not unlike when a child is ready to toss away their doll. And it's... Not there anymore. No blink of an eye, no noise or sight, it was there and it wasn't. And now you stand in the empty living room of a home you've shared with someone you thought you knew so very well.

What do you do?

What can you do?

You can feel gazes on you still, the same when that thing would watch you while you rested together. You can try to move towards a door or even a window and find them consumed in darkness. There is no threat here, but you are not allowed to leave at the moment.

You don't know it yet, but Dorrin just wants to keep you safe in the home he's so carefully crafted for you alone. Tonight he'll leave a new puppet at your door, identical to the last hundred that had done something leading to any inconvenience on you. You've never noticed before, and he doesn't know how to condense himself into a small enough form to be loved by such a miniscule creature he's so deeply fallen for. But that puppets strings weren't good enough to remain hidden. The new one will be better.

Only the best for you.

He will ensure it.

(Basically what happens when an endless creature of Eldritch being falls for a little bitty human? Why not craft a puppet to express his love for them on a scale they can comprehend! But those fickle puppets- never perfect enough for his little love)

#letters of yearning #x reader #monster boyfriend #monster romance #gender neutral reader #asexual reader #monster x reader #Dorrin the creature

787 notes · View notes

whoopsyeahokay · 1 year ago

Text

October Sun

summary: Wally might've been preoccupied with Field Day but that hadn't meant he didn't plan on getting answers. Thankfully, the universe was on his side because there you were, right where he wanted you.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.6

Wally grinned from ear to ear, eager for Maddie to accept the gesture Mr. Martin offered in the length and shape of a golf club. He'd spent a great deal of the morning figuring out how to coax Maddie to join in their shenanigans, proud Field Day enthusiast that he was, and was pleased as punch that she seemed to be getting into it.

He'd been there, filled with pent-up aggression and bitterness, and grief for a life that had been snatched away from him before he'd understood what it meant to live.

Contrary to what Maddie thought of him, Wally hadn't always been an upbeat, ultra-positive member of the afterlife. In fact, he'd wallowed a whole decade away, trudging the tiers of the stadium seats, seeking answers or forgiveness or enlightenment; something that would help put his world back to rights.

It never happened. He'd simply moved on. Matured, maybe. Ajay and Bernie—the autoshop pancake and Sadie Hawkins Dance tragedy, respectively—had encouraged him to open himself up to Mr. Martin's brand of therapy, and then, slowly, he'd started to relax into his place in the metaphysical world.

He hoped he could be there for Maddie the way they'd been there for him.

Which is why he hadn't made an excuse to slip away and find you. Oh, he'd tried to catch you at your locker before your first class, waited for twenty minutes after the bell had rung, but you hadn't shown up. So, he'd gone to Group in a funk that had lingered until Mr. Martin had announced his decision to proceed with Field Day.

Yet, as joyful as Wally had been to partake, something inside him had ached. The strong tug of the connection between you and Wally extended outward from his chest as if reaching for you through the ether. Demanded he ignored everything to find you, took your head in his hands and made you look him in the eye—he longed so badly for you to see him.

The feeling hadn't subsided. Rather, it'd burrowed deeper into his brain, the feeling like he had somewhere he needed to be but couldn't recall the address. And it only seemed to worsen the further away he got from the main school building.

The sound of exploding glass forced Wally back to the present. Maddie swung the golf club again, shattering another window, which Wally applauded and congratulated Maddie on.

"Told you you're a natural!" Wally encouraged, beaming a supernova smile that Maddie couldn't resist returning.

Charley hummed thoughtfully from his perch on the picnic table behind them and slanted a conspiratorial grin at Wally, "A real natural." He commented, "Totally sane."

"The sanest." Wally agreed and turned back to watch Maddie as she trudged around the corner of the equipment shed, gearing up to unleash her violence on the vending machines.

And then, like lightning on the breeze, Wally sensed it. You. Static down his spine, heartbeat ratcheting up, sweetness on his tongue. Automatically, his gaze shifted from Maddie to a figure in the distance, clad exclusively in black, head down, features obscured by the shadow of a hood.

Wally sucked in a deep breath as subtly as he could, tasting the crispness on the air and dull notes of burnt vanilla. He could hear every step you took, the rustle of fabric as you fished your phone from your back pocket. He felt your desperation as if it was his own, how you needed to find someone right fucking now, where had he gone?

Glass erupted, sprayed the ground at Maddie's feet, crunched under her boots as she moved onto the final vending machine. Wally wasn't going to waste an opportunity when it presented itself so perfectly.

"Ooh-hoh! Yes! That was—" He smacked a kiss to his fingertips, "—beautiful!" He turned to Charley, praying that he wasn't giving a too over-the-top performance. "I'm going to find more shit for us to break. Best Field Day ever!"

He took off, sprinting up the slight hill and onto the path that circled the field. Once he felt he was a safe enough distance away, he twirled on his heel to check that Charley and Maddie weren't watching. Maddie had joined Charley at the table, both now engrossed in conversation.

Good.

He didn't need to seek you out, his gaze finding you easily as you marched across the grass toward the front of the school, staring at your phone like it held the secrets of the universe. Maybe it did, Wally had no idea, too intimidated to try using one of those things.

"Hey." He called once he was close enough, trailing you as you made your way into the parking lot. That feeling that had been with him all day intensified as his proximity to you lessened, white-hot and smoldering beneath his flesh.

Although you didn't answer, your back stiffened, almost imperceptible if Wally hadn't been paying such close attention, and your stride shortened marginally.

"I missed you." He confessed, breathing heavy from exertion, "Didn't see you this morning. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to avoid me." He glanced at you cheekily, settling into step beside you.

You ignored him, focused on your phone, though the screen was blank.

"I had things to do, anyway." Wally shrugged it off. "You know how it is; a lot to keep a guy busy in the afterlife."

He noticed you'd changed direction, out of the parking lot and onto the walkway that looped around to the side of the school where the bus stop stood. Part of him buzzed at the thought that you'd done it on purpose. To avoid crossing the invisible barrier that would catapult Wally straight to the 5-yard line.

Wally licked his lips, leaned into your space so his arm pressed against yours as you walked. Pinkies brushed, skin on skin, sparking electricity up his arm that burst in his chest.

He pressed on despite your resilience, "It's Field Day today. Or, Destroy the Field Day, really." He snickered at his own joke, figured he'd do it for you. "It's fun. You should try it sometime. You know, when you stop pretending you can't see me." He spun around to walk backwards, preferred to see your face even if you refused to look at him. "I could show you the ropes like I did for Maddie. I'm sure Mr. M wouldn't—"

Suddenly, you stopped in your tracks, chin lifting, eyes spiking up from your phone as you pulled down your hood in one motion. Wally froze. His pulse hammered a chorus in his ears—boom clap, boom clap—wind knocked from his lungs as slowly, so so slowly, your eyes glided to meet his.

The intensity in them pinned Wally in place. Time receded. The noise of afternoon activity dimmed. You saw. him. This was more than acknowledgment, this was proof. Proof that he took up space in your world as you did in his. He was witnessed, real, a l i v e.

Wally uttered so quietly, terrified to break the spell, a soft and reverent, "Hey..." the weight of it catching in his throat.

As if fighting against yourself, you brought your phone to your ear in small, measured increments, gaze unwavering. Wally was enraptured by the marbling colors in its depths and couldn't help but wonder if your eyes did that whenever you peeked through the veil, or if it was a reaction unique to him.

And then that didn't matter because, for the first time, unmistakably and with intention, you spoke to him.

"What did you just say?"

💀___________________________

PART FIVE - PART SEVEN

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

#Milo Manheim #Wally Clark #Wally Clark x Reader #fem!reader #Wally Clark smut #Wally Clark fanfiction #Milo Manheim fanfiction #School Spirits #October Sun

503 notes · View notes

dixonsstinkysock · 2 months ago

Text

Charmed.

summary - it’s was always john, you should’ve known.

pairing - john shelby x reader x past! tommy shelby

warnings - mentions of cheating

notes - I’m obsessed with john shelby what.

main masterlist | peaky blinders masterlist

prompt list 💚

49. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

60. “I never meant to hurt you.”

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

“I never meant to hurt you. You were right, I need you”

You scoffed, slightly shaking your head and looking into the water below.

“You made me look a fool, Thomas. Sitting around, waiting for you, and you’re out fucking the new barmaid.”

“It—…It meant nothing. I know my decision now, it’s you.”

“Don’t feed me that bullshit, Tom. Go be happy with that bloody barmaid of yours.”

——————————

It had been a few months since your last conversation with the infamous Thomas Shelby. Of course you’d seen him around since then but you always denied his requests to speak or avoided him in general. You were still close with the rest of the Shelby family, being childhood friends with Arthur, Tommy, John, and Ada, it was hard to miss him. No way would you cut the rest of the Shelby siblings off just because their brother was a twat.

Ada, your best friend, had been bugging you to go out for a while now. “Getting back out there” as she put it, already wanting to find a new suitor for you. You honestly had no interest or intention to start anything new so soon, turning down anyone who dared to go after Tommy Shelby’s girl—ex girl.

After realizing you really weren’t planning on going with anyone tonight, Ada decided to drop it and just enjoy your company. The both of you getting shit-faced and somehow ending up dancing on tables. It was a miracle neither one of you fell. Eventually, Polly cut you and Ada off, having John escort..well, carry you to your flat. You woke up the next morning with a splitting headache, a cup of water, and a bucket next to your bed. Bless him.

——————————

“Did you know?”

“I knew he took some type of interest into her but, well, you know Tom…”

“Right…” You turn to leave

“Y’know I would’ve told you if I knew. You didn’t deserve that, Tommy, he’s—“

“I know, Arthur…Save me a bottle of that whiskey tonight, yeah?” He nods, looking at you with pity and watching you leave the Garrison, still heartbroken.

——————————

The room temp water felt like heaven. Dreading getting up to get more you hear someone knocking on your front door. At first, you plan to ignore it, getting up this early with a hangover should be illegal and you aren’t going to do it. John Shelby’s never done anything legal so…

“Oi! (Y/N)!” You groan, turning around in your bed, shoving your head under your pillow.

“Time to get up, (Y/N)! I need you!”

Realizing he won’t leave until he sees you, you throw the covers off, getting out of bed and heading towards your bedroom window. Opening the window, you peer outside not realizing you’re only in your undergarments.

“What do you need, John?!”

“Nothing! Hoped it’d get you up faster!”

“Fuck you, John Shelby!”

He lets out a laugh, taking your house key from its hiding place and letting himself inside.

——————————

“Big day…”

John stands infront of his bedroom mirror, messing and fixing every tiny little thing on his uniform. Avoiding looking at you in the mirror, afraid of what will happen if he does. “Yeah.”You take another step in, softly letting the door click behind you.

“I uh…I wanted to speak to you alone before you left. I—I did the same with Arthur and Tommy so…” Your left hand twisting the rings on your fingers out of nervousness. “I want you to promise me, John.”

He stills just for a moment, hands still holding onto his collar. “Promise? Promise what?”

“That you’ll come back…T-to Martha…to Polly, Ada, Finn, your kids…Me.” His hands drop from his coat, falling to his sides. You step towards his bed, carefully picking up his cap and moving towards him. “You’ve got alot of people counting on you, John.”

You adjust his cap on his head until you deem it perfect, as perfect as it can be. Your hands cup his face, thumbs caressing his cheekbones, giving him a smile. “I’m already ready for you boys to come home.” Letting out a small laugh, you blink away the tears as best you can. You don’t need to cry infront of him.

Silence blankets the room as you stare into each other’s eyes, time passing as you both get lost in eachother. This wasn’t right. You’re with his brother, Tommy, and he’s with Martha, happy with kids. “You better come back to m-us, John Shelby—” You are cut off as his lips collide with yours. His hands find the back of your head and waist as he nips at your lower lip.

Your hands find his chest, pushing him away. “John—I-Don’t.” You turn, leaving his room and heading back downstairs to the rest of the Shelby’s.

——————————

John said he had something planned tonight. Something that he needed the whole family together for. So, here you are, walking into the Garrison in one of your best black dresses.

Surprisingly, the place is empty. The Garrison is only empty when it’s Shelby business or Blinder business. Maybe you should just go home, especially if they’re having a family meeting. You go to grab your coat from the rack you just put it on, coming in when—

Crash

“Fockin’ ‘ell!”

“John?”

Peeking through the snug door you see John, a whiskey bottle and a floor full of glass. “John, are you okay?” He spins in your direction, the shattered cup crunching under his shoes. “Yeah, Yeah, just bloody fookin’ clumsy.”

“Where is everyone?” You set your purse down on the seat, carefully stepping around the shards. “Oh—uh, They couldn’t make it, y’know everyone’s busy these days.” You get down on your knees, picking up the larger shards of glass that John hadn’t reached yet. “Thought I’d…tell you first. Y’know since…no one else is here.” He brings in a broom and dust pan from outside, sweeping up the smaller shards.

You grab another glass from behind the counter, making your way back towards the snug. John pours you both a drink, him downing his as soon as he puts the whiskey bottle down, immediately pouring another. “Must be pretty big news…”

“Listen, (Y/N), I’m gonna be a blunt with you here—no beating ‘round the bush…no more.” He pours another.

“Alright…I’m ready.”

“I want to marry you.”

…

“What?” He lets out a breath, downing his drink again and slamming the glass down. “You heard me. I want to marry you.” Now it’s your turn to get another drink.

“John…You don’t want to marry me. You’re grieving—“

He scoffs throwing his hat down on the table, his right leg bouncing like crazy. “If you don’t want to, tell me now so I can start to move on.” A silence falls over you two, John’s courage slowly slipping. You set your glass down, leaning back into your seat. “It—It’s not that I don’t want to, I just…” You take a deep breath, thinking about what to say next.

“There’s more than just getting married, John. What would your family say, what would Tommy say—“

“Who gives a fuck what Tommy says?! He should’ve never let you go like that.”

Another silence but this time it’s not as tense, almost as if you’ve decided. Have you decided? Of course you’ve always felt something with John but there’s so many consequences to this. Would you be happy? Would his family think of you as being a whore? Jumping around, brother to brother…

“Tommy’s always taken what’s mine. I think it’s time I take something of his, ey?”

YOU GUYS CAN DECIDE HOW THIS ENDS!! ARE YOU GONNA MARRY HIM OR WHAT???? (say yes)

C U L8TER 💚

word count: 1276

#john shelby x reader #john shelby #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x past!reader #peaky blinders netflix #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders #ayce is cooking 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

89 notes · View notes

slothwrath · 3 months ago

Text

If I could've been, I would've been

Pairing: Rose Thompson Hovick/Reader

Summary: Rose starts the day off with a woman in her bed.

Word count: 2,956

This is my first fic and I'm very scared! But we love Patti Lupone so we suffer through the fear. I don't know if this is a pairing people are interested in but I had a lot of fun with it <3

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63757222/chapters/163467931

Chapter 1 - I had a dream

There was a woman in her bed. That had never happened before. Sure Rose had looked at other women from time to time, actresses in bigger shows than she'd ever put on, or richer ladies walking down the street with fancier coats and their hair done up.

She'd looked at other women and what should have felt more like jealousy turned into a dangerous feeling of longing after a second glance. But there was always one of her husbands or Herbie in the way, not to mention her girls to think of, so nothing ever came of it.

Except for now. There was a woman in her bed and she was naked. Both of them were actually, lying face to face with each other. The woman dragged her nails up Rose's side slowly, tantalizingly. Her eyes were a startling shade of green, something playful in them sending a thrill down Rose's spine.

The woman didn't speak as she leaned in close to Rose, stopping just before their lips could touch. They hovered there for a moment, caught somewhere between sizing each other up and savoring the moment. Gentle hands traced their fingers up Rose's curves inching closer to her chest.

Rose gave in first, she was never one for patience, pulling the other woman on top of her and into a ferocious kiss. Her tongue was in the woman's mouth instantly, hands running wildly up and down her back, trying to take in as much of her as possible. The woman's hands went straight to her hair as if they belonged there tugging her impossibly closer.

They remained like that for what felt like all of two seconds before the woman broke away from her grasp, latching on to Rose's neck before she could make a fuss at the loss of contact.

It was too much and not enough all at the same time as the woman left a trail of marks from her neck, to her clavicle, to her breasts. She lingered there for a while, giving each one it's fair share of marks, before moving on at a dizzying pace- it seemed they shared similar feelings for patience.

The woman continued her descent downwards and Rose felt her anticipation grow, heat pooling between her legs. She reached the top of her thighs and Rose spread them, eager for the woman to get on with it.

Their eyes met, one set bright and mischievous the other dark and overcome with lust. Both were more than a little awestruck. The other woman bit down on Rose's inner thigh before soothing it with her tongue. She never broke eye contact as she licked a long, agonizing line up her skin, higher and higher until-

Rose woke up. There was a steady throbbing between her legs and the bed sheets were slick with arousal. That had never happened before. Her dreams, usually whimsical and absurd, had never been so sexually charged or felt so grounded in reality.

There hadn't even been a cow.

A beam of light was shining through the window directly across from her bed, blinding her. She sat up and tried to regain her surroundings.

It was a special day.

Everything was quiet and disturbingly void of life. There was no shouting in the next room and no alarms going off. No animals in the bed with her. The high ceilings in her too big room in Louise's too big, soulless mansion should've echoed with sound.

When Rose had dreamed of making it big she had never pictured it like this. An empty life built off of dirty money made by her daughter and nobody around who needed her. Or even wanted her. Things had come full circle in a way.

It was a special day but it didn't feel like it. She went to find Louise.

Her daughter was sitting in the dining room, separate from the kitchen. Despite the early time her hair was perfectly pinned and her makeup done. She had always been a morning person.

Rose hugged her tightly on the way to her seat, ignoring the way Louise stiffened under her touch.

"Happy birthday baby." She murmured, kissing her on the cheek.

"Thank you mama." Louise responded, shying away.

The silence engulfed them as she sat across from her daughter to wait for breakfast to be brought out. They had a maid for that now, waffles and crepes or whatever fancy meal they wanted available every morning. No Chinese food.

"I'm wearing that blue dress for the party tonight." Rose pressed on, bluntly ignoring the suffocating atmosphere. She could fill any silence with the best of them. "You know the one, from when we had dinner with that terrible agent last week?"

Louise hummed noncommittally looking off to the side. "He wasn't that bad."

He was. But she was trying not to start any fights today.

"Well it was an awful waste of a good dress so I'm wearing it tonight. I was thinking I could borrow that silk shawl of yours. The white one?" She smoothed out the tablecloth in front of her, as if it wasn't already perfectly laid out. "It'll go great with the dress."

"Sure mama, whatever you'd like." Louise was looking at her now, something reproachful in her eyes. "But you don't have to come tonight. I know how you feel about the people I keep company with these days."

They were tacky and full of themselves. Always speaking in fake french accents and eating fake french food, laughing at Rose behind her back.

"Of course I'm coming tonight. I'm your mother, I wouldn't miss your birthday for the world."

"I told you mama nobody knows it's my birthday. We're celebrating that new spread I had in that magazine, remember?" She pulled her robe tighter around herself. "I don't need a birthday party, I'm not ten anymore."

Something caught in the back of Rose's throat.

Before she could come up with a witty response breakfast was brought into the room- eclairs or something fancy like that. She missed egg rolls. Rose missed a lot of things she never thought she would.

Louise set about cutting her food into ridiculously dainty bite sized portions and the silence came crashing back. For once Rose didn't try to fill it.

At least until their meal was finished and the dishes were taken away and Rose felt a spike of panic settle in as Louise prepared get up and leave their morning at that.

"Wait!"

Louise looked at her expectantly and vaguely hopeful.

Rose could've guessed what she wanted to hear but she sucked at making amends. It was so much easier to keep pushing forward over dwelling on past mistakes.

So she said, "I had a dream."

And Louise face closed off.

"Really mama?"

And she headed for the door.

"It was different than my usual ones!" Rose pushed on, though she didn't think Louise would like this one either way.

"I don't want to hear about it."

And she was gone.

Rose hated sitting still but she didn't have much to occupy her days with anymore. Her life used to be taking the lead on a never ending series of cities and new acts, jumping from one thing to the next all while trying to remain relevant and useful. Important. Now it was all trailing after others, mainly Louise, still trying be useful wherever she could. Maybe there wasn't that much of a difference.

So she followed the maid into the kitchen and supervised her doing the dishes, making needless adjustments here and there.

Then she followed Louise throughout her day, trying not to voice her opinions too strongly or get too on her daughters nerves. It was a special day after all.

She failed.

The party that night was at the Cattle Classique, some sort of high-end restaurant that was popular with a lot of big stars. Naturally Louise's crowd loved it. Her daughter happened to know the owner through means Rose didn't care to worry about, so they'd gotten a private room free of charge for the night.

She liked it a lot actually, it was a classy place with marble pillars and high arching windows. It was dark in the evening and full of life- exactly the sort of place she would have liked to perform in, if she'd had the chance.

It just would have been nice if the place liked her back. Instead the wait staff gave them odd looks and served everyone else at the table before her. The conversation was grating, held by people Rose was uninterested in knowing but trying to get along with for Louise's sake- she failed. And her feet couldn't touch the ground because the chairs were too tall.

Everything there seemed to feel as if it were too good for her, even the furniture.

She had been the one to ditch Louise this time, after the waiter asked if she'd like him to find a smaller chair. Like she was some sort of child! She made sure to tell him exactly where he could shove his smaller chair on her way out the door.

If this really wasn't a birthday party like Louise insisted then she didn't have to stick around. She'd had the rest of the day with her at least.

But Rose was no quitter so instead of going home she went to the bar in the main area of the restaurant. This had nothing to do with the fact that Louise employed her ride home. She could've walked the five miles home if she really wanted to.

It was fairly crowded, as expected for a Friday night, the few seats available scattered between groups of friends or colleagues. Not a single person other than her seemed to be alone.

She weaved through the crowd to a seat at the left of the bar, the side that seemed the least rowdy. It took her three tries to get the bartender's attention the first time, then afterwards he seemed to be ignoring her for the less sullen groups. Typical. They probably tipped better or something.

Rose never tipped, gracing the bartenders with her presence was enough of a tip and she was already paying them for the drinks wasn't she?

Maybe she should've walked the five miles after all. Or thrown her glass at the bartender.

Either way she felt like she was suffocating in this room full of happy people. She felt like that anywhere she went these days. Maybe it'd been that way for her whole life.

She saw you when she scanned the room looking for an exit and realized she was being watched. One of the waitresses across the room, looking at her with a pair of familiar bright green eyes and a startled expression like a deer caught in headlights. Very different from the expression you'd worn earlier that morning.

Before Rose could do anything you turned around and practically fled into the kitchens. So she got up and followed the woman from her dream.

The kitchens were crowded and Rose stepped on more than a few feet in her pursuit, but she didn't care. Didn't listen to their cries of protest telling her to get the hell out either. This was more important. This was something. Her dreams were always something.

The back alley behind the kitchens was dank and smelled like trash. It was dark but in a creepier way from the inside, like she'd entered a cruise spot for frequent stabbings. But her woman had led her there so she was staying.

You were leaning against the wall next to the door, still looking at Rose like you couldn't believe she was there.

Rose felt a similar way. "You're real."

You looked confused and she faltered for a second. She'd thought you had recognized her from across the room, but now that it was just the two of you she didn't feel so certain. Maybe she'd just hunted a stranger down in the middle of her workplace.

"Yeah I'm real. I hope so at least." You finally murmured back.

When Rose didn't move you tentatively tapped the wall beside yourself inviting her to lean next to you.

So she joined you, wedging herself a little closer than you'd expected based off the way you shifted a little uneasily.

"I'm Rose."

Something in your expression changed once she introduced herself, like you'd reached a decision you'd been pondering. She recognized something of herself in the way all anxiety vanished from your face, like you were steeling yourself for something big.

"I'm Lucille." You withdrew a pack of cigarettes from your pockets and lit it before offering one to Rose.

She declined but leaned in closer to you, pretending to seek warmth from the non-existent breeze and steeling herself for something big too. It felt like you were both on the brink of something.

She didn't try to hide the way she watched you unabashedly, taking in your soft yet striking features as you took a drag from your cigarette.

"So Lucille," She relished in the way you shivered when she said your name. "How long have you been a waitress?"

She would never have guessed this is where she'd find you. Customer service didn't suit you.

You released a puff of smoke before gracing Rose with that other worldly stare again.

"A few months. But it's just a side gig really, my real job is on the stage. I'm an actress. Gonna be big on Broadway someday."

Her woman just kept getting better and better. Rose could certainly see you on the stage, even in the dimly lit alley you were gorgeous.

She found herself saying, "I'm in the show business. Used to be real big on the Orpheum Circuit my act and me." She felt that old itch coming back, to build herself up. Embellishment was a second nature to her. "I'm gonna be on Broadway too."

You smiled softly at her but it didn't feel mocking. More playful like you shared a secret.

"You look like you belong on a stage." You said.

Rose felt the heat rush to her cheeks in a rush of exhilaration. She'd been waiting to hear something like that all her life.

"Anything I'd know you from?" You asked. Mirroring her now, you pressed equally close into her space and wearing twin conspiratorial smiles.

Rose ran her hand down your arm, gauging your response to her touch.

"No not at the moment. I'm waiting for something worthy of my talent to come along."

You leaned into her touch with a pleased hum. She liked the way you were staring at her like she was the most important thing in the world to you.

"Well I'll let you know if I find anything that might suit you."

She was almost certain now that you recognized her, or wanted to at least. And she felt thrilled by the idea that she wanted you back, if a little frightened. None of her past relationships had exactly gone very well and she'd never been with a woman before. What would Louise think? And shouldn't she be more bothered by this?

But after months of strained conversation and notes outside of dressing rooms telling her to keep out, it felt nice to be wanted. To be seen.

"Do you ever have dreams?" Rose asked.

"Yes." You didn't bat an eye at the question. "Of being on the stage. Of doing big things with my life."

You took another drag of your cigarette, dragging out the moment before adding- "And of falling in love."

Oh you were good.

"I think I'd like that cigarette now." Rose husked, still clutching your arm almost possessively.

"Of course."

She wanted to kiss you. You were exactly as perfect as she'd dreamed, probably the first time her dreams had ever manifested so accurately. And as you brought your face closer to light her cigarette with yours she almost did.

That would've been something considering the lit cigarettes between two of you. Though the fire and excitement that would've ensued somehow fit exactly with how she was feeling.

You pulled away before she could do anything too irrational and she realized someone was calling your name.

"Lucille get your ass back in here! You've already taken three smoke breaks and a lunch today, what the hell do you think we're paying you for?!"

You offered Rose a rueful smile and snuffed your cigarette.

"I have to go."

"Wait!" Rose panicked. Why did it feel like this was always happening to her?

You were already almost through the door, turning halfway to look back at her. "I'll keep an eye out for those roles."

She didn't even know where you lived. Barely even knew your name and you were gone.

She considered chasing you down for a moment but it wasn't worth doing a second time. You'd clearly wanted to leave. So she lingered in the alley for a while, replaying the last five minutes of the evening in her head instead.

Lucille. It was such a pretty name, practically meant to be known worldwide. She would've grabbed you for one of her vaudeville acts in a second for sure, if she'd met you before.

And you had said she was built for the stage. You were only stating the obvious sure, but sometimes it was nice to have the facts restated. Sometimes the facts were easy to forget if you were the only one remembering to speak them.

She'd have to come up with some excuses to make the Cattle Classique a regular spot. They could certainly afford it now anyways.

Flicking her cigarette to the side, Rose went to find Louise.

#patti lupone #rose thomspon hovick x reader #patti lupone x reader #fanfic #gypsy musical

65 notes · View notes

trippinsorrows · 10 months ago

Text

with me + part twenty two

rec listening: what dreams are made of by hilary duff (you'll know when) // words: 11k // warnings: smut, language, fluff galore, and suggestive content // masterlist

Coming off an insanely hectic week and an even more hectic weekend, your plan from the minute you stepped off that plane with Joe and Callie, who he held protectively in his arms as she slept most of the time, was relatively simple.

Very simple, actually.

Rest.

Rest for as much of the day as you could until it was time to get up and ready to drop Callie off at Kaylah’s place before your checkup.

It was a good plan, a sensible plan.

It’s also a plan that went right out the window when you wake up to find your man not next to you, not with his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you against his equally strong chest, hand on your baby bump.

No, instead you find his head in between your legs feasting on you like a man on the brink of starvation.

“Oh my god….” You will never in your life complain about waking up this way, your favorite adult person in this life, eating you out with that tongue that could make a nun swear. Never. But, you also don’t know how this man is up at what feels like the ass crack of down ready for some pussy with the ridiculous weekend he had.

His tongue circling your clit makes your hand shoot to his head, fingers immersed in his silky hair. “Baby…..oh shit, just like that.” It’s so hard to speak with him sucking on your pussy in the way that only he can, but you do your best to power through. “You–supposed to be—fuck—resting.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because this man clearly lives to drive you mad. He lifts his head, the sun from the adjacent window hitting him just right to illustrate the shine of your essence all over his beard. Fuck, he must have made you orgasm in your sleep already.

A damn shame you weren’t awake to experience that glory.

Smug as always, he asks, “you really want me to stop?” It’s the way he sticks his index and middle finger inside of you, watching as your back naturally arches, hand moving down to touch yourself.

Joe moves fast, answering your hand away, answering before you can protest, “the next time you come will be on my dick.”

Feeling bold while also eager for that dick, you taunt him, knowing what kind of response you’ll receive. “So what you waiting for?”

He smirks, and you know right then and there, he’s about to make you lose your fucking mind.

In a matter of what feels like seconds, he has you on your hands and knees, powerful backshots making you ready to scream his name for the entire neighborhood to know at least one of their new neighbors’ identity.

Your grip on the headboard is really the only thing keeping you upright, the force of his thrusts so rough and borderline aggressive that it has you seeing stars. One particular angled thrust forces out a louder than necessary curse that you know almost instantly he’s gonna make you pay for.

As expected, he pauses just to let his hand come down on your ass. Blood is nearly drawn with how hard you have to bite on your lip to keep from moaning. “Shut up before you wake her up.” His voice is gruff and demanding and you love it. Love it when he’s rough with you like this, when he makes it clear as day who runs shit in the bedroom. It makes your cunt clench against the girth of his dick. “Fuck, I missed being inside this pussy.”

Not as much as you missed him.

Joe plants his hand on the small of your back, pushing you down, deepening your arch. A groan of absolute bliss is all you can muster as he starts slamming against your G-Spot. “Gon make you come on my mouth and dick every fuckin day I’m home.”

He keeps you almost facedown into the mattress for a couple more minutes before he suddenly reaches and yanks your body flush against him, again deepening his reach.

It’s a miracle you don’t scream from that alone.

Joe grabs you by your chin and and turns your head to the wall with the full body mirror that gives you both a perfect view of the nastiness currently occurring. His mouth is by your ear, biting down on your earlobe as he instructs, “Look how fucking gorgeous you look right now, making a mess all over my dick with my baby inside you.”

It’s a hell of a view, the sight alone to make you come all over him right then and there.

His hand moves to your stomach, and you swear you hear a moan as he asks, “you gon give me another baby after this one?”

At that, your eyes go wide, because what in the actual fucking hell? You’re not even halfway through this pregnancy, and he’s already talking about the next?

But then his hand circles back around to the front of you, kneading your breast and intentionally slowing his pace for a torturously teasing second before slamming back into what has to be your stomach.

He’s so fucking deep in you.

Never a fan of having to wait, his deep voice rumbles in your ear, “I asked you a question.” And before you can try to reason with the man that is living, breathing proof God is real and so so good, that big hand travels down the slope of your belly to your pussy, fingers circling your clit. “You gon let me put a baby in you?”

There’s really only one answer you’re capable of giving. Tears down your face from borderline overstimulation, you swear over your entire goddamn uterus for this man to do whatever he wants. “Shit, yes. Oh God, yes.”

He’s visibly pleased and satisfied as he shoves you back on the bed and temporarily removes himself to adjust positions. Joe lays you on your back, legs pushed up at the same time he re-enters you with all the roughness of before. “You ain’t ever getting on that damn pill.”

That could be a problem, maybe, but it’s a problem for another damn day.

More deep strokes build up that familiar pressure that starts low and expands high. He sees that, the same way you see and feel his end nearing as well. “Lemme see that face when you come all over daddy’s dick.”

And like the pathetic simp you are for him, your release courses and travels through your entire body, hands squeezing at the sheets, toes curling, trembling and all.

Joe is not far behind, big body hovered over yours as he empties inside of you, sparing not a single drop of his sperm.

He drops to your side, and the two of you lay there in comfortable silence, chests heaving as you try to gather your bearings.

It’s a couple minutes later when you notice the feeling returning to your bottom half. Turning your head to look at him, you tell him half joking, half serious, “you keep fucking me like that, and I’m gonna be pregnant every year, Joe.” Thinking back, it really is a miracle you didn’t get pregnant much sooner than you did. Granted, it took a bit for you to get comfortable enough to let him fuck you raw. Still, if you knew then what you know now, the beautiful life you’d have together, you probably would have let him impregnated you sooner rather than later.

Especially with knowing how much he’s always wanted a family.

He runs his big hand over your bump. “What’s wrong with that?”

All you can do is stare at him like he’s stupid. This man done lost his goddamn mind. After this baby, you’ll give him one more. After that, that’s it.

Three kids is your limit.

That’s more than enough.

________

After spending the morning and early afternoon with Callie, the two of you ready her and yourselves for the doctor's appointment. As expected, Callie asks to come, something you were initially okay with until Joe voiced his concerns.

Initially, he’s a bit iffy with his explanation. You don’t follow, don’t understand why you can’t share this moment with Callie as well, letting her hear her baby brother or sister’s heartbeat for the first time.

It’s not until he says, “just want to make sure everything is alright first” that you get it, that you understand he wants to make sure everything is still going smoothly with the pregnancy. It makes all the sense in the world given everything he’s been through with this subject.

So you respect it, hoping he’ll be okay with her attending the next one, or even whichever appointment will be the one where you find out the sex.

She seems to really want a baby sister.

You’re convinced, however, it’s a boy.

It’s something you somehow feel even more convinced of sitting in the doctor’s lobby with your boyfriend, waiting to be called.

“Looks like my mom’s flight is still scheduled to arrive on time.”

Your mother, forever the drama queen, opted to stay in Philly an extra day so she could “rest.” Rest from what, you’re not entirely sure, because her week wasn’t nearly as hectic as yours and especially Joe. But, the Airbnb was rented until Tuesday, so it wasn’t an issue for him, thus it’s not a big deal to you either.

He nods. “I’ll pick her up.”

“You can just pick Callie up on the way home afterwards then.” It’s less ripping and running for the man who should be resting but has been on the go since the minute his eyes opened this morning, it seems. “Give us a few hours of alone time.”

He gives you that look. “You feening already?”

“Stop being nasty,” you chide, even if he’s not entirely wrong. It’s a rarity that you get alone time with the man next to you, usually having to share, or not share, him with his possessive little twin. “I was thinking we could take a nap or something. The next few days are gonna be stupid busy and draining. My agenda is packed.”

“You created a schedule?”

“Of course.” It’s said as if it’s the simplest thing a person could ever explain. “I’m a teacher and a mama, Joe. I live my life by schedules and agenda. I’ll share the Google doc with you.”

Forever confused about modern technology, he asks, “a what?”

Groaning, head thrown back against the seat, you chide him for his outdated knowledge of technology. “You’re such an old man. Imagine Microsoft Word but better and easily accessible.”

He’s unbothered and clearly set in his ancient ways. “I’m still stuck on the agenda.”

“Baby, if you’re gonna go all out to take us to Disney, I’m gonna make sure we’ll maximize our time there as much as possible.”

He looks like he wants to initially say something but decides on option two instead. “It’s not like it’ll be the last time, baby. We’ll go again in May if you’re up to it, and I know Callie gon want to go again and again.”

“That girl would probably live there if she could.” It’s half a joking, half a serious guess. Thinking on his words, you suggest, “if for some reason I can’t go in May, you two should go.”

He looks at you as if he’s surprised you would suggest something like that. “Yeah?”

Nodding, you grab his arm, laying your head against his shoulder. “She would love that, and with you being home, any opportunity you have to spend time with her, just the two of you, you should take.” Hand to your stomach, you add, “especially before the baby gets here.”

It goes without saying that Joe will absolutely spend as much time with Callie as he can while on indefinite hiatus, but spending said time doing something like taking her to Disney for a father daughter trip would be another level of happiness.

For the both of them.

A couple of minutes later, your name is called. Joe easily slips his hand over yours, guiding you to the back. He’s standing at your side as the nurse takes your weight, blood pressure, and is outside the door as they take a urine sample to check for sugar and protein levels. Once in the room, the nurse finalizes her portion of questions before instructing you to undress and change into the hospital gown.

As soon as the door is closed and you’re laid on the table, your hand reaches for his.

“Everything’s going to be fine.”

You’ve been with this man long enough to know that while he’s adept at hiding his emotions, compartmentalizing them wisely and expertly, there’s just some minor telltales that give him away his truth. Tiny little signs that you know and can recognize significantly easier than most. It’s how you know he’s fighting back unease and potential anxiety at something that’s historically been borderline traumatizing for him.

That’s why you bring your conjoined hands to your belly, again reminding him, “we’re going to be fine.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you don’t need him to. You just need him to know that you’re here for him.

A couple minutes later, Dr. Young walks in with that same friendly greeting, introducing herself to Joe and leaving the same great impression she made during the first appointment.

She asks all the standard questions before taking your fundal height and transitioning to the big moment you’ve been waiting for since finding out you were expecting. “So far, so good. Let’s get this ultrasound started so mommy and daddy can hear their baby’s heartbeat.” While preparing, she engages you both in conversation. “You already have one child, right?”

Joe answers. “A girl. She’ll be five next month.”

“So not that big of an age gap.” And you’re actually really happy about that, happy that there won’t be so many years between Callie and her little sister or brother. It’ll make the bonding between them that much easier. “Planning for more after this?”

Her question makes you laugh as you gesture to Joe. “Yes, but the exact number is up in the air because someone over here seems to think I’m a baby machine or something. I’d be okay with one more. Three is my limit though.”

He chuckles but agrees. “I do think three is a good number.”

“Very fair.” Dr. Young also laughs, applying the gel to your stomach, asking the both of you, “ready?”

You give Joe’s hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze and answer, “we’re ready.”

Her smile remains as she begins to move the transducer around your stomach. Every second after that feels like it weighs 100lbs, like there’s a massive anchor attached to each passing second that crushes down on your chest. It’s important that you remain in a positive mindset for the sake of the man beside you who must be feeling ten times what you’re experiencing.

But then…..

But then you hear it.

The strangest yet most beautiful rhythmic beating expecting parents could hear.

And then you’re crying. You’re crying because this moment means so much to you, means so much to Joe. His lips are pressed against your forehead, lingering, an unspoken I love you in the air.

It’s like you can feel the anxiety completely wash off and away from him.

From the both of you.

But then Dr. Young’s smile dims. “Oh….”

One word, and your heart also drops. You beat Joe to it, asking, “what?”

Her answer, in actuality, comes a few seconds later, but it feels like an hour wait. She seems almost hesitant, “is there—do twins run on either side?”

Your heart drops in a different kind of way, in a pure terror sort of way but for an entirely different reason.

“Please—-please do not tell me that we’re having twins.” That….that can’t be true. You refuse to even allow yourself to consider the possibility that it could be true. One glance at Joe, and he seems just as lost. “Dr. Young.”

She shakes her head. “No, you’re not having twins.”

And just like that, you release the biggest, relieving, relaxing breath that could leave your body. “Oh, thank God.” Hand on your chest, you laugh a little, shaking your head. “I was about to say—”

“You’re having triplets.”

There’s one blink, two blinks, three blinks followed up with a hearty laugh. Your gaze falls on Joe who isn’t laughing, eyes instead focused on the monitor. “That’s funny.” Shaking your head, you then notice not a speck of humor on her face. “Why—why aren’t you laughing?”

She makes a face, pointing to the screen. “Here’s baby A….” Your eyes land on what you can tell is clearly a baby still in the early stages of development. She moves around the transducer, searching, landing on another indecipherable speck. “Baby B.” Again, more searching before she reaches her final destination. “And baby C.”

You’re in a state of shock staring at the screen, partially paying attention to her words but more in a state of shock than anything. “And they all have very strong heartbeats.”

This is a beautiful thing for her to say, for you to hear, but it’s the pluralism that you can’t get over.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. Wait a damn minute.” By now, you’re no longer crying and instead sitting up on your elbows trying not to have a goddamn stroke. “Are you serious right now?” Before she can say anything, you’re clarifying to avoid any room for miscommunication. “There are three children growing inside me?”

Dr. Young gives a nervous chuckle, offering an almost unsure. “Congratulations?”

“Oh my—” Instantly, you’re turning to Joe, punching him on his big ass arm as hard as you can.

He has the audacity to make a sound as if it fucking hurt his built like a boulder ass. “Ow.”

“No, that’s what I’m going to be saying when I’m trying to push out three of your big headed ass children!” Just the thought of that alone makes your eyes water. “Like what the fuck, Joe!”

This man has the unmitigated gall to shrug almost nonchalantly “It wasn’t like it was intentional, baby.”

“You know what is going to be intentional?” You point to the wall opposite that’s mostly made up of a large window, providing a view of the busy Florida streets. “Me pushing your big ass out that window for doing this to me!”

Dr. Young gives an uncomfortable cough. “Maybe I should leave you two al—”

“Baby.”

“No, don’t call me that. Matter of fact, don’t call me anything, because we are through! I thought you loved me!”

“Y/N—”

“I think you need to just calm down, Y/N. I know this is unexpected—”

“Unexpected?” Ready to rip into him, a gasp escapes your mouth when a thought crosses your mind. You turn to Dr. Young and ask, “wait. We had sex this morning. Is it possible it’s just like his sperm or something you’re seeing?”

“With a heartbeat?”

You’re not in the mood for Joe’s smartass comments and make as such known. “I wasn’t talking to you, Nick Cannon.” He rolls his eyes. “Doc?”

She’s not much help either. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Y/N. I think I know what a baby looks like. That’s a baby.” She then corrects, “Three, actually.”

“Oh my god,” you moan, eyes starting to water and as you turn to him again. “How could you do this to me? Why would you do this—”

He’s trying to comfort you, voice gentle as he works to calm you down, a hopeless effort. You’re too far gone because now you’re full out crying, very little difference between yourself and Callie during one of her tantrums. “You and your stupid fertile ass super-sperm!”

“Well, I see you two have a lot to talk about—”

“Who the fuck has three kids at once, Joe?” You growl at him while also asking the doctor, “can we like space that shit out? Like I can give birth on different days?”

She seems to be trying her best to be respectful of your haywire emotions. “I don’t—I don’t think that’s possible.”

That evokes another loud sob. “My vagina is literally gonna fucking break. These big ass babies are gonna demolish my walls.”

Dr. Young remains the professional voice of reason. “Now, we don’t know the babies size just yet, so let’s not panic—”

“I do! Big!” You snap, angrily pointing at your former boyfriend. “Look at this man! He’s freakishly huge, and so is basically his entire fucking family.”

She seemingly ignores your probably hormonal outburst, redirecting to facts. “We’ll continue to monitor the babies growth, and if their size presents an issue, then we’ll discuss scheduling a possible C-Section.” She then informs of an additional change in plans. “And because you’re having multiples, I will need to see you every two weeks vs every month due to increased risk of complications with a pregnancy like this—”

“Complications?” Joe questions, and for a second, you’re able to pull away from your meltdown to be present for the possible return of his anxiety.

Dr. Young is quick to clarify. “Looking at her medical records, the first pregnancy seemed to go relatively well medically, so we have very little reason to think this will be any different. It’s just that taking extra precautions never hurt anybody and is the medical standard for pregnancies with multiples.”

That seems to calm him a bit, as it does you, but only for a second, because you’re right back to freaking out.

“People have baby showers and gender reveal parties. Not babies showers and genders reveal parties. It’s supposed to be single, not plural!”

“Well, you said three was your limit—”

“Joe!”

________

Group Chat: SOS

Y/N: attention everyone, joe and i are no longer together as of today. we will be coparenting moving forward and ask for privacy at this time.

Joe: That’s cute you think I’m letting your ass ever leave me again.

Joe: You ain’t going nowhere.

Alexis: Is this the start of some sex skit? Cause if so, I��m so down.

Kaylah: Ummmmm, okay?

Jadah: It’s damn near 11pm where I am. What is going on?

Bianca: Sis, did you mean to add us or??????

Y/N: we just got done with the first OB-GYN appointment…..

Y/N: THIS MOTHERFUCKER PUT TRIPLETS INSIDE OF ME.

Alexis: WAIT, WHAT?????

Y/N: YES!

Bianca: As in three children?????

Y/N: Y E S

Alexis: I’m literally never babysitting for ya’ll ever again.

Josh: Damn, Joe….

Jon: Welp….ya’ll will probably qualify for some discount at daycare. Enroll two kids, get two free.

Y/N: NOT FUCKING FUNNY!

Alexis: Ya’ll! We should help them pick out names!

Alexis: I’ll go first.

Alexis: Kelly, Michelle, and Beyonce

Bianca: Alex, Sam, and Clover

Jon: Ed, Edd, and Eddy

Josh: Theodore, Simon, and Alvin

Jadah: Earth, Wind, and Fire

Alexis: Prue, Phoebe, and Piper

Kaylah: Blossom, Buttercup, and Bubbles

Jon: Luke, Leia, and Han

Bianca: Sonic, Tails, and Knuckles

Trinity: Toni, Tone, and Tony

Josh: Moe, Larry, and Curly

Jadah: Left-Eye, T-Boz, and Chilli

Bianca: Salt, N, and Peppa

Y/N: LITERALLY NEVER SPEAKING TO ANY OF YOU EVER FUCKING AGAIN

Bianca: I mean, are you really that surprised, Y/N? You’re only three months, and you look four or five.

Y/N: I just thought it was just my chubby little baby boy 🥺

Alexis: Well, it is…..

Jadah: times three***

Kaylah: JADAH

Jadah: You’ve successfully continued the lineage of light skin basketball players.

Alexis: Warriors finna start scouting them in middle school.

Joe: Jesus Christ, Jadah.

Alexis: BUT DID SHE LIE.

Y/N: i’m literally crying right now. 😭 AND NOT BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS FUNNY.

Joe: She is. In between threatening me, of course….

Kaylah: Bro, can you blame her? Twins….okay. Triplets? That’s insane.

Y/N: I’m literally gonna cut his dick off when he’s sleeping tonight. 🤬

Alexis: Don’t do that, friend. You’ll miss it too much. 😫

Y/N: ….fair

Jon: Yo, can ya’ll take that nasty shit to another chat???

Josh: Please. We trying to celebrate the expansion of the Bloodline! Welcome to the family Ash, Misty, and Brock!

Joe: Those aren’t half bad name suggestions actually….

Y/N: we are not naming our babies after pokemon characters, you fucking asshole.

Y/N: i hope you still like our sofa cause that’s exactly where your ass is sleeping for the rest of your life.

Alexis: You know good and well Callie ain’t about to let you do her daddy like that. She’s #TeamJoe all day erryday.

Y/N: then she can join his ass in the living room too. we’re gonna need room for all these goddamn kids.

Joe: I’m telling you right now, my baby girl ain’t giving up her room.

Trinity: Ain’t ya’ll got like 10 bedrooms or something?

Bianca: No, but literally.

Trinity: Anyway, congratulations, and please don’t fight in here.

Alexis: Naw, they fuck more than they fight. That’s why sis carrying the Holy Trinity now. Wasn’t thinking about that shit everytime she was wearing herself out on BDJ dick and letting him come in her like she Cum Express.

Jon: YO! Family friendly, please! Y/N like my lil sis. Ion wanna think about her like that!!!

Josh: 🤢

Jadah: Lex ain’t wrong though 🤔

Jadah: In all seriousness, congratulations to the both of you!

Alexis: To many more Moana looking babies!

Y/N: ALL I KNOW IS AT LEAST ONE OF THESE BABIES BETTER HAVE SOME OF MY GODDAMN MELANIN THIS TIME 😭

Trinity: Now, sis…..

Jadah: Y/N, I got a river to sell you…..

Alexis: *sings* she’s biracial. She’s biracial, girl…….

*Y/N HAS LEFT THE GROUP CHAT*

Joe: Look what ya’ll done did.

Jadah: Dude, you are literally the last one to fucking talk.

Jon: Yeah, man, you the one that did it.

Alexis: So like, did you come in her three times back to back or like spurts of cum in threes? I’m tryna see something here.

*JOE HAS LEFT THE GROUP CHAT*

________

Joe is a good man. You know this. But, that doesn’t make you want to kill him any less for literally impregnating you with three goddamn children at the same time. Sure, he’s absolutely right in that it was most definitely not intentional, just a pure stroke of luck, maybe bad luck, but still serendipitous.

And to his credit, you can see he feels a little bad, mostly because of the increased risk for complications that this pregnancy now stands to face. Still, it doesn't stop him from clearly trying to alleviate some of your anxiety about this unexpected plot twist.

He’s overly kind and patient, offering to stop and pick up your latest craving which happens to be the 10 piece nuggets from McDonald’s. He volunteers to help Callie pack, low key a major favor in that it helps you avoid her 50 million questions she’s already asked about this ‘family trip.’ He even runs a bath for you, bath bombs, bubbles, lit candles, and all.

He’s trying. That much is more than obvious. And you appreciate it.

What you don’t appreciate though is the moment you break the news to Callie. Your mom is a lot easier, surprised but also not surprised? Apparently she was suspecting a multiples pregnancy?

She will also be added to the probation list until further notice for such subterfuge, because as her only child, you could have gotten a heads up or something.

But Callie…..sweet, sweet Callie lives up to reputation of having no filter with the first question to leave her mouth.

“Does that mean Jesus doesn’t love you since He gave you all those babies?”

Your eyes are as wide as saucers as Joe closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

No filter whatsoever.

And they just keep coming

“Why are you having so many?” Callie’s questions are so innocent and sweet, and you know she means no harm, but that doesn’t stop the resurgence of all of your initial, chaotic emotions from earlier. “How are you gonna get all of them out of you, mommy?”

“Oh-kay.” Joe easily swoops Callie into his arms, explaining kindly, “why don’t we let mommy take her bath while you, me, and grandma get started on dinner, hmm?”

This successfully diverts her from unintentionally triggering you as she asks with all the excitement, “can we have spaghetti?”

“We sure can, baby girl.”

He shoots you an apologetic look before taking Callie out of the room, closing the bedroom door. You’re grateful for the dual departure, because you really just need and want to be alone for a little bit.

Stripping your clothes off, you settle into the water that’s heated at just the right temperature. Leaning more on heat than cool. Just the way you like it.

He knows you so well.

Reclining against the back of the tub, your thoughts wander back to this unexpected twist.

You’re happy. You really are freaking thrilled to be expecting, to be expanding your family, to give Joe more children and Callie siblings. It’s just the childbirth part of it all that has you a little spooked. Callie’s birth really was non-problematic and relatively smooth.

But, it was painful, and that’s not something you’re looking forward to.

Granted, you’re not sure someone can have a vaginal birth and not experience some level of pain. That just doesn't seem possible. It’s just that the thought of having to do that three times in one sitting is a bit overwhelming and borderline scary.

Three…

Three

For some reason, your mind briefly jumps back in time, not too long ago. Revisiting a conversation. A long overdue, heavy conversation with the one person you never thought you’d meet, let alone develop a budding friendship with.

Jadah.

In the midst of her sharing and vulnerability, she’d disclosed her losses. Joe’s losses.

Three.

The number was three.

They’d lost three children.

Chills shoot and sprout across your entire body.

You’re not as deeply religious as your mom, but you do believe that some things happen for a reason. Some.

Nor are you naive or ignorant enough to believe that these children could ever somehow replace the three he lost. That’s just not how life works.

But

There is something moving and poignant about the fact that you’re in a strange way able to offer him a different kind of restoration, a different kind of healing, and fill a different type of void.

You could never take away that kind of pain that must burn and rest deep within, but you can give him this. Give him that dream he’s always had of having a big family. Sure, it’s not exactly ideal and you’d much rather have given him three more children on three separate occasions, but that’s just not the way the universe operated this time around.

And that’s okay.

It’s okay.

The bath is suddenly less appealing, a new desire to be around the man you love, the woman who you helped you become the woman you are today, and the little sunshine you’re blessed to call your baby girl.

In under twenty minutes, you’re washed, dressed, and heading down the steps. A smile grows on your face as you walk into the kitchen. Your mom is at the stove, holding Callie as she adds seasoning, explaining to Calista the purpose of each additive.

Joe is at the sink draining the pasta when you move behind him, slightly catching him off guard. He turns and looks down. “Hey, baby.”

Hugging him from the side and burying your head into him, you feel him shift, arms around you as he kisses the top of your head. In a low voice, probably to avoid attracting Callie’s attention just yet, he asks, “you alright?”

Nodding against him, you murmur, “I just love you….a lot.”

And you do. Lord, you do. For as long as the sun rises and sets in the sky is how long and deep your love for this man will run. He’s done so much, given up so much, sacrificed so much for you. For Callie. But for you too.

This….this is what he deserves.

________

The four of you are up and on the road before 8am rolls around, Joe’s preference as the official start of your trip and stay at Disney for the next few days is apparently set to kick off at 10am.

The recent consistent early mornings you’ve all had the past almost two weeks make it easier to stay on track and on board, but it’s only twenty minutes into the almost hour and a half drive that things start to get a little chaotic.

Moving in your seat, you look over at Joe. “Baby, I have to pee.”

He quickly turns to you for a second before focusing back on the road. “What you mean you have to pee?”

This man is so damn irritating sometimes. “I mean, urine needs to leave my urethra.”

As if you’re a child, he asks the most obvious question. “Why didn’t you use the bathroom before we left?”

“I did!”

This doesn’t seem feasible to him as he questions almost suspiciously. “And you gotta go again already?”

Rolling your eyes, you start to get a bit snappy, because why does you needing to use the bathroom have to be such a big deal? “Well, I’m sorry your children are playing hopscotch on my bladder, alright?” You’re pretty sure the babies aren’t big enough to be the cause of that just yet. It’s most likely the 32oz cup of lemonade sitting in the cupholder you've been sipping on since you got in the Range Rover that’s got you needing to go to the restroom.

But, he doesn’t need to know that.

Your personal little morality police then decides to chime in from the backseat where she sits next to your mom. “Mommy, you said a bad word.”

Turning around in your seat to look at her, you ask, “Callie, why aren’t your headphones on?” There’s a reason you made sure to charge and pack them for her. For this very reason.

“Don’t try to deflect. My grandbaby is right. You said a bad word.”

The love you have for your mother and daughter is endless, but the two of them together is bringing on a headache. “Mama, why aren’t your AirPods in?”

She smacks her teeth, waving you off. “Girl, I told you I don’t know how to work them things”

“Mama, you literally just put them in your ear.” Turning to Joe, you ask, “and why haven’t you stopped yet?”

He motions to the interstate asking like the smartass that he is. “Do you see an exit yet?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, okay!” Sniffling more from allergies than true emotions, you sit back in your seat with your arms crossed. “I’m sensitive.”

“Girl, you ain’t never been sensitive a day in your life.”

Yeah, mama is about to get dropped off at the first damn exit.

Forever the curious cat, Callie asks no one in particular. “What does sensitive mean?”

Joe answers with a chuckle, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “It means your mommy, baby girl.”

It would be perfect if your child was like others and accepted one answer as the final answer, but that’s too good to be true. She’s too smart and inquisitive for that. “Is that cause mommy has all those babies in her tummy?”

“Oh my—” Hand to your temple, you murmur hopefully loud enough for only Joe to hear. “We are never going on a road trip ever again.”

Callie then informs that she too needs a bathroom break. “Daddy, I have to pee too.”

“I guess I could move my bladder again....”

Your mom caving to peer pressure and getting behind you and Callie in the metaphorical line for the restroom sends Joe over the edge. He asks over a sigh, “seriously, did none of yall go to the bathroom before we got on the road?”

With all the sass in the world, you point back to each identifying party as you explain, “she’s young. She’s old. And I’m pregnant. What did you expect?” Grabbing your tumbler, you take another sip of your drink.

Joe catches this and asks suspiciously. “What are you drinking?”

A pause. “Huh?”

He makes a sound. “Is that water?”

Another giveaway pause. “Y–yeah.”

You maybe, maybe, could have gotten away with it too if not for the little snitch in the backseat. “No, it’s not, mommy. Remember, you put the lemonade in there.”

“Callie!”

He throws up one hand from the steering wheel. “Why would you drink lemonade on a road trip and continue to drink it when you already have to use the bathroom?”

It’s hard to argue with him at that. “Okay, when you put it that way, you may have a point.”

Joe can only laugh at the chaos of it all, reaching for your hand and bringing it to his mouth as he mutters. “you’re lucky I love you.”

Not as much as you love him.

Or maybe not as much as Callie is about to love him, does love him, because the minute you’re in the vicinity of the wonderfully colorful, large welcome to Walt Disney World Sign, and she lays eyes on it?

It’s a wrap.

With all the excitement and bliss in her little body, she nearly ruptures the eardrums of all three of you with her loud exclamation.

“WE’RE GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!”

Joe has seemingly spared no expense when it comes to his little girl, and this trip is living proof of that. You quickly learn upon your arrival into Disney that he arranged and paid for the VIP experience, which means it’s hands on, personalized service starting with a private shuttle carrying the four of you to the hotel you’ll be staying at.

The hotel is Disney’s Grand Floridian Resort & Spa, which just so happens to be the most expensive resort in Disney World. And it would clearly be remiss of Joe to not reserve the most expensive room in said expensive hotel.

The 3-Bedroom Grand Villa - Lake View

It’s fucking massive. Three bedrooms. Four full bathrooms. A full kitchen, living and dining area, washer and dryer as well as a balcony that overlooks the park.

Stunning.

Your mom is just as much in awe as you are the minute you step foot in the villa, meanwhile Callie is talking a mile a minute about all of the things she wants and needs to do once she learns this trip will be for Magic Kingdom.

Catching Joe by his sleeve, you mouth the words thank you.

He didn’t have to do this. Didn’t have to spend what you know has to be an ungodly amount of money to make this happen. There were ways to keep it nice and simple, but that’s not him because there’s nothing simple about the way he loves his daughter.

The way he loves you.

Lips pressed against your temple, he vows and says the words you’ll probably never get tired of hearing.

“I love you too…”

________

Everything about Disney is even more magical and spectacular than you could have ever imagined.

Big, majestic, magical.

It’s made even better in that this VIP experience includes a guide who’s apparently assigned to your group for the entirety of the trip, helping direct and lead you to the best and most worthwhile places.

Your agenda is not needed, clearly.

Day one kicks off with a visit to the Bippity Boppity Boutique where Joe has arranged for Callie to have the The Princess Signature Dress Package every day that you're there, the most expensive and deluxe option where she gets the full on treatment that morphs her into whatever her chosen Disney princess is.

Of course, she doesn’t hesitate to answer Moana when asked what she wants to be for day one.

If you have to guess, you’d surmise that Tiana, 2023 Ariel, and Jasmine will be her next three, in no particular order. However, it’s an emotional thing for you to see Callie be so happy and full of glee, especially as she gets to see herself in the mirror.

She really does look like Moana. It’s kinda crazy.

However, once she’s all princessed up and you and your mom buy and change into overpriced shirts from a nearby shop, you’re ready to tackle the day.

And what a fucking day. You knew Disney was huge, but you didn’t know just how massive. There’s so many things and options and people on any given corner, and you’re suddenly so grateful for this ability to explore while still maintaining some level of privacy. Having the guide, Cheyenne, makes things so much smoother with even something as simple as using the Utilidors to travel to certain areas.

One thing you were a bit concerned about as the trip got closer was just that — privacy. Especially on top of the whole Mariah fiasco, your apparently being internet famous, and Joe actually being famous, the last thing you wanted was for fans who don’t recognize boundaries to be all over him.

Not when Callie is present.

But Joe probably also had that thought, hence him planning this out so well, so thoughtfully.

And you’re grateful because it seems to make the experience even better for all, especially Callie. My God, you’ve never seen her so happy. Her smile is permanently tattooed on her adorable face as she gets to meet various Disney characters, especially the Disney princesses. Not everyone is tackled the first day, but that’s to be expected. She does, however, get to meet Moana the first day and holy shit, talk about a religious experience.

She’s damn near in tears from happiness. It’s cute and heartwarming to watch, and you’re so grateful your mother has volunteered herself to be the photographer for this experience. She captures it all. The way Joe walks hand in hand with Callie, how you and Joe walk hand in hand with Callie, all of the meet and greets with the characters, the small rides Callie asks to go on, not too many, but enough.

It’s all memorialized via the beauty of modern technology and forever etched into your memories for years to come.

And while Joe is primarily focused on Callie, who wants all of his attention for this experience, that doesn’t stop him from checking in on you. It’s done a couple different ways: nonvernal, verbal, little touches and kisses against your temple as he gauges your comfort level. And each time you assure him with the same variety of ways. It’s a bit of an exhausting experience, what with all the walking and Florida heat, but that’s to be expected and nothing you can’t handle.

You've waited too long to take away this moment from Callie, from your mom who’s probably emptied her savings with her inability to not buy at least one thing from each store passed. And because she’s just as stubborn as you are, she practically slaps Joe’s hand when he reaches for his wallet to pay for her stuff.

You’re certain he’ll find some sort of way to compensate her.

That’s just the kind of man he is.

The next couple of days seem to roll by faster than you realized, filled with so much happiness and fun that it feels like you blinked and the second to last day has rolled around.

When Thursday evening arrives, said second to last day of your trip, instead of dinner being shared amongst the four of you, Joe throws you for a bit of a loop, informing that he’s reserved a private room for the two of you at Cinderella’s Castle.

It’s not that you’re opposed in the slightest. If anything, it’s nice to be able to have some alone time.

For whatever reason, your mom spends longer than what’s usual touching up your edges, almost obsessively trying to make them look “perfect.” And she says as such with a coy comment of, “you gotta look your best tonight, baby.”

One could argue you always try to look your best for special occasions, but there’s also this part of you that knows Joe’s love for you goes beyond the physical. It’s deeper than that, so so much deeper.

As is yours for him.

Still, you tap into your inner makeup artist bag and have Callie ‘assist’ you in doing your makeup after your mom finally feels satisfied with the refresh of your silk press. Silver jewelry and some strappy white heels finish off the baby blue dress you wear that beautifully accentuates your baby bump.

You briefly considered wearing something red, but that’s for Roman. This is Joe. And the baby blue stood out because, at the time, you were thinking you’re having a baby boy. And that could still be the case, just….add on two more.

Joe looks good, but that’s nothing new. This man has never seen ugly a day in his life.

You’re both taken to the restaurant via that private ride and escorted to the reserved room almost immediately. However, you can’t stop taking in the restaurant that is so heavily themed based on the move its title is based on.

It’s just as beautiful on the inside as it is on the inside.

“Joe, this is so beautiful.” It feels like you’ve been plopped into a literal scene from the movie, not to mention the added beauty of having privacy away from others.

He asks, almost hesitantly, “you like it?”

“Are you kidding? I love it.” It’s almost beyond you that he could even fix his mouth to ask such a question. This trip has been a dream come true. “This whole thing….everything you’ve put into it. It means the world to me, to my mom, to Callie. Good Lord, you think that girl loved you before? She loves you more than she loves Moana now.”

He laughs. “Damn. That much?”

“That much.” Eyes softening, you say in a low voice. “Thank you, Joe. Seriously.”

He reaches across the table, taking your hand in his and responds in an equally low voice. “Never have to thank me, baby. Ever.”

The food, delicious and probably insanely overpriced, comes out sooner than you anticipated. But, it doesn't stop conversation happening between the two of you. That’s always been a thing. It’s always been so easy to talk to him, to fall into a natural back and forth dialogue.

You could talk to him for hours and never grow tired.

That’s how everything started, really.

Friendship.

He was your friend before anything, and even if by some 0.001% chance things ever go south between you again, that’s something you could never give up. Losing him as a partner would gut you, but losing his friendship as well would destroy you.

You can’t lose him again.

Ever.

When the table is cleared and you expect him to announce you should probably head back to the villa, he instead stands and asks for your hand. “Come on. Something I want to show you.”

Curious but trusting him, you wordlessly accept his hand and allow him to lead you out of the restaurant and into the night. You’re partially expecting to take the shuttle to wherever this thing or place is that he wants to show you, but he instead walks hand in hand with you down the cobble path.It’s significantly less crowded than the daytime, but that wouldn’t make much of difference because you’re so deeply in your own little world with this man.

It really does feel like it’s just the two of you.

“I swear my boobs are already getting bigger.”

He laughs at your random statement, asking in a sly voice, “is that supposed to be a bad thing?”

Hitting him on his shoulder, Joe laughs quietly as you murmur, “you try walking around with two melons of fat on your chest, and then see if you feel the same way.” He doesn't say anything, and you instead continue to focus on the beauty around you. Disney really is ethereal. “It’s even more beautiful at night.”

“Hmmm.”

“Do you know where we’re going?” It’s a valid question considering you just realized this is the first time you’ve explored the park without the guide. Granted, you’ve yet to find something that Joe isn’t very good at outside of modern technology, so it’s not far fetched he knows exactly where he’s going.

“Now’s a fine time to ask.”

Slapping his arm, you move into playfully defensive mode. “I have an excuse. I have baby brain.” Unable to help yourself, you add on. “Babies brain, really.”

He chuckles. “I’m still not forgiven, huh?”

Giving him a sideways expression, you decide to be at least a little fair. “You’re getting there.” Slipping into a more vulnerable place, you lay your head against his arm, admitting, “I feel a lot better knowing you’ll be home the whole time.”

“Me too,” he admits. “Your mom should still come stay with us the first couple weeks.”

“I agree. One adult per baby.” You can only imagine him rolling his eyes. “But no, we have to make sure Callie doesn’t start to feel neglected. I have a feeling she’s gonna get a little jealous when she realizes she has to share your attention with the babies.”

He sounds a bit on the defensive side himself as he reminds, “I have more than enough attention and love for any and all of our kids.”

“I know, baby, but with how attached she is to you, on top of how young she is, that may be hard for her to grasp at first.”

It’s something you’ve thought about a lot just watching her interact with Joe these past couple days. She’s gotten used to not having to share him with anyone. With you, yes, but not with any other kids, any other siblings. She’s excited about being a big sister, yes, but you wonder how that transition into actually being a big sister could be for her.

He seems to understand where you’re coming from now. “We’ll just have to talk with her.”

“I agree.”

A couple minutes later, you’re gasping and smiling when you realize where he’s taking you. You drop your hands from his arms and reach for his hand, leading him in the direction of one of the best things you’ve seen thus far.

“It’s Cinderella’s wishing well.”

You’ve seen a couple of TikToks talking about how this is something that doesn’t get as much attention but is just as adorable as everything else. And they’re right, the design, the location so that it’s right in the perfect view of the castle.

It’s so perfect.

Of course, he has to ruin the mood by asking, “Cinderella is the black and white movie one, right?”

“Joe, none of the Disney movies you’ve seen were in black and white.” Granted, you can see why he would think that given the age of Cinderella. The animation and even voice acting are pretty aged. “This might have been the one you fell asleep on.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Baby, you were knocked out. You and your lil twin. I think I have the photo on my phone to prove it.” Reaching for your phone to show him the proof, you’re stopped by his hand on your arm. “What?”

He then turns his hand over, revealing a coin. His voice is suddenly lower, almost quieter than it was a couple minutes ago. “Make a wish.”

“Seriously?” That’s also something else you read, the fact that the wishing well is a real, actual well that visitors tend to drop a coin and make a wish with in the hopes of dreams coming true. “Joe, my ass is too old to be making a wish.”

He shakes his head, eyes so soft and focused on you. “Just….just do it.”

The strange shift in his tone, volume, and even expression takes you off guard a bit, but you could also just be looking too into things. “Okay.” Snapping your purse back closed, you accept the coin and move closer to the well. Because of the well lit spotlight, you can see a set of coins already at the bottom.

It takes a second for you to think about just what to wish for.

And that’s significantly difficult because there is nothing for you to wish for.

You have everything you could have ever wanted.

It takes a minute, but you finally settle on a wish. You close your eyes, take a nice, efficient breath and flip it into the well with the rest of the wishes.

Smiling, you turn back around, ready to peer pressure him into making a wish as well. “Alright, now it’s your—”

The sentence is cut premature because of a very good reason, a reason that has your hand over your mouth, your eyes watering and your stomach doing fucking somersaults.

Being in a committed relationship with Joe was something you once dreamed about and somehow became a reality that still stuns you.

Disney has been an unexpected dream you also never imagined would be as spectacular as he’s made it.

Joe sacrificing his title to spend time with you and Callie knocked the wind out of you.

But this? This is most definitely something you never saw coming.

You never anticipated finding Joe Anoa'i kneeled down on one knee, a small, red square box that reads Cartier in gold writing in his hand that holds the kind of promise and vow of love that’s meant to withstand time.

It’s a miracle your legs don’t give out from underneath you. “Leati…”

“I love you, Y/N. I love you in a way that I really don’t know to accurately describe and help you understand. You’re more than just the mother of my children, you’re my best friend. You were there supporting and encouraging me when I needed it the most. Everything I have now, everything I’ve accomplished, it’s because of you.”

“Baby–”

“We always talk about that time I missed out with Callie, but I didn’t just miss out on time with Callie. I missed out on time with you.” There’s no way for you to hold back the tears that partially obscure your vision as he pours his heart out to you. “And that was on me because I should have married you a long time ago. I’ve always wanted to be with you, and one of my biggest regrets will always be not fighting harder for you, for us. That time we missed out on, that’s on me.”

The emotions coursing through your body is a deep, visceral experience you’ve never encountered. It’s equally wonderful as it is terrifying. At this point, you’re just full on sobbing, no doubt your pregnancy hormones making this emotional moment heavier than what it already is.

Joe is suddenly standing before you, gently lowering your hands and raising your chin to bring your gaze back onto him.

“I should have been honest about my marriage with Jadah. It would have saved all of us a lot of heartache.” He looks so regretful, so remorseful. “Those five years may have never happened, but I can’t change that. What I can change though is how the rest of our lives play out, and I don’t want to do life without you. There is no me without you, Y/N. She was never my person. You are.”

Your eyes are closed as he rests his forehead against yours. “I loved you then, I love you now, and I’ll love you always. Whatever you want, I’ll do. Whatever you need, I’ll provide. I told you before all I needed was for you to say yes when I ask, so I’m asking, please say yes.” You look down to see he’s opened the ring box, revealing the most stunning engagement ring to ever exist. It’s absolutely perfect. “Marry me, Y/N.”

And like the night of WrestleMania, you’re putting all the pieces together. His comment about saying yes, suddenly moving up the Disney trip, your mom wanting you to look perfect.

This was his plan all along.

A proposal.

A proposal at Disney World of all places.

His final question returns to the front of your mind, and it’s solely because of the hot, emotional mess you are that you don’t answer right away.

You had said answer the minute you saw this man on one knee.

“Yes.” His shoulders visibly relax, and it’s only then that you can see how nervous he was about this. How he could ever question himself is beyond you. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do or give to this man. “Yes, of course, I’ll marry you.”

Joe wastes no time in sliding the stunning, expensive looking ring on your finger, and you’re so in awe. “Oh my god, Joe, it’s so beautiful.” And it is. It’s exactly the kind of ring you’ve always dreamed about but never thought you would ever receive.

“I had it made in November.” Your chest tightens. That was so long ago. “And I’ve wanted to propose to you so many times in between then and now, but you deserved your dream proposal. I wanted to make it as special for you as I could, because it’s the least I could do after making you wait for so long.”

“Joe……” Another set of tears of cascades as you reach up to hug him again, not knowing if there are truly accurate enough words to describe your happiness in this moment. “I love you.” It’s such a simple but weighty thing. No one could ever understand the depth of your love for this man.

“I love you too.” He moves his hands to your hips as you release him from the hug, hands planted on his chest. “Am I forgiven now?”

Laughing, you shake your head, “yeah….you’re definitely forgiven.” Forever the brat, you can’t avoid using the stipulation. “For now.”

He just rolls his eyes, moving to take your hand as he nods back in the direction of where you’d walked. “Come on.”

Walking and being so close to him helps to settle you. Well, as much as possible considering you just got the surprise of your damn life.

Your body is pressed against his when a thought crosses your mind. “Oh my god, does Callie know?”

“Of course. I had to ask her permission.”

“You should have known that was a no brainer.” It must have been a beautiful, mushy sight to witness. Him asking his little girl for permission to marry her mommy. Callie was probably through the moon. “That and my mama.” Joe is old fashioned in the sense that you can’t see him not also asking for permission from your mom, and he confirms as such.

“She loves me.” He’s so smug in how he says it too.

But, he’s not wrong. “I swear, if she wasn’t my mama, she might try to take you from you.”

His voice is calm and collected as he assures. “That ain’t ever happening.”

Granted, that assurance isn’t needed because this man is stuck with you for life now. “Ya damn straight it’s not. All these kids we about to have? I wish you would try to leave me for some white woman who stans Taylor Swift. I’ll call Alexis crazy ass and we jumping you and her.”

He runs his thumb over your knuckles. “You ain’t ever gotta worry about that.” He then asks, “you talked to her yet about being Callie’s godmother?”

“Not yet, but I will. I can’t see her saying no. She never stays in one place for too long, but I know for a fact if she ever needed to take Calista for any reason, she’d settle down in a heartbeat.”

“I agree.”

It’s a conversation that first came up after the Mariah nightmare and re-emerged after you started the process of removing her as Callie’s legal godmother. Alexis has been a rock for you this past couple months, Callie loves and trusts her, as do you. Joe also feels like she would be the perfect person to take on that special role.

It’s definitely something you want to discuss with her when you get back from the trip.

Joe leads the two of you back into the castle, but you’re confused when he walks past the room you two dined in and reaches for another door. “Wait, why are we—”

“Surprise!”

Hands covering your face, you’re buried into Joe as he laughs softly, kissing the top of your head.

Getting proposed to at Disney essentially in front of Cinderella’s castle was the definition of a plot twist you never saw coming, but having all of your closest friends and family present for a surprise engagement party is beyond a plot twist.

It’s a dream.

Familiar and loved faces fill your vision when you finally pull away from Joe, still blotting the tears away. The room is decorated beautifully, Disney themed, blues and pinks, but it’s the people you care the most about that make it all the more special.

And inarguably your favorite little human being is suddenly running over to you, hugging your legs. “Mommy! Did you say yes?”

The fact that all these people are here is confirmation enough that they all knew what was happening tonight. That they’ve probably been known the same way they knew Joe wasn’t retaining at WrestleMania.

But, the fact that Callie knew does something to you. Makes you even more of an emotional mess.

Sniffling, you lean down and lift your left hand for her to see. “Of course, I said yes, baby!”

Gasping loudly, Callie turns to the group and shouts. “Mommy said yes!”

Laughing at her excitement morphs into laughing at the general responses to said announcement.

“Tag, you’re it!”

“It’s about damn time!”

“My baby’s getting married!”

“She better have said yes! These tickets were expensive!”

“Cue the music!”

The following exclamation is followed up with an old but familiar song filling the room.

Hey now

It’s such a nostalgic yet hopeful experience. Celebrating your future with a song that so perfectly encapsulates the magic of the past.

Joining the group that unintentionally seems to separate between women, men, and kids, you’re met with hugs and continued congratulations, but it’s the one from Jadah, the way she whispers in your ear, “you deserve this,” that really does something to your soul.

Pulling away, you take her hands in yours, giving a squeeze. “Thank you.”

She just gives you a wink, snapping back into her typical sarcastic space as she says, “just don’t think I’m gonna show up for all these special events all the time. I have a lovely lady back home I gotta get back to.”

“You should have brought her!” You’d be so honored to meet the woman who captured Jadah’s heart.

“Next time,” she smirks. You plan to hold her to that.

“Maybe we can have it at my place or something. An informal housewarming party.” Alexis joining the conversation isn’t surprising nor an issue, but her suggestion does confuse you.

“What do you mean housewarming?”

Rolling her pretty eyes, she informs, “I got tired of you coming after me and my non-commitment, so I may or may not have signed a lease for a townhouse about ten minutes out from your place.” An equally shocked and loud gasp leaves your mouth as you again have to fight back more tears. This whole night has been nothing but surprises back to back. “Someone’s gotta be around to help you with this village of children you got floating around in your uterus”

“Alexis…..” You pull her into a hug that lasts longer than the one with Jadah and even Bianca. A sister. Bianca may be your biological sister, but Alexis is your chosen sister.

“Yeah, yeah.” She’s never been the emotional type, but you don’t miss the gleam in her eyes as well as she redirects. “Alexis from Texas is officially moving to Florida!”

It’s the way almost all of the guys' heads snap in the direction of Alexis at her exclamation that makes you roll your eyes but the rest of the ladies feel some type of way.

“And how do you know who Alexis Texas is?” Bianca is the first to ask, which is understandable given Darius was the first to look with intrigue.

But, he’s saved when one of the kids calls out, “who is Alexis Texas?” and all of the adults wisely pivot the conversation, Trinity taking the lead.

“Let’s dance!”

That doesn’t need to be said twice, Kaylah being the one to match your energy the most as you both have a bit of a higher love of Disney than the others. Except one.

Callie suddenly runs up to you, tugging on the side of your dress. “Dance party!”

Laughing, you take her hands in yours, dancing with her, her happy laughter even more melodic and healing as the song playing in the room.

I've got somewhere I belong

I got somebody to love

This is what dreams are made of

And it’s in the way the lyrics really hit you, the way you and Joe connect eyes and he mouths ‘I love you’ that something crashes into you with all of the heaviness of a life changing realization.

This…..

This is what you always wanted.

Not to be married, per se.

Not to have that coveted title of being a wife,, the stereotypical white picket fence and husband who clocks in 9 to 5.

All of that is fine and having Joe’s last name truly will mean a lot to you, but it’s not the end goal you always thought it was.

The end goal was to simply be happy.

And as it turns out, that happiness comes in not just the form you’ve always been taught and fed by the media and stories where the prince rushes in and saves the princess.

You’ve learned that love isn’t just romantic, isn’t just two people devoting and pledging their love and loyalty to one another for forever. That’s part of it, yes, maybe.

But not all of it.

It’s the way Joe looks at Callie at any given moment.

It’s the way Callie’s face lights up whenever she’s with you or Joe.

It’s the joy that fills your body when you think of the life, the lives, growing inside you, expanding the family you’ve always wanted, the family Joe has always wanted.

It’s the way the people you love and appreciate the most gathered here tonight to help celebrate such a special occasion, the start of a new, fresh, happy chapter.

Love is all around.

People just have to find it.

The same way you found yours.

The End

authors note: welp, that's it for book one of reader and joe's story! thank you all so so sooooo much for giving my story a chance and seeing it through this far. 🥺❤️ sincerely never imagined so many people would read/be interested, so thanks a bunch 🥺🥺🥺

i'm also open to suggestions for if our good sis should have all girls, all boys, a mix-up......there's options, clearly. names as well 😅

i will be continuing the next chapter of their story in a sequel titled, 'without you.' i will continue to tag the same people, unless you'd prefer to leave their story as it is here, then please let me know, and i won't tag you. i truly hope you enjoyed the conclusion to part one! 🥺❤️ the first chapter should be up in the next two weeks for book 2!

#roman reigns x black!reader #roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

246 notes · View notes