Word count: 1, 753
Warnings:Â Major Character Death (Allegorical), Suicide Allegory, Parental Abuse, Domestic Violence, Alcoholism (Parental), Bullying, Medical Distress/Collapse, and Dissociation.
Note: I wrote this back in the day (2018) I Found it in my computer and am posting it unedited.
Co-author:Â @thelolodiamond
Directory: Prologue | Ch 1. | Ch 2. | Ch 3 | Ch. 4| Ch. 5| Epilogue
The shaken girl stared at the concrete wall of her teacherâs apartment parking garage. It was cool and brightly lit, more so than any other parking garage that Mirae had ever been in. The engineâs steady humming was replaced by an awkward silence as Mirae and her homeroom teacher sat side by side. Neither of the two moved to open their door, they just sat. The moments ticked by and Mrs. Lee released a sigh, turning to the younger.
âDonât be mad that Iâm doing this, okay?â she began placing a caring hand on the girl's own. âI just want you to be somewhere safe.â She continues.
Miraeâs face twisted in disbelief. She snatched her hand away from the older woman.
âAre you assuming that I have problems at home?â Mirae was suddenly overcome with an uncalled-for rage.
Mrs. Lee slouched back in her chair like a deflated balloon. She continued to look at her student, but now with a pained expression. She couldnât understand why the girl was so upset with her. At that moment, a similar passion filled with anger engulfs the teacher.
âYou expect me to believe that everything is all peachy at your houseâŠâ she stared at the side of the girlâs head. Mirae refused to look at her teacher. âYou were just out in the rain, shoeless, caressing a building in an alley. At night!â
Mirae couldnât think of anything to say, she just continued to stare out the windshield at the wall.
âWhere is your mother, right now?â Mrs. Lee probed, leaning to look at the girlâs face. Mirae and Lee made brief eye contact, but Mirae turned to look out the window at another car. âIâll take you homeâŠâ Lee said reaching for the car keys after getting no response from the girl.
Miraeâs heart bounced around in her throat; she grabbed Mrs. Leeâs hand and bit her lip.
âCan we just go inside, please?â she whispered, nearly inaudibly.
Lee nodded and took the keys from the ignition. The pair walked into the building earning a few concerned glances from the people in the halls. Mrs. Lee urged Mirae to ignore the people, but Mirae was already in her own world. After a brief lift up to the fifth floor, the pair were able to relax in the comfort of Leeâs apartment.
âItâs a really small apartment, but make yourself comfy,â Lee started disappearing down a small hallway only to return a short while later with a towel and a dress. âDry yourself off and change into this. Iâll go make some tea to warm you up.â
Mirae shyly accepts the items and tiptoes down the hall. The girl dries herself and dresses herself in the flowy blue dress. It was big, but she liked it. She exited the bathroom to be met with a steaming glass of tea.
âThank you.â Mirae hums more to herself as she accepts the beverage. âIâm sorry for yelling at you.â
Lee muttered moving to allow the girl to exit the bathroom. Mirae took a small sip of the warm tea. It was a peachy flavor. The warm liquid cascaded down her throat, spreading its warmth to every inch of her body. She was actively ignoring her teacher in order to embrace the tea. The older woman realized this and quickly moved on to something else leaving the younger to drink her tea in peace.
The warmth of the tea began to feel heavy, like a thick blanket pressing down on Miraeâs eyelids. The peachy scent was no longer just a flavor; it was a mist that filled the room, blurring the edges of Mrs. Leeâs bookshelves and the soft glow of the kitchen lamp. Mirae set the mug down on the low coffee table, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she were trapped under water. She couldnât hear Mrs. Lee talking anymore. The teacherâs voice had become a distant hum, like the buzzing of the school bell that always felt miles away. Mirae leaned her head back against the cushions of the couch, the flowy blue dress pooling around her like a calm, sapphire lake. The world didn't fade to black this time; it faded to a soft, golden amber.
When her eyes fluttered open, she wasn't on the sofa. She wasn't in the small, safe apartment on the fifth floor. The air was different. It didn't smell like lemon floor cleaner or old books. It smelled of mid-Spring rain and something sweet, something like the shop. Mirae stood up slowly.
Her feet were bare against the damp pavement, but she didn't feel the cold. She was standing at the entrance of the familiar, narrow alleyway. The brick walls seemed to pulse with a faint, rhythmic light, echoing the heartbeat that thudded in her chest. The transition had been so seamless that she still felt the ghost of the warm tea in the back of her throat. She took a step forward, her breath catching as she saw the silhouette of the door to the shop at the same spot inside of the alleyway.
She walked toward it, her eyes fixed on the glowing window. A window? That was new. The shadows of the alley didn't frighten her anymore. They felt like old friends, wrapping around her shoulders to guide her home. As she reached the worn wooden door, she didn't reach for the handle. She simply stood there, her hands hanging loosely at her sides, the blue dress swaying slightly in a breeze that shouldn't have existed in such a confined space.
The door creaked open just an inch, casting a long, rectangular sliver of light across the ground. A figure stepped out into the threshold, partially obscured by the brilliance coming from inside. It was him, Jungkook. He didn't say a word. He didn't smile or move to grab her hand. He just leaned against the doorframe, his white shirt glowing in the darkness and his eyes searching hers with an expression that was impossible to read.
Mirae stayed where she was, her heart suspended in a fragile silence. The reality of the city was somewhere behind her, miles and worlds away, while the mystery of the shop waited right in front of her. She looked at him, and he looked back at her, two souls caught in the quiet space between a nightmare and a dream.
Neither moved.
Neither spoke.
The alley remained still, holding its breath as the golden light from the shop spilled out to touch the tips of Miraeâs bare toes.
âJungkook?â she croaks, the breath that had caught in her throat bellowing from her as if sheâd been punched.
Jungkook uncrosses his arms and holds out his hand to her, his brown eyes watching you closely. Everything about him was different, his movements were off, but his presence alone was enough to draw her in. She didnât hesitate. She grabs his hand and allows him to pull her into the shop, her body moving without her feet moving. She floated, gliding through the doorway as it shut behind them.
âYouâre here? How? I⊠didnât..â Mirae has to take several breaths to calm herself. Her heart was racing and mind was running through a million scenarios. âI ran out of tea.â
âYou ran out of tea,â Jungkook repeated, his voice smooth yet devoid of the playful warmth it once held. He didnât look at her as he moved deeper into the shop, his footsteps making no sound on the floorboards.
Mirae looked around. The shop was different now.
The vibrant colors, the bright teals and golden yellows, seemed to be bleeding at the edges, turning into a hazy, shimmering white. The shelves that were once cluttered with curiosities, books and knickknacks were now mostly empty, save for a single, ornate teapot sitting on the counter.
âYoongi said youâd be back soon,â Jungkook continued, finally turning to face her. He stood by the counter, the light from above casting deep shadows over his eyes. âBack for me.â
Mirae felt a strange chill, but it wasn't unpleasant. It felt like being numb. She thought of Mrs. Leeâs apartment,and her mother who was likely still fuming in their dark living room. It all felt like a movie she had watched a long time ago.
A story about someone else.
âHe told me I could stay,â Mirae whispered, her voice sounding hollow in the vast quiet of the shop. âHe said if I gave him my coupon, I wouldnât have to go back to the rain.â
Jungkook tilted his head, a small, unreadable shadow of a smile touching his lips. He picked up the teapot and poured a cup. There was no steam rising from it this time. The liquid was clear, like a crystal.
âFear is a heavy thing to carry, Mirae. Itâs the only thing that keeps you anchored to the ground,â he said softly. He held the cup out, the distance between them vanishing in an instant. âIf you drink this, youâll be light. Youâll be able to fly. But you canât take your anchors with you.â
Mirae looked at the cup, then up at him. She didn't think about the school, the cleaning or the bruises. She only thought about how tired her legs were. How tired her heart was. How just being here with him was enough to make her feelâŠ. anything.
She reached out, her fingers brushing his cold skin as she took the cup.
She didn't look back at the door. She didn't wonder why the shop felt so much like a waiting room.
âI donât want to be heavy anymore,â she murmured.
She lifted the cup to her lips and took a long swallow. It didn't taste like peaches, lavender or any tea she ever tried. It tasted like nothing at all yet not like water either.
Jungkook watched her, his expression finally softening into something like pity. He reached out and tucked a stray hair behind her ear, his touch feeling more like a breeze than a person.
âThen welcome home,â he whispered.
The golden light of the shop suddenly flared, swallowing the shelves, the counter, and the two figures standing in the center. Outside, in the narrow alleyway between the towering concrete buildings, the wooden door remained shut. There was no light in the window. There was no scent of spring rain. There was only the sound of the wind whistling through the bricks, and a single, empty peachy-tea cup sitting shattered on the damp pavement.
Word count â 2,061
Warnings:Â Parental Abuse, Neglect, Domestic Violence, Physical Injuries, Substance Abuse (implied), Grief/Loss (mild), Bullying. Please let me know if I missed anything and I will add it.
Note: I wrote this back in the day (2018) I Found it in my computer and am posting it unedited.
Co-author:Â @thelolodiamond
Directory: Prologue | Ch 1. | Ch 2. | Ch 3 | Ch. 4| Ch. 5| Epilogue
Mirae sat staring at the dingy white wall that stood firmly on the opposite side of the room. The ticking of an imaginary clock played in her otherwise thoughtless mind. She was cold, the tiny hairs that barely showed on her pale skin stood high in a sad attempt to warm the frail bruised girl. Suddenly, the image of her dark-haired Romeo cascaded into her thoughts. A weak smile inked across her once blank emotionless face. At that moment, the young girl had a thought. She threw herself to her closet and began eagerly rummaging through her school bag. She was determined to go back to that shop, The Magic Shop. From her beat up, old school bag she pulled a pink leather wallet. She only had fifteen dollars to her name, but she was willing to give it all for the chance to see Jungkook.
âLetâs go, Mirae, nothing to lose.â The girl muttered, pumping herself with the confidence she needed to get out the house.
Mirae dressed herself in a white shirt and black shorts that Jungkook had given her and grabbed her teddy bear. After a few deep breaths, Mirae rushed out the front door and into the elevator. A wave of fear and concern washed over the girl, but she fought it back with her determination. It was obsessive urge that she couldnât fight off. Her feet pitter patted through the various puddles that littered the ground as she weaved through the crowded street of her neighborhood. A few people gave her concerned and disgusted looks, but she paid no mind to these people. The water squished under her bare feet, in a rush to leave, Mirae didnât think to put on shoes.
Her vision was blurred in a sort of tunnel state. She was fighting to get to where she wanted, no, needed to be. There was a voice in the back of her head telling her what to do and how to do it.
âTurn left!â the voice was dark, but familiar.
âDo it now!â it was demanding and terrifyingly so, but Mirae couldnât ignore it.
Another voice called out to her, but it was barely audible. A bright light flashed beside the girl and a blaring horn sounded, shocking the teen. A swift tug on the back of her shirt removed the girl from the light and brought her vision back. She could see people gawking at her and a familiar looking boy. Her mind was foggy, but Mirae definitely knew this boyâs face, his ash-grey hair was setting off alarm bells in her head.
âYou have to be more careful.â The boyâs deep voice sighed. It was the guy from the bus! She looked away from the boy and into the faces of the onlookers. A black-haired woman features where her face should have been, being just a twisted blurry mess.
Mirae looked back at the boy, but he wasnât there. Instead in his place was the bus driver, she knew it had to be him because of his orange-brown hair. She blinked a few times, feeling herself getting lightheaded. The feeling was similar to when she drank the tea, but for some reason, Mirae felt a since of doom. She looked back at the bus driver, opening her mouth to speak only to find that he had been replaced with the parkâs security officer.
âAlways causing trouble, huh, Mirae?â the man asked with a chuckle.
Mirae was confused, she hadnât spoken to this man enough for him to know her by name. He extended his hand to help her up, just like that first day. The girl gave him a weak smile and accepted his help and teetered to her feet.
âIâm sorry, I donât mean to be so much trouble.â Mirae murmured tucking her hands behind her back. The onlookers slowly started to disperse, and the security office excused himself.
âThat was strange.â Mirae whispered to herself as she safely crossed the street. She was surprised that she was already in front of her school without taking the bus. From here the trip to The Magic Shop is a straight five-minute jog. The dark-hair girl felt her body perk up while following her previous footsteps that led her to the shop on day one.
After five minutes, Mirae found herself nervously standing outside the bleak alley that houses the mysterious store. The neon lights were notably absent tonight, which raised a lot of questions with the girl, but she forced herself into the damp alley way. The alley water washed over her bare feet as she made her way down to path.
âJust down there.â That demanding voice called out to her.
âForward?â she asked, and the voice hummed a satisfied tone.
âFurther.â The voice growled.
Mirae didnât know what else to do. Her hand patted across a dripping, icy wall that she assumed was the back of another building. She had nowhere else to go.
âDO IT!â the voice demanding, screaming at the girl. She covered her ears and looked around.
âI canât go any further.â She whimpered looking around the dark area. There was no light aside from the moonlight.
âDO IT!â the voice got even louder, echoing through her brain and bouncing around in her ear canal.
âMin Yoongi!â she called out. Tears streaming down her flushed face.
âMin Yoongi!â she screamed, pleading to be saved from these deafening voices inside her head. A flicker of neon green and blue lit up the entire alley. The voices in her head shut off as if controlled by the sudden light.
âWelcome to the Magic Shop.â The familiar voice bellowed through the desolate alleyway.
Mirae slow turned her face to the man, whoâs gummy smile was well highlighted by the lights. Mirae jumped up and practically threw herself at the black-haired man. His face was overtaken with both an uncomfortable and confused expression. His brows furrowed as the girl wrapped herself around him and held on to him sobbing.
âThank you for being here,â she started through her tears. âThose voices, these feelings,â she continued to sob into the manâs chest.
He stiffly patted her head and looked around.
âI just want to see him again, please help me!â Mirae choked out, her breath staggering as she did so. A satisfied smirk plastered itself on the manâs face as he led her into the shop.
Inside the shop, the feeling was different than the first time Mirae had been here. The shop was no longer empty, the shelves had photos. These photos while unsettling, gave off a happy vibe. Mirae approached a photo in a black frame. The frame was covered in hearts and handwritten notes, but the photo itself was just picture of a grassy field. The field instantly sparked a memory within Mirae, Jungkook! She remembered dancing in the grass, holding him close and hearing him hum to her. She remembered the first time in a long time she felt loved.
âDo you like this picture?â Yoongi asked from behind the young girl. Without turning, Mirae smiled and nodded. âJungkook gave me this to show to you.â
Mirae perked up and turned to the blacked-haired man.
âYou speak to him? Often?â
Yoongi simply nodded and turned to go behind the counter. Mirae watched as the man stood and stared at her.
âHow may I assist you?â Yoongi asked, his tone serious and sort of dark.
Chills traveled down the teenâs body as she slowly approached the counter. She swallowed a nervous lump in her throat that wouldnât cooperate with her for a moment but eventually slid down easily.
âI want to be with Jungkook again.â
Yoongi motioned smoothly to the table that sprung from the ground. Mirae eagerly sat in the seat facing the counter while Yoongi leisurely strolled towards her. In his hands he held a small stack of papers. He sat across from the teen and turned the papers to where she could see them easily. On the top sheet was an extremely flattering photo of Jungkook from the last time she saw him. He was dressed in that white and red pullover hoodie that read âGCUâ with the matching white sweatpants. He had an adorable smile and his eyes twinkled.
âThis is the guy that you want to be with.â He stated flipping the page over to reveal the second.
It was a log over everything Mirae and Jungkook have done since day one. Mirae was uncomfortable but didnât say anything she just listened as he read some of the things off to her. Yoongi cleared his throat and looked up at the young girl.
âYou want to be with him, yes?â The girl nodded, Yoongi chuckled.
âYes?â Mirae repeated him and he nodded.
Another page was turned and Yoongi droned on until Mirae became disinterested. The girl found herself simply agreeing with whatever the man asked until he flipped the final page. It was a picture of her and Jungkook sitting happily in front of a sunset. Mirae perked up again, confused, she hadnât had this experience with Jungkook.
âThis is what I see in your future.â Yoongi purred and Mirae nodded excitedly. The man handed her a coupon similar to the first one.
âTake this and sit in the place where you first drank your tea.â Yoongi explained, Mirae scooted forward in her chair. âTake the needle from the back of this coupon, prick your finger and place the droplet in the circle.â
Mirae leaned back, the feeling of impending doom flooding through her again.
âDonât be concerned, this is a magic shopâ Yoongi laughed happily, the joyous sound sending calming vibes to the teenager. âitâs a part of the spell to bring you to your Kookie.â He teased.
The small girl blushed, embarrassed that the man knew so much about her relationship. Mirae nodded suddenly feeling extremely unsure about all of this.
âIf you donât want to go through with it, just bring it back tomorrow night before midnight.â Yoongi explain slouching back in his chair. âOnce you leave the shop, the spell is cast.â
Mirae didnât have anything to say, she just stood up and left. She knew she had a lot to think about and a lot to risk. She opened the door and stood between the shop and the alley, something was holding her in that space. A pressure was pushing her backwards even though she wanted to go forward. It was crushing her in a sense but not hurting her like the feeling before. She turned to face the dark-haired man, who was now behind the counter again. He was holding up the picture of the field; it now had a picture of Jungkook inside of it.
âIf you donât use the coupon âŠâ he paused and looked down at the picture. It began to burn from the bottom right corner and top left into the center. âOne of you will regret it.â
Yoongiâs gummy smile that was once a welcoming and happy smile now filled the girl with fear. Mirae wanted to say something, she wanted to give the coupon back, but the door slammed in her face and the shop was replaced with a mossy brick wall. Mirae placed both of her hands on the wall, limply.
âYoongiâŠâ she whispered staring blankly at the wall.
âMirae?â a female voice called down the alleyway.
âKang Mirae!â the voice called out again this time getting closer. The same voice continuously calling and inching closer until a hand touched the girl. She turned to meet the concerned gaze of her teacher.
âMrs. Lee?â the girl questioned. She looked down and in her hand was a soaked teddy bear, her teddy bear.
âWhat are you doing out here, dressed like this?â Mrs. Lee asked looking the girl up and down.
âI donât know anymore.â The girl mumbled. The teacherâs face puffed up with anger. She grabbed Miraeâs arm, holding her close. âW-where are w-we going?â Mirae stuttered looking over at the teacher.
âIâm taking you to my house and Iâm going to notify the authorities that your mother is unfit to take care of you.â
Mrs. Lee seethes placing the girl into her car and buckling her in. Rain pitter pattered on the car as the teacher bounced around, got herself into the vehicle and speeded off into the night.
Word count â 2,768
Warnings:Â Parental Abuse, Neglect, Domestic Violence, Physical Injuries, Substance Abuse (implied), Grief/Loss (mild), Bullying. Please let me know if I missed anything and I will add it.
Note: I wrote this back in the day (2018) I Found it in my computer and am posting it unedited.
Co-author:Â @thelolodiamond
Directory: Prologue | Ch 1. | Ch 2. | Ch 3 | Ch. 4| Ch. 5| Epilogue
Mirae stumbled into the apartment, her mother gripping the back of her shirt tightly.
âYou go lay down!â her mother screamed, her face pale red from anger. âI canât believe that I left work for you.â The woman barked leaning against the door.
The dark-haired girl teetered into her bedroom, despite the sun that peaked through the tiny window the room looked dark and bleak. Mirae threw herself on the bed in a ragdoll like motion. Her body laid lifelessly as she stared upward at the dingy white ceiling. The front door creaked open and slammed closed, a sense of peace poured over the house. Mirae relaxed into the bed, allowing her body to sink into its comfort. She slowly drifted off into a peaceful slumber. Her mind, for a moment, drew a blank leaving her thoughts⊠her dreams in complete darkness.
A dim spotlight pierced through the surrounding darkness revealing a shimmering red apple. It was dripping with a dewy moisture; the water ran down the apple onto a pearly white pedestal. A small butterfly crawled over the apple from behind and opened its wings to fly. Rose petals swirled around the apple and the butterfly took flight, disappearing into the darkness. A pair of wet hands stretched out around the apple.
âDonât worry,â a voice whispered, it was distorted as if multiple people were speaking through the same vessel.
âAll of this is not a coincidence.â The voice continued.
The voices were vaguely familiar, but there was something about them that the girl couldnât pinpoint. A low humming melody resonated through the darkness just under the sound of the voice. The hands remained outstretched around the apple. Slowly, another pair of hands became outstretched beside the original pair. Miraeâs mind was confused, but it wouldnât stop the dream.
âThrough infinite worlds,â another voice was added to the myriads of voices, this one more familiar than the others. The humming in the distance turned to a sweet whistle. âweâve found our destiny.â
A bright flashing light accompanied by a sound of shattering glass bombarded the girlâs mind. From the chaos, two more pairs of hands appeared beside the others and reached for the girl. Miraeâs body twitched and her body ran circles through its cavity. The strobing was replaced by the still spotlight and the dewy apple once again. The pink and red rose petals rose from around the apple and the butterfly flew backward towards the fruit like a movie being rewound, everything happened in slow motion. The shaken girl jumped up, her face was beaded with sweat, and her chest rose and fell rapidly.
This was the oddest and most unsettling dream the high school girl ever had. In her arms, tucked protectively, was the bear that Jungkook had given her earlier. Mirae grabbed her phone, her hand clammy and moist from fear, the time was 4:45. To her, it didnât feel like she had been asleep that long, when she laid down it had just become noon. She swallowed a rough, scratchy lump in her throat, it was dry. She wandered into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, she fumbled through the cabinet until she found a glass and filled it to the brim. She quickly gulped down the cool liquid, remnants of the drink leaking down her mouth as she huffed for air. From the corner of her eye the girl saw a quick motion. She snapped her head towards the movement to see the tea kettle sitting on the stove, her body tensed up.
It had not been there when the girl entered the kitchen, she was a bit spooked, but maybe she just hadnât noticed it before now. The sleek black kettle stared at her, although it possessed no eyes. Its silver streaks glittered in the sunlight. The kettle whispered to her, even without a mouth, it called to her. The girl sat her glass on the counter and slunk off to her room to retrieve her tea. She lifted the lid on the box that contained the sweet packets. The girl skipped into the kitchen and grabbed the kettle, filling it with water to brew the tea. After a short wait the girl shuffled to her bedroom and threw the curtains open. The sky was just as beautiful as it was that morning, and the sun had moved to the west side of the city. The tea box fell from the rocking chair with a soft puff, opening to spill its contents.
The girl looked at the box, three packets were spewed across the floor. The girl furrowed her brows and sneered at the packets with disgust.
âI only have three more?â the girl hissed, she was upset by the discovery, but she left the thought alone because her tea was cooling. She sipped the tea, the swirling taste of mid-spring excited her taste buds. The mixture of sweet and bitterness, a citrus flavor she hadnât tasted before. She gazed happily at the sky, the sun rays tickling her cold cheeks. She was overwhelmed by a burning need to return to the dark-haired boy and the odd world he occupied. A cool breeze brushed over the girl unexpectedly, but she didnât react to it. Her limbs began to tingle from her toes upward, it was the same fiery needles as before. She continued to drink her tea and watch the sky, it had become a bluish-grey color that the girl associated with the impending darkness.
With every second that passed the girlâs body became heavier, unlike anything she felt previously. Her breath became short as if a weight was being pressed against her chest. A butterfly faded through the window surprising the girl, the winged insect landed stealthily on the tip of her nose. Mirae smiled weakly at the blue and black winged creature as it slowly flapped its wings, hypnotizing the girl. Without warning, the girlâs usually bright chocolatey brown eyes became a dull grey matching the sky and rolled back into their sockets dropping the girl into darkness. The darkness swallowed the girl along with the deafening silence, only the sound of her breathing could be heard over that booming silence. Her breathing was slow, labored and whistley, it was concerning to say the least.
A flash of light invaded the darkness and disappeared again. The light returned again capturing Miraeâs attention and drawing it to an apple, shining and red exactly like in her dream. The apple fell from the light as it descended into nothingness the sound of glass shattering rang out and an outreached hand stretched towards the girl, who suddenly felt like she was falling. When the apple fell out of view, the girl sprung up and was facing crystal blue shimmering waters, yellowish-white and beaning over her body as if she had been buried underneath. Mirae yanked herself from the ground and turned to see lush green leaves and tall grass. The sound of waves rolling and crashing on the sand calmed the girl as she stared into the forest, mapping out a route in her head. The girl waddled on her way to the treehouse; the path was clear and easy to remember. The young girl approached the giant tree; the house sat still in a nook of the tree.
âJungkook!â Mirae shouted hopping up to assist her voice in carrying up the tree. The girl looked up at the platform waiting a moment before calling up to the house again. A head popped out of a small window. The head was messy and the boyâs face was confused and tired. His face was pale, his eyes hooded and half open, he cleared his throat and yawned.
âMirae?â the boyâs groggy voice muttered. He reentered the window and appeared again on the platform, throwing the rope latter down for the girl. âWhat are you doing here? You just left.â He questioned watching the girl climb the ladder, she smiled up at the boy picking up speed.
Once Mirae reached the platform she hugged the boy tightly and hummed contently. âYou told me to come back soon, so I came back.â The boy returned the hug and nodded.
Jungkook broke the hug and rushed into the room to change back into his clothes. He strutted out to the living area dressed in a white and red pullover hoodie that read âGCUâ with matching white sweatpants. The girl smiled at the boy in his matching outfit. He started dancing around with a big smile, his eyes bright and his movements smooth. He grabbed the girl and pulled her into his random dancing. She was hesitant because her dancing wasnât as good as Jungkookâs.
âDonât be shy, love, itâs just us.â He flashed the girl a loving smile, the girl found herself melting into the boyâs arms. His arms were strong and comforting, Mirae stood up on her tip toes and kissed Jungkookâs lips. The boy looked shocked, but he kissed her back.
The start of the kiss sent a strong feeling of warmth spiraling through her system. Her eyes closed fearlessly, but the closure didnât send the girl into darkness, but created bright pinks and reds, colors associated with love and fondness. Her body tensed along with her nerves, but they began to relax, her troubles, her pain all began to melt away, and the surroundings began to disappear leaving only her⊠her and Jungkook. This feeling and this moment felt loving. This felt true. This felt good. This felt right. It felt real. His lips felt so gentle, so warm, Mirae felt her hands begin to slide up his chest and encircle his neck, as the kiss began to grow heavy. Jungkook's hand tightened around her waist. She kissed him passionately, hungrily wanting more. Jungkook pushed the girl against the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, Jungkookâs body pressing against hers.
The kiss continued, their lips moved in what was almost perfect sync and the kiss became more passionate by the second. Her right hand caressed the back of his neck, and her left hand began to explore underneath his hoodie. The two of them parted for air, but just as quickly as they moved away, they clasped onto one another once again. Jungkook lifted the girl, setting her gently on the countertop, never breaking the kiss. The heat flowing throughout her body began to grow, Mirae felt his hands slide up the back of her uniform shirt, quickly unclasping her bra. He retracted his hand and slowly began to unbutton her shirt which hung loosely, her bra and stomach beginning to show. Her eyes leisurely began to open, eyelids relaxed as she slowly sucked in the cool air.
Jungkookâs eyes looked heavy, but not in a tiring sort of way. His eyes glistened as he peered at the girl, he licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak.
âSo, what now?â he asked with a smirk. Miraeâs eyes widened for a moment as she realized what he was hinting at. A pinkish tent swarmed across her face and she giggled awkwardly. Jungkook backed away a bit and laughed.
âYouâre so cute, Mimi.â The boy cooed innocently before perking up.
Mirae pushed herself from the counter and back into Jungkookâs arms, she wanted to feel him close to her, but this distance wasnât close enough. Her face was still tinted from embarrassment as she moved away to remove her shirt. Jungkook smirked and removed his own hoodie, underneath was a plain white t-shirt. He moved closer to the girl capturing her lips in a quick and rough kiss, surprising the girl.
The two broke away from the kiss, Jungkook removed his t-shirt and discarded his shirt to the counter top. The boy was thin, with the right amount of muscle. Mirae looked over the boyâs body with a grin, she liked what she was seeing, but the thought of seeing him shirtless made the girl nervous. The boy lifted the school girl, her eyes clinched as the boy carried her bridal style towards the room. âIf you donât want to do this let me know.â Jungkook purred placing his forehead against hers. A warm feeling surged throughout her body as the boy laid her on the bed. He slowly unzipped her uniform skirt and slipped it down her thighs, removing her thigh-high socks as he took the skirt. Jungkook discarded the items into the corner of the room, kneeling in front of the girl. Mirae was starting to get butterflies in her stomach, she couldnât shake this feeling of nerves.
Jungkook caressed the girlâs thighs, her skin was surprising soft. Jungkook looked a bit shocked at the bruised and marks that littered her skin, but he didnât make a fuss about it. Mirae suddenly sat up, clutching her chest, a pained expression plastered across her face. Her eyes stung and swelled with tears, a searing heat radiated through her chest, and a pounding pain exploded in her skull. Jungkook fell back, scared and confused. âMirae, are you alright?â he questioned repositioning himself and gripping her shoulder, gently. Tears streamed down her face, an eerie screech rang out around the girl. Her vision blurred and suddenly blacked out.
âMirae, get up and put some damn close on!â a familiar womanâs voice bellowed. Another wave of searing pain radiated through the girlâs body. Her eyes sprung open as she felt herself gasping for air.
âYouâre not even sick, you just wanted to be at home!â the womanâs voice boomed. Mirae watched as a foot swung and hit her directly in her chest. Her vision blurred and she saw Jungkook looking at her concerned, but when she blinked and reopened her eyes he was gone. Footsteps distanced the woman from the girl, a second pair of legs could be seen, a man.
âCâmon, just leave her alone, we have to go.â The man said leading the woman from the room. Mirae heard the front door slam closed, but she just laid there on her bedroom floor. She slowly pulled her knees to her chest, the pain worsening before dulling down.
She laid there soaking the carpet with her tears until no more would come from her bloodshot eyes. Mirae pulled herself up from the floor, feeling her insides burning she yearned for a glass of water. Suddenly, she remembered she need to pick up her tea. She turned her attention to the spot where her box had fallen to see the bags ripped and the tea had been smashed into the carpet.
âI knew I shouldâve picked them up earlier!â Mirae screamed throwing herself back down onto the carpet. âIâm an idiot.â
She cried into the carpet her breath heating the fuzziness. She quickly pulled herself together and picked up the bags, discarding them in her small trash can and proceeded to vacuum up the tea. She felt exhausted and she was still in pain, she could barely move, so she just laid in her bed. Mirae realized it was late when she checked her phone, 7:50. The tired girl drifted off to sleep.
A loud banging filled the small apartment, throwing the girl from her sleep. She checked her phone, horrified that she had slept through school, 9:00. The banging continued, Mirae pulled herself out of bed and dressed herself in a housecoat. She opened the front door to meet the gaze of her teacher.
âSorry to stop by so late, Mirae.â Mrs. Lee said with an awkward smile. Mirae smiled weakly. âI came to drop off your notes and homework.â The teacher mumbled holding up a booklet.
Mirae accepted the booklet and stood in the doorway. Mrs. Lee cleared her throat and leaned against the doorframe.
âHow are you feeling?â the girl remained silent, she rather not lie to the woman. âDo you mind if I come in and talk awhile?â the lady asked.
Mirae looked back and realized how messy her small apartment was, between school and the other world she hadnât been cleaning like sheâs supposed to. Mrs. Lee nodded and righted herself.
âAlright, I will see you at school tomorrow, hopefully.â Mirae nodded and watched the lady head to the elevators.
âYou have a good evening, Mrs. Lee.â Mirae called, her voice was scratchy, raspy almost and broken. Mrs. Lee noticed but just smiled at the student.
âYou too.â She beamed as the elevator doors closed before her.
The tired girl closed the door and heaved a relieved sigh before teetering back into her room, if sheâs lucky her mom wouldnât be coming home tonight.
Word count â 2,098
Warnings:Â Parental Abuse, Neglect, Domestic Violence, Physical Injuries, Substance Abuse (implied), Grief/Loss (mild), Bullying. Please let me know if I missed anything and I will add it.
Note: I wrote this back in the day (2018) I Found it in my computer and am posting it unedited.
Co-author:Â @thelolodiamond
Directory: Prologue | Ch 1. | Ch 2. | Ch 3 | Ch. 4| Ch. 5| Epilogue
Mirae laid in her bed, she had fallen asleep after returning home. In the corner of her small bedroom sat the same white rocking chair. The chair was decorated with a white button-down shirt and black pants and was illuminated by a sliver of pale-yellow rays. The brash screeching of her phoneâs alarm vibrated throughout the small apartment. The tired girl pulled herself up from the warmth of her bed and yawned deeply. Her hair fell over her face and was a sloppy birdâs nest over her head. She trudged into the bathroom and started her day with a steaming shower.
After she showered, she dressed herself in her school uniform. She didnât have time to press her clothes last night because of her adventure with Jungkook. The thought of that mysterious stranger brought a smile to the young girlâs face. She was so glad she had a new friend. Her pleasant thoughts of the forest boy were violently interrupted by harsh pounding on the door.
âHurry up and get to school!â the groggy raspy voice of Miraeâs mother bellowed through the wood.
 âOkay.â She groaned adjusting the navy-blue tie around her neck. In the living room, Miraeâs mother sat with a smile on her face. Her hair messily thrown in a top bun.
âI made you some tea, I left the bag in the cup.â She announced sinking into the couch. The woman was uncharacteristically happy.
She must have a man coming overâŠ
Mirae concluded grabbing her mug from the kitchen and rushing out the door. She didnât think much about her mother this morning, if she wasnât yelling at her or beating on her, Mirae was happy. The air outside was brisk and the streets were busy. On her trip to the bus stop, she couldnât help but wish she had another jacket to wear, but the tea was keeping her warm enough.
The bus pulls up not long after she had arrived, screeching loudly to announce its arrival for the girl. The driver was a young man with orange-brown hair, he smiled politely as Mirae entered the bus.
âGood morning.â He said his voice was solid, firm and rhythmic. It sounded almost foreign in a way. Mirae smiles and swipes her pass and wades toward the back of the bus to an empty window seat. A boy dressed in a school uniform moved slightly to allow her to sit by the window. The boy looked a bit odd, but everyone looked odd to Mirae. The boy had ash-grey colored hair even though he was school student. He also had long dangling earrings in his ears. To avoid staring at the boy any further, Mirae turned her gaze up to the sky. The skyline looked amazing. The sun peaked just over the tall buildings and there wasnât a cloud to block out the pristine pearly blue.
âExcuse me,â the boy muttered catching the girlâs attention. His voice was kind of deep but had a higher tone to it as well. Mirae turned to look at the boy to see him pointing to her feet. She hopped up, she had been stepping on the boyâs backpack.
âIâm sorry.â She mumbled, he gave her a shy smile and headed towards the exit.
The girl flopped back down in her seat and took a huge gulp of her tea. The boy smiled at her through the window while he passed by. She turned her attention back to the sky and the bus rode on. Once the bus reached her stop, Mirae was feeling a bit off. She shook the feeling back and waddled into the school building.
The lights in the building begin to fade in and out. The girl had broken into a sweat, and her throat was becoming scratchy. She stumbled into her classroom like a drunk stumbling from the bar on a weekend. Mrs. Leeâs eyes widened at the girl as she swayed toward her seat.
âMirae, you should go to the nurse.â The instructor suggested, but the girl was determined to sit in the class.
She fell into her seat and gave a weak smile. Mrs. Lee began her lesson reluctantly. Her words were nearly inaudible to the sweating girl and the words on the board were fading like the early lights. Her body felt as if it was being pulled down by weights. Her extremities began to tingle.
How is this happening?
The girl wondered to herself. She threw her hand up into the air.
âMrs. Lee,â she slurred barely able to speak. âI need to go to the nurse.â She announced struggling to raise from the chair.
The woman nodded and excused herself to assist the girl out the door; however, Miraeâs legs refused to carry her any further. The dark-haired girl hit the ground amassing a bunch of concerned gasps and grumbles from her classmates. The feelings of butterflies fluttering on her arms and legs calmed the girl. It was a familiar feeling, but a new feeling washed over the girl, her breathing became labored and her chest hurt. Through blurring vision, she watched as Mrs. Lee called for help.
I donât need anything.
The girl thought as she was surrounded by darkness.
Mirae jumped up, her eyes were covered by a thick black cloth. She was seated on a soft, fluffy material. The sound of a whistling could be heard nearing the girl. She felt panicked and calm at the same time, a contradictory feeling that could only mean one thing.
âJungkook?â the girl asked turning her head toward the whistling.
Slowly, a pair of warm hands traced over the cloth, pulling it away from the girlâs brown eyes. The darkness was replaced with a blinding light and the blurry outline of a familiar boy. The boyâs face was painted with an excited smile; his lips were curled into a heart. His pale skin was dewy as if it had just been washed and his dark hair sticking to his forehead.
âWhat are you doing here so soon?â the boy purred tossing the cloth onto the bed.
Mirae shrugged, she hadnât done anything different from any other morning. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and looked up at the boy. He was dressed in bleached jeans, a red graphic tee and silver hoop earrings. She stood up and walked with the boy out of the room. She had a weird feeling that things were different, aside from the boyâs drastic style changes. He watched as Mirae walked around examining everything.
âSomething is different.â She announced turning to the boy, who was leaning against the wall. He shook his head and moved toward the door. Mirae followed Jungkook.
This was the difference she sensed. In place of a platform, there was a wide wooden porch. It was painted white; the houseâs exterior was a dim burgundy that looked well aged. After taking a mental note of the upgrade to the house, Mirae noticed the forest had vanished and been replaced with a wide-open yard. The girl turned to Jungkook, who yet again was leaning casually against the house. The boy pushed off the wall and took Miraeâs hand, leading her into the openness of the yard. The air, like the forestâs, was crisp and clean. The grass was bright, luscious and still dewy. The hushed echo of nearby by water could be heard over the peaceful silence.
The light shimmered off Jungkookâs dark hair, glistening like stars in a night sky. The boy spun the girl into an unexpected embrace. He pressed his body against hers and sways them side to side, humming a soft melody. Mirae smiled and danced with him to the song. The wind pushed the grass over their feet as they danced. Miraeâs uniform skirt flowed gently in the breeze. The girl found herself resting her head on the boyâs shoulder, nearly melting into him as she inhaled his scent. His scent was soft and sweet, the smell of him reminded Mirae of something she smelled before but couldnât recall in the moment.
She looked up at Jungkook, who was looking down at her. Their eyes met, his chocolate brown orbs pierced through her like a needle through fabric and glinted. Miraeâs eyes felt heavy, but not like before, a different type of heavy. She replaced her head on his shoulder, closing her heavy eyes.
âAre you feeling okay?â the boy asked lifting her face to meet his.
âI think Iâm kinda tired.â She hummed looking into Jungkookâs eye once again before the pair trailed back into the house. Mirae floated into the bedroom, it was neatly arranged and pure white. The covers on the bed were plush and white; the walls were blank white along with the dressers and mirrors.
âIâm just going to lay down for a while.â Mirae explained relaxing into the comforters.
The covers smelled of exotic wildflowers and intermingled with the aroma of cinnamon, two of her favorite smells. The boy entered the room and sat against the dresser as the girl got comfortable.
âWake me up in 10 minutes, okay?â she chimed snuggling into the plush blanket.
âWait, donât close your eyes yet.â Jungkook said rushing over to the closet.
The boy approached the bedside with a smoky grey bear; it was limp and cute. He laid the plushie on the bed and kneeled next to it. Mirae smiled and cuddled the bear, her heavy lids closing without hesitation.
Mirae welcomed the feelings of relaxation, this feeling of blackness washing over her. Like a blanket, but not a blanket of warmth like the one she had wrapped herself in, it was a blanket of coldness making the young girl shiver uncontrollably. A moist warmth found its way to the girlâs forehead sending another band of shivers over her cold body.
âCome back to me soon.â The cheery voice of the boy rang, but the undertone was pained and saddened.
Mirae wanted to open her eyes, but she couldnât. The darkness wouldnât allow her. It covered her completely and even stole away with her thoughts. The butterfly feeling in her legs returned just like previous encounters, but this one was different. The flutters were accompanied by needle like pokes that were also hot, but not hot enough to hurt.
Miraeâs eyes fluttered open, tears seeped down her face as the light seared into her deep brown orbs. She shifted in the bed, a curtain blocked her view of the world around her. Her throat was parched and her lips drier than late winter air. She sat up and much to her surprise nuzzled in her arm was the grey bear that Jungkook had given her. A loud bell rang out just as the girl put her feet into her shoes.
Iâm still in school?
The curtain flew back to reveal a worried looking Mrs. Lee followed by Miraeâs angry-looking mother. The two looked over the girl.
âThe color is returning to her face.â Mrs. Lee explained to the mother. Mirae coughed and sat up, her eyes low with shame.
âIâm sorry that I disrupted your class, Mrs. Lee.â The girl started looking over at the teacher, whose eyes shook with concern, then she looked at her mother.
âMother, I apologize that I made you leave work.â
The older woman crossed her arms over her chest and frowned at the girl. She didnât look impressed, both Mirae and Mrs. Lee could see it. Lee cleared her throat drawing their attention to herself.
âIâm just glad that youâre doing better,â the instructor stated patting the girlâs head. The womanâs eyes darted down to the little bear, a confused look flashed across the womanâs face. Mirae moved the bear behind her back and sniffled.
âRight, you should go home and get some rest.â the teacher continued turning to face the mother.
Miraeâs mom sneered at the instructor.
âMrs. Kang, please allow Mirae to return home.â The teacher requested gesturing to the slightly pale faced girl. âShe seems to be sick. I will send her work home later.â
The mother scoffed and rolled her eyes. Mirae sat back down on the bed, feeling a bit lightheaded from standing so quickly.
âFine, but this is the only time.â The mother obliged pulling the girl up from the bed, violently. The girl yelped, nearly falling to the floor and Lee gasped. âIf this happens again, youâll regret it.â
Her mother growled yanking the girl out the door. A large lump developed in Miraeâs throat as she held back embarrassed tears.
Word count â 2,657
Warnings:Â Parental Abuse, Neglect, Domestic Violence, Physical Injuries, Substance Abuse (implied), Grief/Loss (mild), Bullying. Please let me know if I missed anything and I will add it.
Note: I wrote this back in the day (2018) I Found it in my computer and am posting it unedited.
Co-author:Â @thelolodiamond
Directory: Prologue | Ch 1. | Ch 2. | Ch 3 | Ch. 4| Ch. 5| Epilogue
It was late, but for most in this bustling city the night has just begun. For Mirae, that was something she knew all too well. Silently, she tiptoed across the cool carpet of her room over to her door. She slowly turned the doorknob and heard the latch click loudly, as she eased it away from the doorframe. Just as she was dragging the door open, her mother slammed it with her hand. Miraeâs body trembled and her lips quivered as she hopped away from the door, away from the woman.
âWhere are you goinâ! the woman slurred.
Her eyelids fell halfway down her eyes, and she swayed while assumedly standing still. Mirae swallowed a lump in her throat but couldnât find the voice to answer her mother. The womanâs small pale hands clenched into a fist as she moved into the dimly lit room.
âAnswer me, you bastard!â she screamed lunging for the teen girl.
Mirae stepped back, threw her arms up to protect her face and yelped. The woman however, let out a crackly dry laugh which sounded strained and painful.
âMirae, you knowâŠâ she started grabbing the young girl by her shoulder. The fabric of her white tee crumpled in her hand and slowly began to stab into the girlâs neck.
âNever mind, get out of my face!â she growled throwing the girl to the ground harshly.
Miraeâs light frame, like an unwanted ragdoll, bounced over the carpeted floor and slid a bit. Her arm burned suddenly as if hundreds of fiery needles had been imbedded into her elbow and up her shoulder. Her head, which had also hit the wall, throbbed and bitter and salty tears trailed down her face.
âIâm going out! I hate being around you too longâŠâ the red-faced woman announced slamming the door as she exited. A framed photo of a man and baby fell to the ground, shattering the glass and frame. Another door being slammed resonated through the small two-bedroom apartment and Mirae released a shaky and relieved breath. Her body, though it still ached, starts to relax as she pulls herself off the ground.
Tears continued to stream down the girlâs plump cheeks. She sways over to the photo, grabbing pieces of the shattered glass and placing them atop the picture. She began to sob while staring down at the photo of the baby and man. The man was handsome, young and happy looking. There was a huge smile on his face, like her own face, his cheeks were plump and shiny. Although happiness radiated from this photo, Mirae couldnât help but to be sadden. After gathering all the larger pieces of glass and wood, she rushed to the kitchen to dump them in the trash. She returned to her room with a broom and wiped her tears before she swept the mess.
A bright light shimmered through the small bedroom drawing the girlâs attention towards her jacket. The black zip-front jacket was strewn sloppily over a white wooden chair that filled an otherwise empty corner.
âI should test that teaâŠâ she mumbled to herself. Her voice broken, like the picture frameâs glass and scratchy like the carpet beneath her feet. She hopped over to the jacket and grabbed a packet of the tea. With the packet in one hand and the broom in the other Mirae headed into the kitchen. On the packet were direction for brewing and consuming the tea. Mirae laughed at the instructions but read them anyways.
âPlace a kettle filled with water on the stove, boil for two minutes.â She read as she searched for the tea kettle. She filled it with water and sat it on the fire. She continued her reading,
âAfter two minutes, apply the bag to the boiling water and boil another minute.â She nodded it sounded simple enough. It wasnât how she normally made her tea, so it must be a more efficient way of brewing. Although she was sure she would enjoy the tea, Mirae was still skeptical the tea would do anything more than warm her stomach for a few moments. She did think looking up at the sky would help, so she planned to go to the park just up the street and lay under the tree.
After the tea had finished brewing it was too hot to consume. The steam from her travel mug was dancing around her face, swirling and constricting around her neck like a friendly snake. She rushed into her room and grabbed her jacket and phone. Snagging her travel mug, she headed towards the park. Mirae lived in a big city, but her neighborhood was lucky enough to have a large park close by. She gripped her cup, the brisk winds contradicting the warmth in her hands. Mirae was doing her best to make it to the park before her tea could get cold. The park was wonderful looking. To her left was a playground, which was littered with children playing, while their parents watched. To her right was a little stand that sold snacks and treats.
Mirae loved coming to the park to clear her mind.
âWeâll sit under this tree here.â Mirae whispered cutely to her tea as she floated down an empty path.
Though the path was dark and cast into a shadow by a tall mossy oak. The treeâs branches were lifted to the sky as if it was attempting to touch the heavens. Mirae smiled up at the grand tree and claimed a spot at the base of its wide trunk. She slid down the tree, a symphony of crackles sounding as the mossy bark rubbed against her black jacket. After getting comfortable, Mirae let out a relieved sigh and flicked the cap off her cup exposing her steaming tea to the cool night air. The two temperatures greeted each other with the steam beating out the cold and snuggling into Miraeâs cheeks just like in the kitchen.
She looks down at the drink, her dark hair falling around the cup making a protective fort around the two. The smooth green liquid was sparkling against to steel mug that held it warm in its grasp. The scent of the drink flooded Miraeâs nose more than before. The scent reminded her of a mid-Spring breeze, heavy with the smell of new beginnings. The tea reminded her of the kind her father used to drink, or at least the kind her grandmother said he enjoyed. It was a soft, sweet scent. Mirae inhaled the scented steam into her lungs and melted against the large tree at her back. Without further hesitation, she brought the cup to her mouth and breathed in the liquid, letting it fill her mouth.
The taste was the perfect mixture of bitter and sweet. The liquid cascaded down her throat leaving behind a satisfying tingle on her tongue. After two more sips, Mirae found herself relaxed. Her body felt heavy, her extremities began to tingle. Little flutters up and down her arms and legs as if little butterflies were playing around her body. She looked up into the night sky, much to her surprise there were many stars in the sky. It was unbelievably beautiful; she could see a pale blue swirl in the deeper blue. Suddenly a thick fog rolled over her and the mug dropped from her hand. Her eyelid became increasingly heavy as the city faded out of her view.
What is this feeling?
She thought to herself as she closed her eyes. Every bit of her wanted to panic, but she physically couldnât. Her body was too calm and relaxed. The quiet calm darkness was slowly being replaced by an increasingly bright and warm light. It felt like a sunrise, the red orange hue tickling her eyes and the heat trickling over her body. Just as the light grew, Miraeâs ability to move her now normal feeling body returned. The feeling of the butterflies was lifted and replaced by the feeling of sand underneath her back. An odd moving shadow encroached on the girlâs lifeless body.
âHello?â the voice was soft and warm, just like the light that emulated around her.
Mirae opened her eyes slowly. Her eye lids were still heavy and only opened halfway before the brightness of the light that pierced her retinas forced her to shut them once again. A short moment later she found herself repeating the action until she could see this person clearly. Mirae jumped at the sight of the person, a boy. The boy was handsome; his smooth pale skin glistened in the sunlight. He was dressed plainly in an oversized white button-down shirt and black shorts. He was kneeling over her, a worried scowl on his face. His hair fell over his eyes as he looked down at her. Miraeâs heart jumped in its cavity as she slid away from the boy.
âAre you alright?â the boyâs voice vibrated out sympathetically as he approached Mirae once again. He reached out his hand and placed it on her forehead. Mirae turned her head away from the boy. At that moment, she noticed her clothes were dripping wet.
âYou washed up on the beach, just nowâŠâ the boy explained standing and offering her his hand.
Mirae looked past the boy, a horrified expression plastered itself upon her face as she stared into the deep blue water behind him. She took his hand and he lifted her from the sand. The yellow-white grains waterfalling down her body as she rose.
âHow did I get to the water?â Mirae breathed her voice was light and confusion rang through her tone. The boy raised an eyebrow, just as confused as her. âI was at a parkâŠâ she turned away from the boy and crossed her arms, thinking. âUnder a big tree, not near any water.â She continued turning to find the boy gone. In a lone panic she turned viciously to find him behind her. She tilted her head and gazed at the boy.
âCome with me, Iâll get you some dry clothes.â He suggested holding his hand out, Mirae reluctantly took his hand. The boyâs hand was firm and strong, but soft and gentle in the way he held hers.
âIâm Jungkook.â He hummed; his voice was more angelic than before. It was sweet and unique like the song of a bird. A song, that was it, every word he had spoken so far sounded like a song. It made Mirae wonder, was she dreaming? She didnât think much more about it and nodded.
âIâm Mirae.â She chimed, Jungkook was the first person in a long time to be nice to her.
The two walked silently down the path that led from the beach into a forest-like area. The sound of the waves became hushed over the sound of birds chirping within the lush green of the trees. Miraeâs body began to tremble, she had never been inside a forest and was terrified of what would linger inside. Jungkook felt her body shake and stopped just in front of the path.
âItâs okay, I wonât let anything hurt you.â He beamed. An innocent and adorable smile crept over his face igniting Miraeâs own smile.
Once the pair stepped into the forest, the sky vanished almost completely only slim fragments of the shimmering blue remained. It was like looking up at scattered pieces of an impossibly large jigsaw puzzle. The air was rich with the fragrance of leaves and loam. The soil below their feet as it transitioned from sandy soil to pure soil was wet and lightly fogged, as if it had rained recently. Everything around was cool and still aside from the occasional bird or squirrel. Jungkook teetered confidently through the trees and bushes. The soft sunlight dimly lighting the path ahead. Mirae watched as he moved her through the forest. She was being drawn to him, partially because she feared being left behind and partly because of something else she couldnât exactly pinpoint.
The trek had ended at a log cabin-esque structure that was high in a tree. It wrapped around the tree and even extended into a nearing tree. Mirae was amazed at the house and confused by it all at the same time.
âLetâs go up.â Jungkook said starting up the tree.
Mirae watched in utter amazement as the boy dragged himself up the tree. He stopped and pulled at a rope that dropped a rope ladder. Mirae smiled, excited to climb the ladder and discover what lies ahead. The ropes were unsteady under her weight as she slowly crawled up. Her every step increased her burning fear of falling.
âYouâre almost thereâ Jungkook announced above her. Her movements were shaking the ladder with every step. She looked up into the cabin and saw Jungkook standing on the platform. She reached for his hand with a smile plastered on her tired face.
Just as he reached for her, Miraeâs foot slipped. She slid down ten steps before she could fully grasp one.
âJungkookâŠâ she huffed looking between the frightened boy and the ground. It was so far down. Miraeâs arms were trembling with fear, and she was unable to steady herself. Another rope fell from the cabin. Jungkook rappels from the structure and grabs Mirae.
âItâs okay, I got you.â He reassures. Mirae clenches onto Jungkook, hugging him tightly. Her heart banging against her chest. The two begin to ascend back to the top. Once both their feet touch the platform, Mirae falls out, tears streaming down her face.
The two sit around for a moment before Jungkook pops up and rushes into a backroom. He comes back with another white button-down shirt and a pair of black pants. The shirt was embroidered with some sort of bird. Mirae sprung up and followed the boy into a room.
âYou can change in here. Iâll go make some tea.â He says leaving her and the clothes in the room. Mirae strips from her wet clothes and debates for a moment whether to stay in her underwear, ultimately, she decided against it and dressed herself in the shirt and pants. She gathered her wet clothes and headed to find Jungkook. She found him in the kitchen with two cups of tea.
âIâll take those and you take this.â He purred exchanging the cold wet clothes for the warm cup of tea.
Mirae nodded and accepted the trade off, following behind him with her tea. She sat on the platform and drank her tea watching the boy hang up the clothes. After a few sips, Miraeâs body began to feel heavy and tingly like before. She accepted the familiar feeling, her eyelids fell. Jungkook approached the girl and picked her up. He cradled her in his arms and carried her back to the room, placing her gently on the bed.
âIt was nice to meet you, Mirae.â The boy whispered caressing her hair, moving the straggling strands from her face. The girl groaned in response.
Whatâs happening?
She thought to herself as the light faded away from her eyes.
âCome visit me soon.â Jungkookâs voice became muffled as if he was fading away.
Her body jerked and she sprung up to see a bright flashlight being pointed at her. Park security as well as nosy passersby looked at the girl.
âYou should be getting home.â The security officer said offering a hand to the girl. The officer was attractive looking, with dark hair that was highlighted with orange streaks. Slowly the girl accepted his hand and stood.
âThank you⊠Iâm going.â She nodded gathering her cup.
As she strayed away from the crowd, Mirae noticed her outfit was different than before. She remembered leaving in her jacket and jeans, but now she was in the white button-down. She grabbed at her shirt and looked back at the dispersing crowd. Excited, she ran off to her apartment.
Word count â 1, 320
Warnings: Parental Abuse, Neglect, Domestic Violence, Physical Injuries, Substance Abuse (implied), Grief/Loss (mild), Bullying. Please let me know if I missed anything and I will add it.
Note: I wrote this back in the day (2018) I Found it in my computer and am posting it unedited.
Co-author:Â @thelolodiamond
Directory: Prologue | Ch 1. | Ch 2. | Ch 3 | Ch. 4| Ch. 5| Epilogue
ââââââââââââ âą ââââââââââââ
The deafening buzz of the school bell rang out, signaling the end of the school day, but no one budged. The teacher stood at the front of the classroom looking over the students who, like her, stared blankly. There was only the sound of the other students traveling through the hallway. A girl with straight black hair that dusted just past her shoulder and tied into a sloppy ponytail broke the mold. She turned and looked out the window at the dimming light outside.
âIf you apply all youâve learned today, we can increase our class scores.â The teacher sighed turning to the board. âYou are dismissed.â
She continued gathering her belongings and swiftly exited the room. The black-haired girl looked towards the board, lifelessly. The other students began to stand and leave, cheerfully. A short-haired girl approached the blank-faced girl and stood before her, hands on hips. The black-haired girl looked up without shifting her head and swallowed a lump in her throat.
âMirae, could you clean off the board and sweep the room before you leave?â the short-haired girl asked, turning to smile at another girl standing in the doorway.
âItâs not like you have anything better to do.â The doorway girl snickered.
The black-haired girl, Mirae, averted her eyes and nodded. She stood up and the two girls exited the room laughing. Mirae didnât really mind staying after school to clean. She took any opportunity to stay away from home. In the back of the classroom was a closet with cleaning supplies. They were shared between the two classrooms, so she had to be quick with her cleaning.
She swept the floor. Taking every opportunity, she could to check for little coins or trinkets her classmates would drop while hurrying out of the room. After she finished sweeping, Mirae had collected a dollar and ten cents. She hurried to erase and wash the board, that was her favorite part of cleaning the room. Just as she finished cleaning, the hallways had cleared leaving just her and the few other students who stayed behind to clean their classrooms. Mirae packed up her school bag, which was old and faded, and threw it onto her back before slumping out of the classroom.
âMirae!â the familiar voice of her teacher rang out. The girl turned to meet the concerned gaze of the instructor. The two inched closer as if neither wanted to interact.
âThis is the 5th week that youâve stayed after schoolâŠâ the teacher noted. Mirae looked away and crossed her arms, nervously. She knew what the teacher was about to ask, and she wanted so much to avoid the topic.
âI really enjoy helping out.â Miraeâs voice was hushed, as if she hadnât spoken in a while.
âIs everything okay at home?â the teacher quizzed, Mirae became stiff and gave a forced smile.
âYes, Mrs. Lee, home is fine.â Her voice wavered as she spoke. The older woman stared into the girlâs eyes in disbelief but dropped the subject to dismiss the girl.
âAlright then, you head home, and Iâll see you tomorrow.â She said rubbing the girlâs shoulder.
Mirae hurried out of the school building and ran down the street. She looked at her phone, 7:35. She had missed her bus and had to walk to her motherâs job. The schoolgirl dialed her motherâs number and hoped she would be okay with her being a little late. The call went straight to voicemail. While she waited for the light to change, a man on bicycle dropped his wallet. Mirae, who had witnessed the event, rushed to grab the wallet before someone else could. She looked around for the cyclist and spotted him just down the street.
âExcuse me!â she called running after him; he gave no response and continued to bike on. She trailed him, calling out for until he turned down an alley. The girl peaked into the damp and creepy alleyway. At the end of the alley, she saw the guyâs bike and a mysterious light. Mirae checked her phone it was almost 8 oâclock and she had no missed calls or messages. The girl took a deep breath and headed into the alley. As she tiptoed through the wet area, Mirae couldnât help but get an odd feeling. She approached the bike, which sat in front of an oddly located shop. The shop was brightly colored and contrasted with the bleak looking alleyway.
Mirae mustard up the courage to walk into the shop. Inside it was bright and colorful and upbeat music played loudly, although she couldnât hear it from outside. The shop was empty, aside from signs and labels. The confused girl approached the counter, her heart punching against her chest wall. She fiddled with her uniform skirt before reaching to ring the service bell. As soon as her hand reaches the bell a man with black hair appears before her. The music hushes to a calm hum, the man leans onto counter and smiles a gummy grin.
âHow may I assist you?â
Mirae jumps back, startled. The manâs smile fades and is replaced with a soft concerned look.
âWelcome, to the Magic Shop!â the man exclaims walking around the counter and up to the still started girl. She holds out her hand which once contained a wallet,
âYou dropped your wallet.â She says, clinching her eyes shut. The man laughs and pushes the girlâs hand back towards her chest.
âThatâs not a wallet.â
Miraeâs eyes shot open as she looked at a coupon that rested in her hand.
âButâŠbutâŠâ she stutters. A table raises from the floor in the newly formed gap between this mysterious man and Mirae.
âHave a seatâŠâ
Confused, Mirae decides to oblige and sits across from the dark-haired man. He holds his hand out and instinctively Mirae places her hand in his. He grips her small delicate hand gently and looks her in her lowered eyes. The man caressed her hand and removed his from hers before standing. Mirae looked up at him questioningly.
What is he doing? What am I doing here? I need to go now.
Mirae stood up and chuckled awkwardly and backed up towards the door.
âI have something,â the man announced in a calm and eerie tone. âThat can make you forget about your pain.â He continued causing Mirae to pause and look at him. She was interested but wondered what he was talking about. What is the pain he spoke of; did he know something about her? The manâs face twisted into an eager smile as the girl edged forward toward the counter.
âYour mother has bruised more than your bodyâŠâ the man declared with a sympathetic frown. Miraeâs eyes widened in horror.
How does he know?
She asked herself. He holds out a small box that says tea in big bold characters.
âDrink this cup of tea while looking up at the sky and youâll be in a better place.â The shopkeeper says matter-of-factly.
Miraeâs lips curl in disbelief as she accepts the box. She looks at the box, skeptically, tucks it into her jacket pocket.
âWho are you?â she questions blinking at the satisfied looking man. He flashes her another goofy, gummy smile.
âIâm Min Yoongi, thank you for visiting the Magic Shop.â He chimes.
 Suddenly thereâs a bright flash of light and a loud high-pitched siren sound. Miraeâs entire body suddenly felt wet and sore. Her eyes opened to reveal a crowd of people surrounding her as well as her mother.
âAre you alright?â a lady asked helping the shocked girl up. Mirae nodded and looked at her mother, who was glaring at her.
It was just a daydream⊠Did I pass out or something?
She wondered as she began towards her mother. She stuffed her hands into her jacket pocket and gasped. It was there, the box of tea.
Word count : 11, 491 (2018)
Warnings: Parental Abuse, Neglect, Domestic Violence, Physical Injuries, Dissociation/Depersonalization, Medical Distress, Substance Abuse (implied), Grief/Loss (mild), Bullying. Please let me know if I missed anything and I will add it.
Note: I wrote this back in the day (2018) I Found it in my computer and am posting it mostly unedited. Chapter 5 and Epilogue were/will be written 2025-26
Co-author:Â @thelolodiamond
Miraeâs reality is a cycle of muted colors and sharp edges: the suffocating silence of a classroom, the cruelty of peers, and the volatile anger of a mother she no longer recognizes. She has learned to survive by disappearing into the background, becoming as lifeless as the chalkboards sheâs forced to clean.
But when she follows a strange path, she meets a mysterious shopkeeper who doesn't want her money. He wants her fear.
With one sip of a strange tea, Mirae is pulled from her nightmare and thrust into a world of vibrant dreams, soft light, and a boy named Jungkook. As the lines between her reality and the golden haze of the Magic Shop begin to blur, Mirae is left wondering if these dreams are real. As the magic takes hold, she must decide if sheâs finding a way to heal, or simply hiding in a world she was never meant to stay in.
ââââââââââââ âą ââââââââââââ
Table of Contents:
Word count â ~4, 370
Character(s): The Protagonist (reader), The Lover (in flashback), The Savior, and The One (the Savior's companion)
Warnings âReligious trauma, institutional homophobia/transphobia, erasure of identity, grief, and character death (violence/murder)Note â A story about the cost of "sameness" in a city built on holy lines. Loosely inspired by the themes and atmosphere of Gravity from Hazbin Hotel. This is an exploration of queer identity, religious authority, and a vengeance that feels as inevitable as the earth pulling you down. Also, if you know who made this artwork do tell, I found it on Pinterest^^
âââ âą âââ
The sky over the capital is too bright, the kind of brightness that makes your eyes ache even when you look away. White stone climbs toward it in obedient lines, towers and spires catching the light and throwing it back at you, polished and blinding. The city prides itself on that. Clean angles. No shadows that linger too long.
You stand at the overlook anyway, boots planted at the edge, the wind worrying at your cloak like it wants to peel you loose and send you down among the rooftops.
Heat clings to your skin. Not the heat of summer, but something tighter, heavier. Pressure without relief. The air smells of dust, incense and distant rain that hasnât decided where to fall just yet.
Behind you, the cathedral sings.
The sound spills outward through the arches, layered voices rising and folding in on themselves. You donât turn around. You donât need to. Youâve heard these sounds your entire life. Forgiveness shaped into melody. Unity stretched thin and polished until it shines.
They sing as if nothing is broken.
Your hand rests at your side, fingers curled around the familiar shape of your blade. The leather wrap is worn smooth where your thumb presses hardest. You donât remember when that started. Sometime after...
Sometime when your hands stopped shaking and started aching instead.
âEye for an eye,â you whisper.
The words donât echo. They settle. They always do.
Below you, the city moves. People crossing squares, pulling shutters closed against the brewing storm, adjusting collars and headscarves and faces. Everyone looks more or less the same from this height. Thatâs the point of the city. Thatâs always been the point.
You remember when it wasnât enough for them that you complied. When the âsamenessâ stopped being simply encouraged and started being heavily enforced.
You remember when they took notice.
âââ âą âââ
It had been a small thing at first.
A look held too long during prayer. A question asked after doctrine was recited, quiet but curious, as if curiosity itself were not already a sin. Your lover never learned how to disappear into the crowd properly. They tried, sometimes, for your sake. You remember the effort in their shoulders when they stood straighter than felt natural, the way they lowered their voice in public spaces heavy with listening ears and prying eyes. You remember the days they chose clothes that softened them into something more acceptable, something less likely to be noticed. Less likely to be stopped.Â
It never lasted.
Something in them always pushed back. Not loudly. Not defiantly. Just enough to remind the world they were still there. A laugh that slipped free before they could catch it. A hand that lingered in yours a moment too long after the bells rang. A refusal to answer questions about themselves with the words people expected.
They did not perform themselves correctly, by anyoneâs measure but their own.
The sermons changed before you noticed the guards did. The language grew careful and sharpened. Not cruel. They were never cruel. Just precise. Words like order. Design. Purpose. The priests spoke of harmony the way one speaks of architecture. Load-bearing truths. Necessary supports. They warned, gently, that deviations weakened the whole.
Your lover listened from beside you, hands folded, face unreadable. Later, outside, they would roll their eyes and mutter something about how the land never feared variety. You would shush them, heart racing, and they would smile at you, soft and apologetic, and squeeze your fingers like that made it better.
It didnât.
You loved them anyway. Completely. Recklessly. You loved the way they spoke about themselves in pieces, assembling who they were out loud as if saying it might make it real. You loved the care they took with other peopleâs names, with pronouns, with small kindnesses that never made it into sermons completely. You loved the way they believed the world could be better without needing to burn everything down first.
The city noticed.
It always does.
The day they were taken from your shared home, the square was full. Markets open. Incense drifting from the cathedral doors. Bells ringing out the hour with mechanical devotion. Normality performing itself perfectly. Youâd been arguing about something, something big and something small. The windows were open despite the neighborsâ disapproval, letting in late light and the distant sound of bells marking the hour. You remember standing near the table, arms crossed, trying not to raise your voice.
âYou donât need all of that,â you said, glancing at the list on the table. The paper was creased where theyâd folded and unfolded it, numbers written small in the margins, crossed out and rewritten. âWe can make do.â
They were standing by the counter, sleeves pushed up, hands braced on the wood like they needed the support. âThatâs not the point.â
âIt is when weâre counting coins again.â You kept your voice low, even though no one else was there. Old habits. âYou know how it looks lately. People are watching.â
Their shoulders lifted with a breath that didnât quite become a sigh. âTheyâre always watching.â
âYes,â you said, a little too quickly. âWhich is why we donât give them reasons.â
They turned then, really looked at you. The late light from the window caught the line of their jaw, the tightness there youâd learned to read long ago. âYouâre starting to sound like the sermons.â
The words landed heavier than they should have. You felt them in your chest. âThatâs not fair.â
âI mean it,â they said. Their voice wasnât loud, just tired. âListen to yourself. Careful. Quiet. Donât draw attention. When did you start agreeing with them?â
You rubbed a hand over your face, the dayâs weight pressing down all at once. âIâm tired,â you said. âI didnât sleep. Iâm justâ Iâm tired.â
They watched you for a long moment. Something in their expression softened, then tightened again, like a door almost opening and then being shut. âIâm tired too,â they said. After a beat, quieter, âIâm tired of pretending.â
The words sat between you, fragile and sharp.
The room felt suddenly too small. The kettle on the stove ticked as it cooled. Outside, a cart rattled past, wheels loud against stone. Life continuing, indifferent.
You reached for your cloak instead of for them. The fabric was still damp from the morning rain. âIâm going out,â you said, already moving. âIâll get what we need for dinner. And⊠I just need air.â
They nodded once, the motion stiff. âFine.â
âIâll be back before dark.â You hesitated in the doorway, waiting for something. A protest. A joke. Anything.
They didnât look up.
You closed the door more gently than necessary.
They didnât stop you.
That was the last ordinary moment of your life.
The street outside was busy enough to make you feel anonymous. Carts rattled past. Voices overlapped. Bells marked the hour with mechanical devotion. You remember thinking, absurdly, about which spices they preferred. You remember rehearsing the apology in your head, shaping it until it sounded light, easy.
You would laugh about this later.
You always did.
When you returned, the door was open.
Not forced. Just open.
The room felt wrong immediately. Too quiet. Too still. The table half-set. Bread cooling untouched, its crust already hardening at the edges. One chair sat slightly askew, as if someone had stood up too fast.
You called their name.
No answer.
You took another step inside and saw it then. The mark on the floor where boots had tracked in rain and dirt. Dark. Unequivocal. The imprint of authority in a space that had never allowed it before. Outside, the neighborsâ doors were closed tight, their windows dark. Silence, heavy with knowing.
They had come for them in your absence.
The city didnât tell you how at first. Your mind filled the gaps on its own.
The square would have been full. Markets open. Bells ringing. Normality performing itself perfectly. Someone selling fruit. Someone laughing. Someone turning away at the wrong moment.
You imagine the hands on their arms. Firm. Certain. The sudden weight of bodies between them and freedom. The way sound drops out of the world for half a breath before it comes back louder, sharper, wrong.
Order, the soldiers would have said.
For the good of the city.
You know your lover didnât fight. You can see it. The way they would turn their head just enough, searching a crowd that doesnât know to look back. Eyes fierce. Bright. Carrying a message they never had the chance to say aloud.
Donât bend for them.
You never saw them alive again.
Later, when you demanded answers, they gave them smoothly. Practiced. âDifference,â they saidâ calling your love by a name unuttered in years, âinvited chaos.â Some people existed in ways that threatened stability. The words were spoken gently, beneath stained glass, by mouths that had never known a boot at their back.
They said it had been lawful. That your home was unregistered. That two people living together without blessing was already a transgression. That your lover had too long been offered mercy. Time to repent. To name themselves correctly. To align body and soul with divine intent.
They said the intervention had been quiet. Respectful.
âThis was for the good of the city.â one said.
âFor the good of their soul.â another chimed in.
You never got to finish the argument.
Never got to apologize. To tell them you loved them.
Never got to hear them say it back.
What you were left with instead was the echo of your own voice in an empty room, and the knowledge that the last thing between you had been unfinished.
That the last thing they heard from you wasnât love, but frustration.
That night, the city slept.
The bells rang as usual.
And Sanctus, once again, kept its hands clean.
âââ âą âââ
The gardens open slowly, like theyâre being revealed rather than entered.
Stone paths curve with practiced grace, guiding feet where they are meant to go. Hedges rise shoulder-high on either side, clipped into smooth obedience, their edges softened by rain. Lanterns burn low beneath wrought arches, light blurring as water streaks the glass. Everything here is designed to calm. To reassure. To make distress feel impossible.
You step into it anyway.
Theyâre exactly where you were told they would be. Not by any specific person, but by a personâs specific actions.
Near the fountain, where water spills endlessly over carved saints and never seems to stain. The Savior stands with their back half-turned, one hand resting lightly on the stone rim, the other occupied with the person beside them. A quiet moment. An intimate one. Heads inclined toward each other as if the world were not ending in increments.
You stop just short of the light.
For a moment, you let yourself see it. The way the Saviorâs posture eases when they think no one is watching. The way the other leans in, trusting, unguarded. A private softness the city never gets to witness.
They used to stand like that.
The thought lands without warning and sinks its teeth in.
You remember standing like that once, shoulder to shoulder in your kitchen, the window cracked open despite the neighbors. Your lover had leaned into you while water boiled, head resting briefly against your arm, as if the world couldnât touch you there. In your sanctuary. You remember the warmth of it. The weight. The quiet certainty that this was allowed, at least between the two of you.
You remember how they smiled when they thought you werenât looking.
The memory is gone as quickly as it came, leaving behind a hollow ache that settles low in your chest.
The rain thickens, drumming against leaves, stone, skin. You take another step forward. Then another.
The fountain masks the sound until it doesnât.
The Savior turns first.
Their eyes find you and hesitate, sliding past your face before snapping back. You see the confusion register. The brief calculation. Stranger or supplicant. Threat or nuisance.
Then recognition settles in, slow and unwelcome.
Their hand drops from the fountainâs edge.
âYou shouldnât be here,â they say.
Not shouted. Not whispered. A statement of fact, like gravity, like law.
The person beside them turns at the sound of your voiceâ or maybe the absence of one. Their gaze meets yours and lingers too long. You see the shift there, too. The instinctive pull inward, closer to the Savior, as if proximity alone can promise oneâs safety.
You stop a few paces away.
Close enough to be seen clearly. Close enough to be heard over the rain.
âThis is a private place,â the Savior continues, recovering themselves. Authority settles back over their shoulders like a well-worn cloak. âConsecrated ground.â
âSo was my home,â you say.
The words cut cleaner than you expect.
The Savior stills.
You watch memory flicker behind their eyes. Not grief. Not remorse. Administration. A document recalled. A case once closed. Still closed. A name filed and forgotten.
âI remember,â they say slowly. âIf youâve come to seek absolutionââ
You shake your head once.
âNo.â
Behind them, the other shifts again, unease finally surfacing. They glance between you and the Savior, rain plastering their hair to their face.
âThis isnât appropriate,â the Savior says, firmer now. âYouâre upset. Understandably. But this is not the wayââ
You take a step closer.
The rain swallows the sound of your boots. It swallows the fountain. It swallows the city.
âDonât,â you say.
The word is quiet. It doesnât need to be louder.
The Savior falters. Just enough.
âThis doesnât need to become something else,â they try. âNo one has to get hurt.â
You look at the person beside them again. Really look.
Theyâre close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to matter.
âThatâs what you said before,â you reply.
Thunder rolls overhead, nearer now, the sound cracking through the garden like a warning no one asked for.
The paths around you feel narrower. The hedges taller. The city further away than itâs ever been.
Something in the air shifts.
âââ âą âââ
The rain softens again, thinning to a steady hush that turns the garden inward. Water gathers in the seams of stone. Lanternlight blurs until edges no longer matter.
The Savior straightens.
It is a small motion but practiced. Authority resettling itself. Youâve seen it before, at the pulpit, beneath stained glass, when a question has gone too far and must be put back where it belongs.
âThis has gone on long enough,â the Savior says. Not unkindly. Not harshly. As if length alone were the problem. As if endurance were the same as justice.
Behind them, that one shifts, uncertain. Close enough to feel the change, not close enough to name it.
âYouâre grieving,â the Savior continues. âGrief distorts. It makes enemies where there are none.â A pause. Measured. âI wonât fault you for that.â
You say nothing.
Rain slips down your collar, cold against the skin at the nape of your neck despite the cloak around it. You welcome it. It gives you something simple to feel.
âWeâve spoken,â the Savior goes on. âYouâve been heard.â That isnât true, but anything sounds like truth when spoken this way. With this authority.Â
âThereâs nothing more to be done here tonight.â
They glance around the garden, as if taking inventory of the damage. Of which there is none. Not now. Not yet.
âThis is sacred ground,â they say again, softer now. âIt deserves peace.â
You lower your gaze.
It costs you nothing. It gives them everything.
The Savior takes that as agreement.
They turn slightly toward their person, the one, hand lifting in a gesture meant to reassure. A touch that stops just short of contact, hovering where comfort should be. One leans toward it anyway, instinctive as breath.
âYou should go inside,â the Savior tells them. âThe rainâs worsening.â
One hesitates, looking at you. Their eyes search your face for somethingâanger, threat, permission. They find only stillness.
âYouâre safe,â the Savior adds, and this time the words are meant for you as much as them. A boundary drawn. A line closed.
You nod once.
It is almost imperceptible.
The Savior exhales, the tension easing from their shoulders as if they have just finished something difficult and done it well. âWeâll speak later,â they say to you. âWhen emotions arenât so high.â
Later.
Always later.
They step back, creating space. Distance. The kind people mistake for resolution.
âIâll pray for you,â the Savior says, already turning away.
The words land and slide off. They mean nothing. They are a habit.
Their footsteps retreat down the path, swallowed quickly by rain and hedges and the soft geometry of a city designed to forget. The lanternlight bends, then steadies. The garden closes ranks around their absence.
They do not look back.
One watches them go, relief loosening something in their posture. They laugh softly, an exhale more than a sound.
âI thoughtââ they start, then stop. Shake their head. âI thought that was going to be worse.â
You lift your eyes then.
One notices. Really notices. Something in your expression gives them pause.
âTheyâre gone,â One says, as if that settles it. As if absence were proof of safety.
âYes,â you reply.
The word carries weight you donât explain.
Thunder murmurs again, closer now, a low pressure beneath the sky. The fountain keeps spilling its endless water, unchanged by any of it. Saints stare blindly into the rain, stone faces worn smooth by centuries of weather and worship.
One turns back toward the fountain, fingers brushing the carved edge. âIâm sorry,â they say, awkward. âAbout⊠everything.â
They mean the confrontation. They mean the discomfort. They do not mean what was taken from you. They do not know how.
âYou loved them,â One says after a moment, tentative. Not a question.
You swallow.
âYes.â
They nod, as if that fits neatly into the world they understand. As if love were a past tense thing. As if it ended when the body did.
âI canât imagine,â One adds. âWhat that must be like.â
You think of your loverâs hand warm at your back. Of the way they said your name like a promise. Of the night you left and didnât come back in time.
âDo you think your Savior can?â you ask dryly.
Oneâs smile fades then returns faintly, misreading your question as connection. As shared ground.
âI should go inside,â they say, echoing the Savior now. âTheyâll be wondering where I am.â
They take a step away from the fountain. You move at the same time. Not fast. Not sudden. Just enough to close the distance.
One stops, confused. âIs something wrong?â
The rain thickens again, as if the sky has made a decision.
âNo,â you say.
It is the truest thing you have said all night.
Behind you, the garden paths stretch empty. The Savior is already gone. Already convinced they have chosen mercy. Already certain this story is finished.
You feel the bladeâs weight where it rests, familiar and patient.
Your chest is calm.
Your hands are steady.
This was never about rage.
This was never about spectacle.
This is about balance.
About returning what was taken.
One looks at you, waiting.
The city holds its breath.
And somewhere deep beneath stone and law and prayer, gravity remembers what it is owed.
âââ âą âââ
One is still looking at you when it happens.
Not with fear. Not yet. With the polite attention people give when they think a conversation is winding down. When they think the danger has passed because the authority has left the room.
They wait for you to speak.
The rain answers first.
It comes down harder now, thickening into something deliberate. Leaves bow under its weight. The fountainâs steady spill grows louder, masking smaller sounds. The city exhales, satisfied with itself.
You step closer.
One doesnât retreat. They smile again, tentative, apologetic. âI didnât mean it like that,â they say, gesturing vaguely, as if words can still smooth this over. âI know itâs complicated. Faith is⊠it asks things of people.â
You think of what it took.
You think of hands forced apart. Of a voice silenced mid-syllable. Of how easily the city decided what was acceptable to lose.
âI know,â you say.
Your hand finds the hilt.
The motion is simple. Familiar. Youâve carried the weight of it for months, learning its balance⊠the way you learned the shape of grief. It comes free without a sound.
One notices then.
Their eyes flick down, then up again. Confusion sharpens into something else. A laugh escapes them, breathy, disbelieving. âWait,â they say. âThis isnâtââ
You close the distance.
Not fast.
Just enough.
They stumble back a step, heel skidding on wet stone. The fountain is behind them now. Nowhere left to go without turning their back on you.
âNo,â they say again, louder. âYou donât want to do this. Theyâllââ
âThey wonât,â you say.
Because they arenât here.
Because they chose to leave.
Because they trusted the ground beneath them to hold.
Oneâs breath comes faster. Their hands lift, palms out, a gesture learned early. Compliance masquerading as peace. âPlease,â they say. âI didnât do anything.â
You think of the sermon voice. The careful phrasing. The way guilt is always reassigned.
âYou were loved,â you tell them.
The words land wrong. They frown, trying to understand.
âSo were you,â you continue. âThatâs the difference.â
They open their mouth again.
You donât let them finish.
The blade moves because you tell it to. Because gravity does what it has always done. There is no flourish. No hesitation. Just the clean, irrevocable act of taking what the city taught you could be taken.
One gasps.
Shock arrives before pain. It always does. Their hands clutch uselessly, fingers slick with rain, with something darker. They sag against the fountainâs edge, breath stuttering, eyes wide and searching.
Not for you.
For their Savior.
For someone who is not coming.
âIââ they try, their knees buckle.
You catch them before they fall.
Not roughly. Not in haste. Your hand comes to their arm the way the Saviorâs had earlier, instinctive, practiced. You take their weight as if this were an ordinary thing. As if this were how people are meant to be held here.
You guide them down to the stone beside the fountain, careful with the angle, mindful of their balance. Rain slicks their clothes, darkens their hair. They lean into you without realizing it, breath stuttering, forehead tipping briefly toward your shoulder.
For a heartbeat, it looks almost tender.
You kneel with them, close enough to feel the warmth leaving their body, close enough to hear the uneven drag of air in their chest. The fountain spills beside you, constant and intimate, the sound filling the space the way it did when you first stepped into the garden.
This is how the Savior stood with them.
This is how they trusted.
âThis is what they gave me,â you say quietly, not unkind. âWaiting.â
Their fingers clutch at your sleeve, the way someone reaches for reassurance, for permission to stay upright. Their eyes search your face, unfocused now, still expecting salvation to arrive if they look long enough.
It doesnât.
You stay with them as their breathing falters. As the tension leaves their body in small, final increments. As the rain smooths everything down, erasing urgency, erasing sharp edges.
When itâs over, they are still leaning toward you.
Just like before.
Their gaze finds yours then. Real fear, finally unmasked. Understanding dawns too late to matter.
âYou think youâre safe,â you tell them. âBecause someone holy says you are.â
Their breath rattles.
âYou think peace is something granted,â you continue. âSomething bestowed. Something that survives at someone elseâs expense.â
Thunder cracks overhead, sharp and immediate. The sound echoes through the garden, through the hedges, through the bones of the city itself.
You lean closer.
âSee where your savior is,â you whisper. âWhen you needed them.â
The light fades from Oneâs eyes in increments. Not all at once. Slowly. Like the city going quiet after curfew.
When itâs over, you remain where you are.
The rain seeps through your cloak, heavy now, insistent. Your hands are still steady. Your breath comes even.
Their weight rests against you, slack and unfamiliar. For a moment, brief enough to resent, you recognize the posture. The way a body leans when it trusts it will be caught.
They used to rest like this when they were tired. Head tucked close. Shoulder against yours. A quiet claim made without words.
The memory arrives whole and then it breaks.
This is not them.
It cannot be.
The thought leaves behind something sour and sharp, twisting low in your chest. Not longing. Not comfort. Only the reminder of what was denied you. What was taken without ceremony. Without goodbye.
You ease them down onto the stone.
The fountain keeps spilling beside you, steady and uncaring. Water washes over the blade in your hand, thinning the dark until it disappears into the rain.
You let go. You stand.
The garden feels altered now. Not ruined. Not violent. Just wrong. As if something essential has been removed and no one has thought to name it.
You turn away from the fountain.
The paths stretch ahead of you, empty. The hedges hold their shape. The lanterns continue to burn, indifferent.
Your footsteps sound too loud in the hush.
At the edge of the garden, you pause.
For half a breath, you expect to feel something⊠relief, satisfaction, collapse? Instead, there is only the same absence youâve been carrying for months.
The door does not wait for you here.
There is no threshold to hesitate at. No room to reenter. No table half-set.
You step out into the rain.
Behind you, the garden closes ranks. Stone and leaf and light settling back into place. The city does not stir. No one comes running. No voice calls your name.
It is the same as before.
You walk away, cloak heavy, hands empty now except for what you have chosen to keep.
The night accepts you without question as you leave Sanctus behind.
Hi! Iâm relatively new to the community but I have been writing stories, mostly fiction, all my life. I was wondering if I could get some feedback on my most current work.
Itâs my first go at a noir, dark academia style story.
Word count â ~4, 370
Character(s): The Protagonist (reader), The Lover (in flashback), The Savior, and The One (the Savior's companion)
Warnings âReligious trauma, institutional homophobia/transphobia, erasure of identity, grief, and character death (violence/murder)Note â A story about the cost of "sameness" in a city built on holy lines. Loosely inspired by the themes and atmosphere of Gravity from Hazbin Hotel. This is an exploration of queer identity, religious authority, and a vengeance that feels as inevitable as the earth pulling you down. Also, if you know who made this artwork do tell, I found it on Pinterest^^
âââ âą âââ
The sky over the capital is too bright, the kind of brightness that makes your eyes ache even when you look away. White stone climbs toward it in obedient lines, towers and spires catching the light and throwing it back at you, polished and blinding. The city prides itself on that. Clean angles. No shadows that linger too long.
You stand at the overlook anyway, boots planted at the edge, the wind worrying at your cloak like it wants to peel you loose and send you down among the rooftops.
Heat clings to your skin. Not the heat of summer, but something tighter, heavier. Pressure without relief. The air smells of dust, incense and distant rain that hasnât decided where to fall just yet.
Behind you, the cathedral sings.
The sound spills outward through the arches, layered voices rising and folding in on themselves. You donât turn around. You donât need to. Youâve heard these sounds your entire life. Forgiveness shaped into melody. Unity stretched thin and polished until it shines.
They sing as if nothing is broken.
Your hand rests at your side, fingers curled around the familiar shape of your blade. The leather wrap is worn smooth where your thumb presses hardest. You donât remember when that started. Sometime after...
Sometime when your hands stopped shaking and started aching instead.
âEye for an eye,â you whisper.
The words donât echo. They settle. They always do.
Below you, the city moves. People crossing squares, pulling shutters closed against the brewing storm, adjusting collars and headscarves and faces. Everyone looks more or less the same from this height. Thatâs the point of the city. Thatâs always been the point.
You remember when it wasnât enough for them that you complied. When the âsamenessâ stopped being simply encouraged and started being heavily enforced.
You remember when they took notice.
âââ âą âââ
It had been a small thing at first.
A look held too long during prayer. A question asked after doctrine was recited, quiet but curious, as if curiosity itself were not already a sin. Your lover never learned how to disappear into the crowd properly. They tried, sometimes, for your sake. You remember the effort in their shoulders when they stood straighter than felt natural, the way they lowered their voice in public spaces heavy with listening ears and prying eyes. You remember the days they chose clothes that softened them into something more acceptable, something less likely to be noticed. Less likely to be stopped.Â
It never lasted.
Something in them always pushed back. Not loudly. Not defiantly. Just enough to remind the world they were still there. A laugh that slipped free before they could catch it. A hand that lingered in yours a moment too long after the bells rang. A refusal to answer questions about themselves with the words people expected.
They did not perform themselves correctly, by anyoneâs measure but their own.
The sermons changed before you noticed the guards did. The language grew careful and sharpened. Not cruel. They were never cruel. Just precise. Words like order. Design. Purpose. The priests spoke of harmony the way one speaks of architecture. Load-bearing truths. Necessary supports. They warned, gently, that deviations weakened the whole.
Your lover listened from beside you, hands folded, face unreadable. Later, outside, they would roll their eyes and mutter something about how the land never feared variety. You would shush them, heart racing, and they would smile at you, soft and apologetic, and squeeze your fingers like that made it better.
It didnât.
You loved them anyway. Completely. Recklessly. You loved the way they spoke about themselves in pieces, assembling who they were out loud as if saying it might make it real. You loved the care they took with other peopleâs names, with pronouns, with small kindnesses that never made it into sermons completely. You loved the way they believed the world could be better without needing to burn everything down first.
The city noticed.
It always does.
The day they were taken from your shared home, the square was full. Markets open. Incense drifting from the cathedral doors. Bells ringing out the hour with mechanical devotion. Normality performing itself perfectly. Youâd been arguing about something, something big and something small. The windows were open despite the neighborsâ disapproval, letting in late light and the distant sound of bells marking the hour. You remember standing near the table, arms crossed, trying not to raise your voice.
âYou donât need all of that,â you said, glancing at the list on the table. The paper was creased where theyâd folded and unfolded it, numbers written small in the margins, crossed out and rewritten. âWe can make do.â
They were standing by the counter, sleeves pushed up, hands braced on the wood like they needed the support. âThatâs not the point.â
âIt is when weâre counting coins again.â You kept your voice low, even though no one else was there. Old habits. âYou know how it looks lately. People are watching.â
Their shoulders lifted with a breath that didnât quite become a sigh. âTheyâre always watching.â
âYes,â you said, a little too quickly. âWhich is why we donât give them reasons.â
They turned then, really looked at you. The late light from the window caught the line of their jaw, the tightness there youâd learned to read long ago. âYouâre starting to sound like the sermons.â
The words landed heavier than they should have. You felt them in your chest. âThatâs not fair.â
âI mean it,â they said. Their voice wasnât loud, just tired. âListen to yourself. Careful. Quiet. Donât draw attention. When did you start agreeing with them?â
You rubbed a hand over your face, the dayâs weight pressing down all at once. âIâm tired,â you said. âI didnât sleep. Iâm justâ Iâm tired.â
They watched you for a long moment. Something in their expression softened, then tightened again, like a door almost opening and then being shut. âIâm tired too,â they said. After a beat, quieter, âIâm tired of pretending.â
The words sat between you, fragile and sharp.
The room felt suddenly too small. The kettle on the stove ticked as it cooled. Outside, a cart rattled past, wheels loud against stone. Life continuing, indifferent.
You reached for your cloak instead of for them. The fabric was still damp from the morning rain. âIâm going out,â you said, already moving. âIâll get what we need for dinner. And⊠I just need air.â
They nodded once, the motion stiff. âFine.â
âIâll be back before dark.â You hesitated in the doorway, waiting for something. A protest. A joke. Anything.
They didnât look up.
You closed the door more gently than necessary.
They didnât stop you.
That was the last ordinary moment of your life.
The street outside was busy enough to make you feel anonymous. Carts rattled past. Voices overlapped. Bells marked the hour with mechanical devotion. You remember thinking, absurdly, about which spices they preferred. You remember rehearsing the apology in your head, shaping it until it sounded light, easy.
You would laugh about this later.
You always did.
When you returned, the door was open.
Not forced. Just open.
The room felt wrong immediately. Too quiet. Too still. The table half-set. Bread cooling untouched, its crust already hardening at the edges. One chair sat slightly askew, as if someone had stood up too fast.
You called their name.
No answer.
You took another step inside and saw it then. The mark on the floor where boots had tracked in rain and dirt. Dark. Unequivocal. The imprint of authority in a space that had never allowed it before. Outside, the neighborsâ doors were closed tight, their windows dark. Silence, heavy with knowing.
They had come for them in your absence.
The city didnât tell you how at first. Your mind filled the gaps on its own.
The square would have been full. Markets open. Bells ringing. Normality performing itself perfectly. Someone selling fruit. Someone laughing. Someone turning away at the wrong moment.
You imagine the hands on their arms. Firm. Certain. The sudden weight of bodies between them and freedom. The way sound drops out of the world for half a breath before it comes back louder, sharper, wrong.
Order, the soldiers would have said.
For the good of the city.
You know your lover didnât fight. You can see it. The way they would turn their head just enough, searching a crowd that doesnât know to look back. Eyes fierce. Bright. Carrying a message they never had the chance to say aloud.
Donât bend for them.
You never saw them alive again.
Later, when you demanded answers, they gave them smoothly. Practiced. âDifference,â they saidâ calling your love by a name unuttered in years, âinvited chaos.â Some people existed in ways that threatened stability. The words were spoken gently, beneath stained glass, by mouths that had never known a boot at their back.
They said it had been lawful. That your home was unregistered. That two people living together without blessing was already a transgression. That your lover had too long been offered mercy. Time to repent. To name themselves correctly. To align body and soul with divine intent.
They said the intervention had been quiet. Respectful.
âThis was for the good of the city.â one said.
âFor the good of their soul.â another chimed in.
You never got to finish the argument.
Never got to apologize. To tell them you loved them.
Never got to hear them say it back.
What you were left with instead was the echo of your own voice in an empty room, and the knowledge that the last thing between you had been unfinished.
That the last thing they heard from you wasnât love, but frustration.
That night, the city slept.
The bells rang as usual.
And Sanctus, once again, kept its hands clean.
âââ âą âââ
The gardens open slowly, like theyâre being revealed rather than entered.
Stone paths curve with practiced grace, guiding feet where they are meant to go. Hedges rise shoulder-high on either side, clipped into smooth obedience, their edges softened by rain. Lanterns burn low beneath wrought arches, light blurring as water streaks the glass. Everything here is designed to calm. To reassure. To make distress feel impossible.
You step into it anyway.
Theyâre exactly where you were told they would be. Not by any specific person, but by a personâs specific actions.
Near the fountain, where water spills endlessly over carved saints and never seems to stain. The Savior stands with their back half-turned, one hand resting lightly on the stone rim, the other occupied with the person beside them. A quiet moment. An intimate one. Heads inclined toward each other as if the world were not ending in increments.
You stop just short of the light.
For a moment, you let yourself see it. The way the Saviorâs posture eases when they think no one is watching. The way the other leans in, trusting, unguarded. A private softness the city never gets to witness.
They used to stand like that.
The thought lands without warning and sinks its teeth in.
You remember standing like that once, shoulder to shoulder in your kitchen, the window cracked open despite the neighbors. Your lover had leaned into you while water boiled, head resting briefly against your arm, as if the world couldnât touch you there. In your sanctuary. You remember the warmth of it. The weight. The quiet certainty that this was allowed, at least between the two of you.
You remember how they smiled when they thought you werenât looking.
The memory is gone as quickly as it came, leaving behind a hollow ache that settles low in your chest.
The rain thickens, drumming against leaves, stone, skin. You take another step forward. Then another.
The fountain masks the sound until it doesnât.
The Savior turns first.
Their eyes find you and hesitate, sliding past your face before snapping back. You see the confusion register. The brief calculation. Stranger or supplicant. Threat or nuisance.
Then recognition settles in, slow and unwelcome.
Their hand drops from the fountainâs edge.
âYou shouldnât be here,â they say.
Not shouted. Not whispered. A statement of fact, like gravity, like law.
The person beside them turns at the sound of your voiceâ or maybe the absence of one. Their gaze meets yours and lingers too long. You see the shift there, too. The instinctive pull inward, closer to the Savior, as if proximity alone can promise oneâs safety.
You stop a few paces away.
Close enough to be seen clearly. Close enough to be heard over the rain.
âThis is a private place,â the Savior continues, recovering themselves. Authority settles back over their shoulders like a well-worn cloak. âConsecrated ground.â
âSo was my home,â you say.
The words cut cleaner than you expect.
The Savior stills.
You watch memory flicker behind their eyes. Not grief. Not remorse. Administration. A document recalled. A case once closed. Still closed. A name filed and forgotten.
âI remember,â they say slowly. âIf youâve come to seek absolutionââ
You shake your head once.
âNo.â
Behind them, the other shifts again, unease finally surfacing. They glance between you and the Savior, rain plastering their hair to their face.
âThis isnât appropriate,â the Savior says, firmer now. âYouâre upset. Understandably. But this is not the wayââ
You take a step closer.
The rain swallows the sound of your boots. It swallows the fountain. It swallows the city.
âDonât,â you say.
The word is quiet. It doesnât need to be louder.
The Savior falters. Just enough.
âThis doesnât need to become something else,â they try. âNo one has to get hurt.â
You look at the person beside them again. Really look.
Theyâre close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to matter.
âThatâs what you said before,â you reply.
Thunder rolls overhead, nearer now, the sound cracking through the garden like a warning no one asked for.
The paths around you feel narrower. The hedges taller. The city further away than itâs ever been.
Something in the air shifts.
âââ âą âââ
The rain softens again, thinning to a steady hush that turns the garden inward. Water gathers in the seams of stone. Lanternlight blurs until edges no longer matter.
The Savior straightens.
It is a small motion but practiced. Authority resettling itself. Youâve seen it before, at the pulpit, beneath stained glass, when a question has gone too far and must be put back where it belongs.
âThis has gone on long enough,â the Savior says. Not unkindly. Not harshly. As if length alone were the problem. As if endurance were the same as justice.
Behind them, that one shifts, uncertain. Close enough to feel the change, not close enough to name it.
âYouâre grieving,â the Savior continues. âGrief distorts. It makes enemies where there are none.â A pause. Measured. âI wonât fault you for that.â
You say nothing.
Rain slips down your collar, cold against the skin at the nape of your neck despite the cloak around it. You welcome it. It gives you something simple to feel.
âWeâve spoken,â the Savior goes on. âYouâve been heard.â That isnât true, but anything sounds like truth when spoken this way. With this authority.Â
âThereâs nothing more to be done here tonight.â
They glance around the garden, as if taking inventory of the damage. Of which there is none. Not now. Not yet.
âThis is sacred ground,â they say again, softer now. âIt deserves peace.â
You lower your gaze.
It costs you nothing. It gives them everything.
The Savior takes that as agreement.
They turn slightly toward their person, the one, hand lifting in a gesture meant to reassure. A touch that stops just short of contact, hovering where comfort should be. One leans toward it anyway, instinctive as breath.
âYou should go inside,â the Savior tells them. âThe rainâs worsening.â
One hesitates, looking at you. Their eyes search your face for somethingâanger, threat, permission. They find only stillness.
âYouâre safe,â the Savior adds, and this time the words are meant for you as much as them. A boundary drawn. A line closed.
You nod once.
It is almost imperceptible.
The Savior exhales, the tension easing from their shoulders as if they have just finished something difficult and done it well. âWeâll speak later,â they say to you. âWhen emotions arenât so high.â
Later.
Always later.
They step back, creating space. Distance. The kind people mistake for resolution.
âIâll pray for you,â the Savior says, already turning away.
The words land and slide off. They mean nothing. They are a habit.
Their footsteps retreat down the path, swallowed quickly by rain and hedges and the soft geometry of a city designed to forget. The lanternlight bends, then steadies. The garden closes ranks around their absence.
They do not look back.
One watches them go, relief loosening something in their posture. They laugh softly, an exhale more than a sound.
âI thoughtââ they start, then stop. Shake their head. âI thought that was going to be worse.â
You lift your eyes then.
One notices. Really notices. Something in your expression gives them pause.
âTheyâre gone,â One says, as if that settles it. As if absence were proof of safety.
âYes,â you reply.
The word carries weight you donât explain.
Thunder murmurs again, closer now, a low pressure beneath the sky. The fountain keeps spilling its endless water, unchanged by any of it. Saints stare blindly into the rain, stone faces worn smooth by centuries of weather and worship.
One turns back toward the fountain, fingers brushing the carved edge. âIâm sorry,â they say, awkward. âAbout⊠everything.â
They mean the confrontation. They mean the discomfort. They do not mean what was taken from you. They do not know how.
âYou loved them,â One says after a moment, tentative. Not a question.
You swallow.
âYes.â
They nod, as if that fits neatly into the world they understand. As if love were a past tense thing. As if it ended when the body did.
âI canât imagine,â One adds. âWhat that must be like.â
You think of your loverâs hand warm at your back. Of the way they said your name like a promise. Of the night you left and didnât come back in time.
âDo you think your Savior can?â you ask dryly.
Oneâs smile fades then returns faintly, misreading your question as connection. As shared ground.
âI should go inside,â they say, echoing the Savior now. âTheyâll be wondering where I am.â
They take a step away from the fountain. You move at the same time. Not fast. Not sudden. Just enough to close the distance.
One stops, confused. âIs something wrong?â
The rain thickens again, as if the sky has made a decision.
âNo,â you say.
It is the truest thing you have said all night.
Behind you, the garden paths stretch empty. The Savior is already gone. Already convinced they have chosen mercy. Already certain this story is finished.
You feel the bladeâs weight where it rests, familiar and patient.
Your chest is calm.
Your hands are steady.
This was never about rage.
This was never about spectacle.
This is about balance.
About returning what was taken.
One looks at you, waiting.
The city holds its breath.
And somewhere deep beneath stone and law and prayer, gravity remembers what it is owed.
âââ âą âââ
One is still looking at you when it happens.
Not with fear. Not yet. With the polite attention people give when they think a conversation is winding down. When they think the danger has passed because the authority has left the room.
They wait for you to speak.
The rain answers first.
It comes down harder now, thickening into something deliberate. Leaves bow under its weight. The fountainâs steady spill grows louder, masking smaller sounds. The city exhales, satisfied with itself.
You step closer.
One doesnât retreat. They smile again, tentative, apologetic. âI didnât mean it like that,â they say, gesturing vaguely, as if words can still smooth this over. âI know itâs complicated. Faith is⊠it asks things of people.â
You think of what it took.
You think of hands forced apart. Of a voice silenced mid-syllable. Of how easily the city decided what was acceptable to lose.
âI know,â you say.
Your hand finds the hilt.
The motion is simple. Familiar. Youâve carried the weight of it for months, learning its balance⊠the way you learned the shape of grief. It comes free without a sound.
One notices then.
Their eyes flick down, then up again. Confusion sharpens into something else. A laugh escapes them, breathy, disbelieving. âWait,â they say. âThis isnâtââ
You close the distance.
Not fast.
Just enough.
They stumble back a step, heel skidding on wet stone. The fountain is behind them now. Nowhere left to go without turning their back on you.
âNo,â they say again, louder. âYou donât want to do this. Theyâllââ
âThey wonât,â you say.
Because they arenât here.
Because they chose to leave.
Because they trusted the ground beneath them to hold.
Oneâs breath comes faster. Their hands lift, palms out, a gesture learned early. Compliance masquerading as peace. âPlease,â they say. âI didnât do anything.â
You think of the sermon voice. The careful phrasing. The way guilt is always reassigned.
âYou were loved,â you tell them.
The words land wrong. They frown, trying to understand.
âSo were you,â you continue. âThatâs the difference.â
They open their mouth again.
You donât let them finish.
The blade moves because you tell it to. Because gravity does what it has always done. There is no flourish. No hesitation. Just the clean, irrevocable act of taking what the city taught you could be taken.
One gasps.
Shock arrives before pain. It always does. Their hands clutch uselessly, fingers slick with rain, with something darker. They sag against the fountainâs edge, breath stuttering, eyes wide and searching.
Not for you.
For their Savior.
For someone who is not coming.
âIââ they try, their knees buckle.
You catch them before they fall.
Not roughly. Not in haste. Your hand comes to their arm the way the Saviorâs had earlier, instinctive, practiced. You take their weight as if this were an ordinary thing. As if this were how people are meant to be held here.
You guide them down to the stone beside the fountain, careful with the angle, mindful of their balance. Rain slicks their clothes, darkens their hair. They lean into you without realizing it, breath stuttering, forehead tipping briefly toward your shoulder.
For a heartbeat, it looks almost tender.
You kneel with them, close enough to feel the warmth leaving their body, close enough to hear the uneven drag of air in their chest. The fountain spills beside you, constant and intimate, the sound filling the space the way it did when you first stepped into the garden.
This is how the Savior stood with them.
This is how they trusted.
âThis is what they gave me,â you say quietly, not unkind. âWaiting.â
Their fingers clutch at your sleeve, the way someone reaches for reassurance, for permission to stay upright. Their eyes search your face, unfocused now, still expecting salvation to arrive if they look long enough.
It doesnât.
You stay with them as their breathing falters. As the tension leaves their body in small, final increments. As the rain smooths everything down, erasing urgency, erasing sharp edges.
When itâs over, they are still leaning toward you.
Just like before.
Their gaze finds yours then. Real fear, finally unmasked. Understanding dawns too late to matter.
âYou think youâre safe,â you tell them. âBecause someone holy says you are.â
Their breath rattles.
âYou think peace is something granted,â you continue. âSomething bestowed. Something that survives at someone elseâs expense.â
Thunder cracks overhead, sharp and immediate. The sound echoes through the garden, through the hedges, through the bones of the city itself.
You lean closer.
âSee where your savior is,â you whisper. âWhen you needed them.â
The light fades from Oneâs eyes in increments. Not all at once. Slowly. Like the city going quiet after curfew.
When itâs over, you remain where you are.
The rain seeps through your cloak, heavy now, insistent. Your hands are still steady. Your breath comes even.
Their weight rests against you, slack and unfamiliar. For a moment, brief enough to resent, you recognize the posture. The way a body leans when it trusts it will be caught.
They used to rest like this when they were tired. Head tucked close. Shoulder against yours. A quiet claim made without words.
The memory arrives whole and then it breaks.
This is not them.
It cannot be.
The thought leaves behind something sour and sharp, twisting low in your chest. Not longing. Not comfort. Only the reminder of what was denied you. What was taken without ceremony. Without goodbye.
You ease them down onto the stone.
The fountain keeps spilling beside you, steady and uncaring. Water washes over the blade in your hand, thinning the dark until it disappears into the rain.
You let go. You stand.
The garden feels altered now. Not ruined. Not violent. Just wrong. As if something essential has been removed and no one has thought to name it.
You turn away from the fountain.
The paths stretch ahead of you, empty. The hedges hold their shape. The lanterns continue to burn, indifferent.
Your footsteps sound too loud in the hush.
At the edge of the garden, you pause.
For half a breath, you expect to feel something⊠relief, satisfaction, collapse? Instead, there is only the same absence youâve been carrying for months.
The door does not wait for you here.
There is no threshold to hesitate at. No room to reenter. No table half-set.
You step out into the rain.
Behind you, the garden closes ranks. Stone and leaf and light settling back into place. The city does not stir. No one comes running. No voice calls your name.
It is the same as before.
You walk away, cloak heavy, hands empty now except for what you have chosen to keep.
The night accepts you without question as you leave Sanctus behind.
Word count: 1473 words.
Character(s): Rindou Haitani x Reader (not gendered), Ran Haitani (mentioned)
Warnings: Gang Violence, Blood, Injury, Dark Themes, Implied Danger, Morally Ambiguous Characters, Unedited.
Note: I can't read cursive (I'm a failure) so if you know the artist of the image, please let me know so I can give credit!
The district was alive. A raw, humming pulse. But tonight⊠the air felt scorched. Not from widespread fire, not yet. More like the aftermath of a vicious blaze, the kind left behind by too many desperate clashes. The metallic tang of ozone, sharp and acrid, mingled with the faint, stale scent of recent blood. It clung to you, to your clothes, to your skin, a phantom second skin. You tried not to breathe too deep, tried to ignore the sharp edge of it.
Sirens wailed in the distance, a constant, unsettling chorus. No death knell for peace, not outright, but a sharp warning cutting through the city's pulsing energy. Under flickering neon lights, alive but haphazard, the streets didn't just hold violence; they breathed it. You heard a low hum from hidden corners, from the shadows that stretched and clawed like unseen knives, the rage simmering, ready to burst with any wrong move, any spark.
You felt it all: in the way people moved, quick and jerky, as if they were always braced for impact. Their eyes darted, never settled. The static tension crawled on your skin, making the hairs on your arms prickle, threatening to ignite with any wrong move, any wrong word.
The district that Rindou called his own, Yokohama, the one he and Ran had carved out with blood and brutal efficiency under the banner of Tenjiku, was a sprawling, neon-drenched maze. It was a place of impossible contradictions: glittering arcade lights reflecting in puddles of grime, the scent of street food mingling with the metallic tang of exhaust and something darker, something predatory. Every alleyway held a story, every shadowed doorway a potential threat or a hidden escape. It was a territory held not by law, but by reputation, by the sheer, terrifying will of the Haitani brothers. This was their kingdom, and tonight, it felt particularly volatile, a coiled spring ready to snap.
But then⊠Rindou Haitani. Just him. Standing there, a silhouette against a storefront window, glass shards scattered around him like scattered diamonds. Twirling his chrome baton, slow and deliberate, with a lazy, elegant precision that defied the storm of the moment. He shouldn't have been calm, not here, but he was, impossibly. His smirk was a challenge, a dare, a promise of something destructive. And you⊠you felt that pull, right then, right there, amidst all the screaming chaos. He was silence, a terrifying, beautiful silence.
He was beautiful in a cruel way. You knew it, you saw it in the sharp, unyielding lines of his face, the fluid, dangerous way his body moved. He moved like an elegant, efficient predator, the kind of person who'd smile a slow, knowing smile as rival gangs tore each other apart. You could almost hear his low laugh while others screamed in the alleyways, knowing he'd watch it all, laughing through the aftermath. You knew it, and still⊠you stayed. It wasn't morbid curiosity, not really, maybe a little. But it was deeper. A strange, undeniable pull, like a magnet to steel. A recognition, something in him, in the chaos, a kindred spirit, or maybe just a reflection of what you felt inside, hidden, locked away until now.
"You ever watch it all fall apart and feel nothing?" he asked you once, his voice a low hum against the district's distant rumble, as he leaned on a rusted guardrail above the streets, the lights below like dying embers.
You turned to him, meeting his eyes, the neon glow reflecting back like tiny, fractured pieces of broken glass. "No," you admitted, the word a raw whisper that scraped your throat, leaving it aching. "I feel too much. All of it. The fear of what was coming, of what was here in these streets. The anger at this endless cycle. The crushing weight of knowing what this life costs. It pressed down, making it hard to breathe every single moment."
He listened, quiet, his expression unreadable. Then he chuckled, soft and bitter, a sound like gravel grinding or broken glass underfoot, a sound you were starting to recognize. "Must be exhausting," he murmured, and you knew it was, every single day, just existing. But his eyes... something flickered, just for a second, deep and unreadable, like a secret he almost showed, a hidden vulnerability, almost.
But he wasn't immune. You saw it, you always did, in his silence, those fleeting moments when the usual smirk didn't just falter, but vanished completely, leaving behind a stark, almost hollow expression. It was like something had been taken, or never there to begin with, like a mask slipping just for you. When the streets grew too quiet, a lull, a terrifying peace, a restless tension would grip him. You could almost see it in his shoulders, his jaw, his fingers tightening imperceptibly on his baton, a white-knuckle grip. He held his world, this chaotic domain, like a burning cigarette between his fingers: dangerous, temporary, a slow burn. But his. All his. And you watched him hold it, watched him control it, and sometimes⊠watched him suffer with it.
Fights broke out between gangs, a constant hum, a symphony of violence. Your chest tightened every single time, not from fear, not exactly, but from something more complicated: a sharp mix of dread and reluctant exhilaration, a thrill you hated but felt deep down. You were starting to crave the adrenaline, like him, just like him. The streets, often slick with rain, now shimmered with shattered glass and something else heavier, regret, after a clash. Shards glittering under the streetlights, under your feet. Rindou was always there, in the thick of it, a whirlwind of calculated violence. Every move was precise, brutal, elegant. He didn't fight for glory or territory, not really; he fought because he liked it. The rhythm of the punches, the kicks, the sickening crunch of bones breaking in sync with his own accelerated heartbeat, a dark symphony. And you? You fought to keep up, a desperate dance on his edge, on the edge of ruin. Every step a risk, every breath a gamble. You weren't like him, not really, not entirely; you were different, a different breed. But you fit, somehow, impossibly, you fit together, two mismatched pieces in a broken puzzle, a puzzle only you two understood.
You saw his worst: the raw, unleashed savagery, the cold indifference. And he let you; he didn't hide it. Bloodied knuckles clenched in silence after a fight gone too far, his eyes blank, staring at the chaos he'd orchestrated like it was just another canvas, a masterpiece of destruction. And you were there, watching, learning, becoming something new, something dangerous.
He dragged you to the rooftop that night, his hand on your wrist, firm but not unkind, not rough, just... a pull, a knowing pull. You didn't ask why, you didn't need to. You just followed, a silent shadow in his wake, through the labyrinth of narrow, choking shadows and the distant staccato of gunfire, a constant pulse. Alleys smelled of stale blood from old fights, cheap cigarettes, and the bitter tang of exhaust fumes, heavy in the air.
He finally stopped on the rooftop edge. The wind whipped at your clothes, cold, but he was warm. He looked out at the city, its sprawling, vibrant chaos, then at you. His eyes were dark and unreadable, but something shifted there.
"This place is a joke," he muttered, his voice rough and low, filled with disdain. "Built on lies. Held up by violence." He spat the words like poison.
"So⊠burn it down?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. You knew the answer, but you needed to hear it.
He raised an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate movement, then grinned, a flash of sharp teeth like a promise or a threat. "You say that like it's not already burning."
There was something in his tone, not despair, not rage, but something else: a strange kind of freedom, raw and liberating. The kind that comes when there's nothing left, absolutely nothing to lose, when you've surrendered to the fire. And maybe that was it, that feeling, that made you step closer, just one step, then another. Close enough to feel his heat, his body warmth, the fire he carried like a secret, always there, burning beneath his skin.
You didn't speak, you didn't need to. Words felt useless, heavy. He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, the unexpected intimacy a jolt, like lightning, like truth. His breath, warm and raw with the taste of the humid night, ghosted over your lips, a silent promise, a shared fate.
"If it all goes to hell," he whispered, his voice low, a rumble against your skin. "Stay with me." His grip tightened just slightly on your wrist, a silent anchor. "Even if it means running from ghosts, bleeding in alleys, the gangs turning on each other. Stay." His words were a command, a plea. "Even if weâre the last two standing."
This life would burn. You knew it, you felt it in your bones. Rindou was fire, an all-consuming blaze, a terrifying, beautiful force. But you... maybe you wouldn't be consumed, not entirely. Maybe forged, changed into something stronger, something unbreakable, something that could withstand the heat of this ongoing street war. And if this district cracked, if everything you knew turned to ash around you, at least you'd burn together, two embers in the vast, indifferent city. Undeniably. Fiercely alive. One last gasp of defiance.
Word count â approx. 1180
Character(s): Blaise (as a new lover) x reader
Warnings: None
Note: This is just a little implied spice drabble based on the mobile game King's Choice. Hope it's some goodt. I'm literally obsessed with it right now. Also in the near future expect some Epic fics!
The sun cast its soft golden light across the palace gardens, warming the stone beneath your feet as you stepped into the open pavilion. Ivy curled around the columns. Roses bloomed overhead in arches like natureâs crown jewels. The view beyond stretched into a sea of color, flowers arranged in careful symmetry, trimmed hedges guiding the eye to the castle rising in the distance like a dream too beautiful to be real.
Blaise was already there, seated with a canvas before him, brush in hand. He didnât speak when you approached, just glanced up with that quiet, familiar smile of his. The one he only ever gave you.
You sat down by his side.
âThis spot,â he said softly, âIâve been saving it for you.â
You leaned into the silence. It wasnât awkward, it never was with Blaise. Only peaceful. The kind of calm that felt rare in a life filled with court duties, politics, and endless decisions. Blaise was different. His world moved slower, more intentionally, as if he knew the value of a quiet moment more than most.
With practiced ease, he dipped his brush into color and began to paint. The strokes came quickly at first, then slowed as he captured the curve of a petal, the shimmer of light, the way the wind teased the roses. His brow furrowed not with frustration but focus. Every line he drew seemed to pull him deeper into a world where words werenât needed.
You glanced away from the canvas and watched him instead. Blaise didnât just see the world,he studied it, honored it. Maybe thatâs why his paintings felt alive. They werenât just scenes; they were feelings on canvas. And today, you were the subject. Not posed, not artificial, just as you were, sitting next to him under a painted sky.
âI made a promise,â he said eventually, his voice cutting through the quiet like a soft note in a still room. âTo paint something beautiful. Just for you.â
You looked at the finished piece. At first, it seemed like a study of the garden: the roses in bloom, the sunlight catching the marble statueâs edge, the path that led through the arches. But then you noticed the way the shadows fell, how the light seemed to bend toward where you were seated. And in the center was a silhouette, peaceful and strong, not clearly drawn but unmistakably you.
It wasnât a portrait in the traditional sense. It was something better. A feeling. The way Blaise saw you, steady in a world that often demanded too much, soft in a place that often valued sharpness. He had painted not just what he saw, but what he knew.
You reached out and touched the edge of the canvas, careful not to smudge the still-drying paint. âYou didnât just keep your promise,â you said, eyes meeting his. âYou gave me something I didnât know I needed.â
Blaise smiled again, softer this time. âGood,â he said, setting the brush down. âBecause I think I needed it too.â
You let your fingers linger just a little longer on the edge of the canvas, as if the warmth of the painting might carry over into your skin. Blaiseâs eyes didnât leave you. His gaze had always been intense when he painted, but now it held something more, something quieter and deeper. Admiration. Want. Maybe even awe.
âI never thought youâd actually do it,â you said, your voice low, almost teasing.
âI never break promises to you,â he replied, and the way he said it wasnât light. It landed between you with weight, grounding the moment. He shifted slightly, just enough that his knee brushed yours. The contact was subtle but deliberate. Neither of you moved away.
A breeze swept through the pavilion, tugging at your hair. He reached out without thinking, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, and instead of pulling away, they stayed, just for a second too long. You met his gaze again, and this time it wasnât just quiet affection. There was heat in it, and a question he didnât voice aloud.
The garden faded to a blur at the edges of your vision. The weight of duty, the clamor of the court, the endless press of expectations all dissolved, leaving only the immediate space around you and Blaise, closer now. The air crackled. A glance held too long, a breath drawn too sharply, these small shifts vibrated between you, stretching the unspoken thread from friendship toward a precipice neither had dared approach. The possibility hung there, potent and heavy.
âI didnât just paint the garden,â he said, voice rougher now. âI painted the way I see you. Every time you walk into a room. Every time you look at me like that.â
His hand was still on your cheek. Your lips were inches from his.
âYou couldâve just said something,â you whispered, heart pounding now, breath catching in your throat.
âI was afraid I wouldnât be able to stop.â
Then he kissed you.
The kiss lingered, a fragile bridge between the familiar and the unknown. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved, suspended in the charged silence. Blaise's hand remained cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking softly as his gaze searched your eyes. Your own hand rested on his arm, fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, a silent question in the way you held him. The air between you hummed with a tension that was both terrifying and exhilarating, a potent mix of vulnerability and desire. Â
A soft exhale escaped Blaise, the sound barely audible, yet it broke the spell. He dipped his head slightly, his forehead almost touching yours, and his eyes, those intense, observing eyes, now held a flicker of uncertainty. Tentatively, he traced your jawline with his fingertips, the touch feather-light yet sending shivers down your spine. The scent of roses, heavy and sweet, filled the air, mingling with the subtle, earthy fragrance of Blaise himself, creating an intoxicating blend that heightened your senses. Â
Inside, a battle waged between caution and longing. Memories flashed through your mind: stolen glances across the court, the quiet intensity of Blaise's focus as he painted, the unspoken understanding that had always existed between you. He was more than just an artist; he was a confidant, a solace, a man who saw you in ways no one else did. His touch grew bolder, his fingers now tracing the curve of your neck, pulling you almost imperceptibly closer. A soft moan escaped your lips, a sound of surrender to the undeniable pull between you. Â
The garden seemed to hold its breath with you, the vibrant colors of the flowers deepening in the fading light. The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the pavilion in hues of gold and deepening crimson, mirroring the heat rising within you. Blaise's gaze burned with a question, a silent inquiry of how far you were willing to let this go. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you, poised on the edge of something irrevocable.
*specifically: Gambit - a chess opening in which a player risks one or more pawns or a minor piece to gain an advantage in position
**in sailing: Jibe (US) or Gybe (Britain) - a sailing maneuver whereby a sailing craft reaching downwind turns its stern through the wind, which then exerts its force from the opposite side of the vessel
Thank you to @introvertia & @anumberofhobbies for these additions!
Word count â approx. 970
Character(s): Manjiro (Mikey) Sano x reader
Warnings: None
Note: This is just a little fluffy drabble based on THIS. Hope it's some goodt.
You shouldâve known Mikey would take this way too seriously.
It started as Emmaâs idea. Sheâd found the escape room online, a supposedly impossible challenge with a horror theme. The group was supposed to be bigger, but plans fell through, and now itâs just you and Mikey, locked in a dimly lit room, surrounded by eerie decor that looks straight out of a ghost story.
Mikey grins at you, eyes sharp with excitement. You cross your arms, shifting your weight slightly, already anticipating the chaos heâs about to bring. "Think we can beat it?"
You roll your eyes but smile. âIf you actually listen instead of trying to punch your way out.â
He scoffs. âThat was one time.â
âThat was three times.â
âDetails.â
The clock starts, and a voice crackles through the speaker, setting the scene. Something about a cursed house, a vengeful spirit, and a hidden key. You listen intently, but Mikey is already moving, scanning the bookshelves, knocking on the walls. Heâs fast, efficient in a way that speaks to his sharp instincts, but he lacks patience. You reach for a book he just passed over and find a small key taped to the back cover.
âGot something.â You hold it up with a smug look.
Mikey pouts. âI loosened it for you.â
You shake your head, fitting the key into a locked drawer. It clicks open, revealing a bundle of cryptic notes. Mikey leans in close, shoulder brushing yours as he reads over your arm. His breath fans against your cheek when he mutters, âThis handwriting sucks.â
You swallow, trying to ignore how close he is. The warmth of his presence presses in, distracting, disorienting. This isnât new, heâs always been like this, comfortable in your space, but tonight, you feel every inch of it, like an invisible line has been drawn and heâs unknowingly toeing it. More charged.
You focus on the puzzle. âItâs a riddle. Looks like we need to figure out a name.â
Mikey frowns, shifting even closer to get a better look. His hand rests on the table beside yours, fingers just barely brushing. âYouâre good at these. Whatâs your guess?â
You clear your throat, ignoring the way your skin tingles where heâs touching you. âSomething about âthe one who lingers where the living do not.â Probably a ghostâs name?â
He hums in thought. You both sift through clues, solving smaller puzzles, piecing together the larger mystery. Heâs sharp, quicker than you at spotting hidden objects, but he lets you take the lead when it comes to the logical puzzles. Itâs seamless, the way you work together, as natural as breathing.
Halfway through, the room changes. A hidden door creaks open, revealing a darker space with flickering lights. Mikey nudges you forward. âLadies first.â
âYou just donât want to get jump scared.â
âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
You give him a look but step inside. A cold draft raises the hairs on your arms. Mikey follows; his presence solid behind you. The door slams shut, and a distorted laugh echoes through the speakers. Mikey tenses, just for a second, before covering it up with a laugh of his own.
âNot scared, huh?â you tease.
He leans down, voice low. âYou gonna protect me?â
Your breath catches. Itâs playful, but thereâs an edge to it, something that wasnât there before, something that sends a nervous thrill down your spine. Itâs not just teasing; thereâs weight behind his words, like heâs testing the waters, waiting to see if youâll push back or lean in. You recover quickly, shoving his shoulder lightly. âObviously.â
He grins, but his eyes linger on you for a second too long before he turns back to the room.
The last puzzle takes the longest. A series of symbols need to be arranged in a specific order, and youâre both stumped. Mikey sits on the floor, leaning back on his hands, watching you with quiet interest as you think aloud. His gaze lingers, thoughtful, like heâs turning something over in his mind, something that has nothing to do with the puzzle in front of you.
âYouâre staring,â you point out without looking up.
âJust wondering how your brain works.â
You pause, glancing at him. Heâs not teasing, just watching you like youâre something worth figuring out. Your heart does a strange little flip.
You shake your head and refocus, finally cracking the code. The final door unlocks, and victory music plays. Mikey jumps up, grabbing your wrist and tugging you into a triumphant spin before stopping short, the movement pulling you close. Too close.
Neither of you moved. His hand is still wrapped around your wrist, his other hand ghosts over your waist like he wants to hold on but isnât sure if he should. His fingers twitch, like heâs debating whether to pull you in or step away. Your breath catches, the weight of the moment pressing down, stretching time. The air is thick with something unspoken, something fragile yet undeniable. His gaze flickers to your lips for just a second before he meets your eyes again.
The moment stretches, heavy and uncertain, until he clears his throat and lets go. âTold you weâd beat it.â
Your pulse is still racing. âYeah. Good team.â
He smirks, but it doesnât quite reach his eyes. âYeah.â
The air between you still hums with something unsaid, but neither of you pushes it. Mikey shifts his weight slightly, his fingers flexing at his sides like he wants to reach out again but doesnât. You glance at him, catching the way his gaze lingers before he looks away, shoving his hands into his pockets. Instead, you exit the room, stepping back into the real world where things are supposed to be simpler.
But somehow, they feel more complicated than ever.
Word count â 1,911
Character(s): Izana Kurokawa x reader
Warning: None
Note: Keeping the drabbles based on THIS going. Hope itâs some y'all enjoy. Izana is actually my favourite characters other than Mikey and Chifuyu.
The rain starts just as you unlock the door to your Airbnb, the downpour echoing against the roof like a drumbeat. You sigh, shaking out your umbrella before stepping inside, your shoes clicking against the hardwood floor before you slip them off. The place is cozy; smaller than in the pictures, but warm, with soft lights and a lingering scent of cedarwood. The thought of a quiet weekend away from the chaos of the city filled you with relief. Of all the weekends to rain. I just wanted some peace and quiet.
And then you hear a sound.
Your stomach tightened as you turned toward the noise. Lounging on the couch, as if he owned the place, was Izana Kurokawa. His pale lavender eyes flickered to you, unreadable yet sharp, and a smirk tugged at his lips as he stretched, his white hoodie riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of his toned abdomen.
âYouâre late,â he said lazily, rolling his neck as he shifted into a more comfortable position.
You blinked, completely thrown off. âLate for what?â
His smirk widened as he pulled his phone from his pocket and flipped it toward you. An email confirmation stared back at you: your name and his, both listed as guests for the same Airbnb rental.
Your stomach dropped. âYouâve got to be kidding me.â
âAfraid not,â he drawled, tilting his head in amusement. âLooks like the owner double-booked.â
You groaned, rubbing your temples. He always did enjoy pushing my buttons. Of all people, it had to be Izana. Heâs an enigma, unpredictable and untouchable, the kind of man who moved like smoke. Rumor had it he could disappear without a trace, leaving chaos in his wake. Impossible to grasp, dangerous when inhaled too deeply. Heâs also the last person youâd ever expect to be caught in an Airbnb mix-up with.
Izana watched you with open amusement, his gaze tracing over you as if he found your frustration endearing, like a cat toying with a particularly amusing mouse, curious to see how youâd react next.
âGuess weâre roommates now,â he mused, standing up and stretching again. âI call dibs on the bed.â
âNo way!â You crossed your arms. âWe canât both stay here.â
He raised a delicate eyebrow. âYou gonna kick me out?â
You hesitated. The weather outside was merciless, and despite how much he irritated you, you werenât heartless enough to send him out into a storm or foolish enough to think he'd go. Izana must have sensed your weakness because he stepped closer, just enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne: warm, something like sandalwood and citrus, intoxicating in a way you didnât want to admit.
âRelax,â he murmured. âI donât bite.â
You scoffed, stepping away from him. âFine, you can stay. But we set some ground rules.â
He chuckled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. âSure thing. Whatever makes you feel safe.â
The first few hours were tolerable, though Izana seemed to enjoy testing your patience. He sprawled across the couch like a king on his throne, flipping through channels with no real interest in watching anything. Every now and then, his eyes drifted toward you, sharp and assessing, like heâs peeling away layers just to see what lies beneath.
When dinner rolled around, you realized thereâs only one portion of instant ramen left in the pantry. You stared at the single packet in horror while Izana leaned against the kitchen counter, smirking at your predicament.
âIâll fight you for it,â he offered, mischief dancing in his eyes.
You glared. âI found it, it's mine.â
His grin widened, and before you could react, he snatched the packet off the counter, holding it above his head.
âIzana!â You jumped, reaching for it, but heâs taller, faster, and annoyingly smug. He dangled it just out of reach, watching in amusement as you struggled.
âSay please,â he teased.
You scowled. âOver my dead body.â
His laughter was soft, almost boyish, and for a second, you forgot why youâre mad. Itâs disarming, so out of character that it made you wonder, just for a moment, who Izana was when no oneâs watching, when he isnât playing a game of control. Eventually, he handed you the ramen with a lazy shrug. âIâm not even hungry.â
You didnât miss the way his fingers brushed against yours, just for a moment too long. The air between you shifted, something electric buzzing in the space you shared.
` ` `
That night, a power outage plunged the Airbnb into a sudden darkness. You cursed under your breath, fumbling for your phone, but the battery was nearly dead. A sigh escaped your lips as you wrapped yourself in a blanket, staring at the shadowed ceiling. The darkness pressed in, a suffocating blanket.
You hated how easily Izana unsettled you. It wasn't just his presence; it was the way he looked at you, like he could see right through your carefully constructed walls. Why him? Why now? A flicker of fear, quickly suppressed, mixed with an unwanted thrill. You needed to get a grip.
A flicker of light appeared near the door. You turned your head to see Izana, candle in hand, casting eerie shadows across his sharp features. He looked almost unreal in the dim glow, otherworldly in a way that sent a strange shiver down your spine.
âYou scared of the dark?â he asked, voice quieter than usual, echoing a night from long ago.
âNo,â you huffed.
He hummed, unconvinced. He walked over, placing the candle on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed, too close yet not quite touching you.
âYou're sleeping on the couch,â you reminded him, voice wavering slightly.
He leaned in just enough for you to see the amusement dancing in his eyes. âAnd leave you all alone? What kind of friend would I be?â
Your heart stuttered, heat creeping up your neck. âA normal one.â
Izana laughed, soft and husky. He didnât move away. Instead, he tilted his head, watching you like a predator sizing up his prey. âYou really donât trust me, huh?â
You swallowed. âShould I?â You'd sworn you wouldn't let anyone get this close again.
For a moment, he didnât answer. Then, slowly, he reached out, fingers brushing against the loose strand of hair falling over your shoulder. His touch was featherlight, barely there, but it set your skin alight.
âI guess that depends,â he murmured. âDo you want to?â He paused a fraction too long, and for a moment his smirk faded, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze.
The air was thick, charged with something dangerous and thrilling. Your pulse quickened, each breath shallow as warmth spread through your limbs, a mixture of unease and anticipation. The candlelight flickered, casting his sharp features in shifting gold and shadow, and for a moment, you swore he could hear the way your heart stammers in your chest. Izana tilted his head slightly, eyes locked onto yours, and you wondered if he could see the hesitation warring with curiosity in your expression. You should push him away, set clearer boundaries, remind him that this is nothing more than a rental mishap. But you didnât move. You didnât pull back.
And neither did he.
The candle flickered, casting shadows that danced along the walls. Izana watched you with a patience that felt more like a challenge, waiting to see what youâd do next. Nothing.
A gust of wind rattled the windows, the storm outside relentless. The room felt smaller, the space between you and Izana charged with an unspoken tension. His gaze never wavered, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee as if waiting for you to break the silence. You wet your lips, the weight of his presence almost suffocating.
"You hesitate too much," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Scared of what might happen if you stop thinking?"
Your breath hitched, but you held his gaze. The question hung in the air, daring you to cross a line neither of you had fully drawn. He moves closer.
The space between you narrows until you can feel the warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cool air pressing in from the storm outside. His hand hovers near your arm, hesitant for the first time tonight. Itâs an unspoken invitation, a silent challenge wrapped in the intimacy of flickering candlelight.
Your breath comes quicker, shallow. Your fingers tighten around the blanket draped over your lap, your heart pounding against your ribs as if trying to escape the weight of the moment. Izana studies you, gaze flicking from your parted lips to the uncertainty in your eyes.
âStill thinking?â he murmurs, tilting his head, his voice low, teasing, but thereâs something softer beneath it, something unreadable.
You swallow hard, nerves and anticipation twisting in your stomach. Words fail you, but in this charged silence, words were never necessary.
Izana watches you for a beat longer, then slowly, deliberately, his fingers ghost over yours. Itâs barely a touch, a whisper of contact that sends a shiver up your spine. His expression remains unreadable, but thereâs something unspoken in his gaze, something that tugs at the breath lodged in your throat.
The rain drums against the window, the storm raging on, but inside, time stretches, folding in on itself. His eyes flicker to your lips for a split second, leaning in close enough for you to feel his breath, before meeting yours again, searching.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice low, velvety in the hush of the room.
But you donât. You canât.
The flickering candlelight suddenly goes out, cloaking the room in darkness. The absence of light sharpens every sound, the steady rhythm of the rain, the distant roll of thunder, the quiet hitch in your breath. You sense rather than see Izana still close, his presence an unmistakable heat in the cool, shadowed room. The silence stretches, charged, waiting. Then, a whisper of movement; a shift in weight, the faintest brush of fabric. Before you can think, before hesitation can take root, Izana moves.
His hand curls around the nape of your neck, firm yet unhurried, and then his lips press against yours. The kiss is slow, deliberate, as if heâs testing the weight of the moment, waiting for you to pull away. But you donât. Instead, your fingers clutch at his hoodie, grounding yourself against the warmth of him as the storm outside rages on.
The wind howls against the windows, rattling the glass, but the world beyond feels distant... insignificant. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splayed against your side, holding you steady as he deepens the kiss, his breath warm and heady. The scent of sandalwood and rain lingers between you, intoxicating, pulling you under.
A shudder runs through you as his thumb traces small circles against your hip, the softest of touches that sends heat curling through your veins. You gasp against his lips, and he takes the opportunity to press closer, the space between you nearly nonexistent. The room is still, save for the quiet hitch in your breath and the faintest hum of satisfaction from Izana.
Then, as if sensing the shift, he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and unreadable. "Still thinking?" he whispers, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
Your heart hammers against your ribs, and for once, you donât want to think at all.
Word count â 1,018
Character(s): Caleb x non-descipt!reader
Warnings: None
Note: A little drabble for Caleb loosely based on this. I've been loving this man since he first appeared and I am beyond ecstatic to have him as a LI, not that ever doubted he would be. I purposely left out the "spicy" stuff to leave that up to reader's discretion.
The faint hum of the spaceshipâs engines created a gentle vibration beneath you as you stepped into Calebâs quarters. The air smelled faintly of him; clean, crisp, with a hint of something deeper, something that made your skin prickle in anticipation.
âYouâre early,â he murmured, his violet eyes lifting from his holopad. A small smirk played on his lips, one that made your heart stumble in its rhythm. âI thought youâd be too tired after todayâs mission.â
You crossed your arms, tilting your head. âAnd miss an opportunity to distract you? Not a chance.â
Caleb chuckled, setting his device aside before stretching his arms lazily, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the day. âYou should know by now,â He leaned forward, his voice dipping lower, smooth like velvet. ââŠyouâre never a distraction. Youâre an exception.â
The words sent warmth curling through your chest, and maybe a little lower, too. You perched on the edge of his desk, nudging his arm with your knee. âSo, whatâs next on the fearless Colonelâs schedule?â
He let out a small, exaggerated sigh, pulling up the digital interface on his wrist. âWell, according to this very official itinerary, I should be responding to messages.â He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. âBut I think Iâd rather spend that time on⊠something else.â
Your breath caught as his fingers traced an absentminded pattern against your thigh, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric, leaving a trail of tingling anticipation in its wake, like a teasing whisper. He was testing you, waiting. Caleb never rushed these things, he always made you lean in first, always made you crave it.
âAnd what if I asked you to stay on schedule?â you teased, though your voice betrayed you, already wavering.
His eyes darkened slightly, though his smirk remained. âThen I suppose Iâd have to make my case.â His voice was smooth, but you could hear the challenge laced within it, sending a thrilling shiver down your spine. He tilted his head. âPersuasively.â
He didnât close the distance right away. Instead, he let the moment stretch between you, electrified and charged, until you finally gave in and reached for him. The satisfied hum he gave was almost infuriating, almost, but then his lips met yours, and you decided you didnât mind letting him win... this time.
As the ship drifted through deep space, time seemed to slow, and for once, Caleb abandoned his schedule entirely.
` ` `
Hours passed in a haze of whispered words and stolen kisses, the line between duty and indulgence blurring with every passing moment. His touch was unhurried, deliberate, as if savoring every moment, every inch of your skin beneath his fingertips. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down your spine as his lips traced a slow path along your collarbone, lingering just enough to make you gasp before retreating.
When Caleb finally pulled away, it was only to press his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between you. His fingers slid lazily along your waist, tracing delicate patterns as if memorizing the shape of you.
âYouâre dangerous,â he murmured, voice laced with amusement, yet there was something softer beneath it, something unspoken. âI never deviate from my schedule like this.â
You smirked, though your heart was still racing. âMaybe you just needed a better reason to.â
He chuckled, his lips brushing your temple before his fingers ghosted over your bare skin again, leaving trails of warmth that made you shiver. âMaybe.â
He shifted, tucking you closer against him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat matching yours. Silence stretched between you, comfortable and full, until a sudden chime from his communicator interrupted the moment. Caleb groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder.
âThat would be the fleet expecting me to check in.â His voice was laced with reluctant amusement.
You laughed, nudging him playfully. âYou should probably check in. Wouldnât want them thinking their leader has gone rogue.â
Caleb sighed dramatically before rolling over to retrieve his communicator. He flicked it open with practiced ease, his expression shifting into something more composed as he responded. âColonel here. Status update?â
As the conversation unfolded, you watched him, admiring the ease with which he commanded respect. Even half-distracted, he was in control, every word calculated, every order precise. And yet, the moment he ended the call, that playful smirk returned.
âNow... where were we?â
You shook your head, laughing as he pulled you back down beside him, fingers tracing idle patterns against your spine. His body was warm against yours, anchoring you in the present moment, and as his lips found your shoulder, pressing slow, languid kisses along your skin, you knew neither of you were in any rush.
Calebâs schedule could wait just a little longer.
` ` `
The next morning, you found yourself wrapped in the soft glow of the shipâs dawn cycle, Calebâs arms still securely around you. His warmth seeped into your skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a quiet rhythm against your back. You sighed in contentment, enjoying the rare moment of stillness.
âWeâre going to be late,â you murmured groggily, though you made no effort to move.
He hummed, pressing a lazy kiss to the top of your head, not bothering to open his eyes. âLet them wait.â
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real protest in you. His fingers skimmed lightly over your arm, feather-light, as if savoring every second before his duties inevitably called him away. You felt the teasing curve of his lips against your temple as he spoke again, voice still thick with sleep. âUnless, of course, you want to be the one to tell the fleet why their captain is indisposed.â
You laughed softly, turning in his arms to face him, meeting those violet eyes that still held traces of drowsy warmth. âIâm sure theyâd understand.â
His smirk deepened, one hand trailing lazily down your spine. âI think Iâd rather keep this reason to myself.â
For once, being off schedule didnât seem like such a bad thing.
