#I feel like I need to just run in a forest

[peachesofteal]

MELOS (PART TWO)

main masterlist / Azriel's masterlist

Part One 5k words - AO3 Tags: 18+ mdni. Blood, feelings of fear and panic. Reader POV. Trauma. Protective Azriel. Canon-compliant, post ACOSF and HOFAS. "I would spend a lifetime earning your forgiveness"

The fly amanita has been eluding you.

It’s speckled red cap is usually so easy to spot, but you’ve been trudging through the woods all day, turning over logs and peering around tree trunks to no avail. You’re getting closer and closer to the break in the forest, the one bordering a large meadow rich with wildflowers, the one you hardly venture to unless you’re truly desperate for something specific.

You’re seriously considering it when something dusky red catches your attention from the corner of your eye, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you spot the healthy patch of fungi. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” you sink to your knees, digging down to the roots. The soil is wet, freshly damp from a recent rainstorm, and it sticks to your fingertips. “Such a pain in-“

Magic scrapes at your skin. Long gruesome fingers of something unseen try to clutch at you, drag you away, and your power surges to meet it, beating it back to the gloom it calls home. You shudder. The magic from your mother's blood, the gifts the Middle grants you, are enough to keep you safe, protect you from most things in this place, the ones nefarious and full of malice, but that does not mean they do not try. 

You exhale, breathing freely in the crisp winter breeze whispering through the trees, rustling the deadfall into small vortexes that spin across the wood, twisting upward in a delicate dance of changing seasons. You lift your face to the sun just as the wind turns dark, smoky grey, and then explodes in a burst of ink, onyx spilling around the mushrooms, wisps snaking through the stems towards your knees.

You swat them away.

Azriel.

You grit your teeth. Don't think about him, don't think about him, don't think- 

A shadow brushes against you like a feather, and you hiss. 

Azriel.

The male who tortured you. Used you. Gained your trust to hurt you. Suffocated you until you thought you were going to die, until spots appeared in your vision and your heart slowed. The male that hurt you, in more ways than one. 

Fooled into falling for a ruse, you believed it meant something every time your heart thundered when he was near, how your magic crooned for him, tried to reach for him, touch him. The pain you saw in him, over and over again, a mirror to your own, led you to believe in a fairy tale that never existed, a stupid notion about two halves of a whole, only for it to crumble and reveal manipulation and lies.

And after it all, whatever he gleaned from you he must have determined to be inconsequential, since no one has shown up at your door to haul you away for execution. No one came to imprison you, or banish you, or torture you, again. No one came to take you away from your home, your life, like you were expecting.

He did it for nothing.

The shadows are an ever-present reminder.

Ever. Present.

They collect in the corners at work, they trail along the ground as you run your errands, go to dinner, visit your only friend in the city.

Thankfully, they seem to stay out of your house, though in the middle of the night, it’s not so easy to tell.

You shoot them a glare. “Run back to your master and leave me alone, for the hundredth time.” You have no concept of a Shadowsinger’s magic, or an Illyrian’s, no idea if the shadows see, or hear, or speak. Their presence frustrates you, and his hoarse attempt at an apology that night still haunts you. Why does he not just come to speak with you? Explain himself? Justify his actions?

It’s been weeks, and still nothing. Silence from the Spymaster. Your rage that was once all consuming is starting to cool, leaving a mess of confusion and pain in its place. 

You need to let it go, you must, but the music persists, faintly there in the back of your mind, a melody you can’t forget.

It’s a double-edged sword, one that slices and stings. You see him in your nightmares, and your dreams. In the dark, you hear his voice, cold and calculating, pacing around you in a suffocating circle, and in the sun, you see him in the Middle, ablaze in a mist of brilliant blue, brushing his lips against yours.

You’ve grown familiar with how a room changes when one of the Wraith sisters arrive. Shadow rolls in like a fog, dissipating as they materialize, grey gossamer turning to smoky quartz, taking shape as a beautiful female, her eyes iridescent like black pearls. 

Rarely, do the twins ever come together. 

Today is the exception. 

Cerridwen gives you a half smile, gaze lingering on your clothes. “If I made you a new frock, would you throw this one out? It’s nearly in tatters.” You huff.

“This is my work frock; it’s supposed to be a bit messy.”

“It’s not messy, it’s falling apart.” She raises an eyebrow, and Nuala places a slender hand on the stack of brown paper wrapped packages on the table.

“How are you?” The question is loaded, expectant, and they watch you, analyzing every second of whatever is showing on your face.

“I’m fine.” Are you? The lie is so painfully obvious, and they exchange a look. 

“Azriel,” Nuala begins cautiously, “has asked if you would be open to seeing him.” You freeze.

“I..”

“In a public place of your choosing, in the city.” The very idea tips you off balance, blindsides you. Could you do it? See him? 

“With a third party, if you would like.” Cerridwen adds. Maybe this is your chance at closure, an opportunity to put it to rest. “Take some time to decide, and we’ll-“

“No, no. I’ll do it.” You scramble to think of a place where you’ll feel safe, somewhere you’ll be among many, and not few. “Is… Rose and Thorn okay? It’s in the Palace of Thread and Jewels.” They nod.

“Of course. And a third party?” You shake your head. Something in your soul assures you no chaperone is needed, and you allow it to guide you. “Very well.” Nuala waves her hand, wisps of storm clouds floating around her fingers-

And then Wraith sisters are gone.

He’s there before you.

Seated at a table outside, elegant and sculpted, an exquisite, eldritch beauty accentuated by strong, chiseled lines. His skin glows golden brown in the warm bath of the sun, flecks of caramel and green, honey and oak painted together like a priceless landscape in his irises. His wings are tucked in a tight formation at his back, but even in restraint, they shudder, their membranes more unique than a snowflake, more delicate than a spider’s web.

He’s almost too stunning to look at. The beauty of a god. A prince of shadow, shining in winter’s glow.

Suddenly, you’re very self-conscious, fighting the urge to pick at the frayed threads of your dress, too aware of how faded its once emerald green is, how fast your heart is beating, anxiety and pin pricks of fear cascading up your spine, coupled with an undeniable longing that shakes you to your core.

An ocean tide too strong drags your eyes to his, holding you captive in its current, the two of you suspended, floating, woven together in a melody, same song you’ve been hearing, feeling, all this time, elusive, empyreal notes harmonizing across your soul, your magic. The heat of the patio, magic humming in the air producing the equivalent of a warm spring day, urges you out of the cold and towards the table, meeting him where he stands, so tall he towers over you. 

“Hello.” Your stomach flips. This is suddenly harder than you imagined, and you’re being torn in two, afraid and yearning, two sides of a coin. His eyes gentle, and he moves back a fraction, giving you space. You manage to clear your throat.

“Hi.” You can’t look away, and finally, after a second turned eternity, he motions to the chair.

“Would you like to sit?”

“Sure.” The words are stiff, like your back, and you hold yourself rigid, hands clasped together in your lap.

“Thank you for coming, I… I know this was a lot to ask.” You nod, unable to make your mouth move. “Are you well?”

“Yes.” You’ll need more than one syllable answers to get through this, and you fight against the vice squeezing in around you, trying shake loose the battle raging in your blood. There's a need to protect yourself, fortify yourself... and another, one humming a song of wonder, of desire, a song you don't know the words to. He takes a deep breath.

“There’s nothing I can say to excuse what I did, and I know you have no reason to trust me, but I-“

"What you did? You tortured me, you terrorized me. You made me feel like I was dying. and I... why did you… why did you waste your time tricking me into thinking you were… we were… it was all fake.” Your voice breaks, and his eyes flash with despair. “You tricked me into trusting you, letting you get… close,” you study the tabletop, fingertips tracing loops in the woodgrain, trying to maintain your control. You can’t let him see how badly it hurts; how awful it is to know whatever you thought was happening between the two of you wasn’t real, how he's shattered your own trust in yourself. How could you not see the deceit? How could have fallen for such a blatant deception? How could you allow yourself to be hurt like that? These are the questions keeping you from sleep as they toss about in your mind, scolding you, chastising you for allowing yourself to be so weak. Stupid. “Why waste all that time if you were just going to do it? The act itself was... it was terrible but the manipulation, the lie that came with it, feels worse somehow.” Your cheeks heat with shame, mortified at the tears now blurring your vision, and his hand twitches, almost jerks towards yours before sliding away.

“There are no words in any language, anywhere, to tell you how sorry I am. I would spend a lifetime earning your forgiveness, if you’d let me.” Everything you want to fight back with, the words you wish to bury him with, die on your tongue as you stare at him with wide eyes. “I don’t deserve to see you or ask for a moment of your time. I don’t even deserve this chance you’ve given me today but… nothing was a trick, it was not fake. I was a fool.” You know you should say something, but still nothing comes, and there’s a rising uneasiness emanating from his, shadows shivering around him in a halo. “I would ask you to strike a bargain with me.” What?

“A bargain?” He nods solemnly, face set with resolve, foreign limerence weighed down by sorrow reflecting in his gaze.

“Allow me to spend some time with you, to show you how sorry I am, to prove how real it was, and in return, I will owe you a debt.” You fight to keep your face blank, smothering an outward ripple of shock. Maybe he’s gone insane.

“You… the Spymaster of the Night Court… would owe me a debt.” You chew on it, toss it around between your cheeks, try to digest the enormity of it. A debt could be anything, it’s a favor, a wish, a request that must be granted, no matter what it is. You could ask that he drink a vial of poison, and he’d have to do it. Could ask him to leave Pyrthian, and he’d have no choice. Most importantly, you could ask him to leave you alone. Forever. “And if I asked you to never speak to me again?” He winces.

“That would be your right.” This is a bad idea. Your magic trills, vibrating with a strange yearning, again guiding you away from the rational choice and into an agreement.

“I will see you once a week for a month, and in return, you will owe me a debt,” you extend your hand, “and swear not to harm me.” You add hastily, expecting him to refuse, or attempt to change the terms, but he meets you with zero hesitation.

The magic hits you like a gale force wind, wild and too strong, planting itself in your skin to push ink to the surface.

A tree.

The roots sprawl around your wrist, twisting upward into a trunk and then outward into branches, spreading wide until they’re nearly touching on the inside of your forearm. He snags a finger under the cuff of his shirt to reveal the tattoo’s twin, the concrete vow between the two of you plain as day.

What did you just do? 

You’re taking advantage of the first meeting. Having a second with you, a powerful, formidable second, gives you an opportunity to trek into a more dangerous, more unstable part of the Middle in search of a rare mineral.

You’re also using it as punishment, irritated with the small twinge of guilt growing in your side. He strides along at your side silently, shadows skittering ahead across the forest floor, disappearing and reappearing at will, as if they’re scouting and reporting.

“Will you tell me where we’re going?” He finally asks, cocking his head to the side as you stop for a moment to catch your breath. He’s not winded at all, of course, and you’re starting to regret this choice, while also trying to avoid staring at him. Every time he moves into your line of sight, your palms sweat and you remember how his laugh sounded on the steps of your house, how he earnest he was when asking you questions. You remember the kiss, and the way his mouth felt upon yours. You remember it all, and butterflies take flight in your belly. 

But being alone with him in a dangerous place such as this, is also a stark reminder. A reminder of the last time you were alone with the Spymaster, truly alone, and how it ended. 

“There’s a cave a bit from here where a very rare crystal grows. Its mineral compound is a key piece to a specific elixir.” His lips twitch into a small, barely there smile, reading between the lines.

“You’ve brought me along for back up.” You smirk.

“You didn’t say what spending time together had to entail.” You shift your backpack. “It's just past this bog up ahead.” He stops short, eyes sharp, tensing.

“A bog?”

“Yes. You know… like a swamp?”

“Of Oorid?” You blink.

“You know the Bog of Oorid?”

“I’ve been there.” Now it’s your turn to scrutinize him. Could you have underestimated this male, again? 

“Why?” You shiver. You’ve visited the Bog before, twice, and left each time with a new scar, a new nightmare.

“We were looking for something.” We? Questions brew in the back of your mind, so many of them they’re hard to contain, but you’d hate to appear too interested in him and his adventures.

“Did you find it?”  He nods and says nothing. Fine then. “It’s not the Bog of Oorid, just a boring swamp. C’mon.”

You withhold a key piece of information regarding the swamp.

It’s quite hateful, if you’re honest, and a small part of you weeps at your own vindictiveness, but the vengeful side feels too smug, too satisfied.

“It’s this way.” You take the lead, stepping into the ankle-deep muck. “Sorry, you’ll have to get a bit dirty.” The trees here are warped, bent to the undertow of the swamp, stripped of their life, yet still thriving, flourishing in the inert, foul water. Wicked, and greedy, they creak and coo, relishing each cursed step Azriel takes. Your magic crests, drawing up through the Middle, and you smile to yourself as the mud reaches mid-calf. Right about now-

He hisses.

“Are you alright?” You call innocently over your shoulder, now paces away, reveling in the sound of him fighting against the sludge's hold. When he doesn’t answer, your heart quickens, and you turn.

He’s shaking his head, wings flared at his back, muscles flexing beneath his leathers, trying to work himself free, and you bite your tongue to keep from telling him it won't work.

The swamp is a collector, a keeper of things, admirer of the rare and unusual. You’re sure it’s never ensnared an Illyrian before.

“Careful,” you sing, “struggling makes it worse.” He’s knee deep but surprises you when he breaks a leg free and takes another step, cobalt blue siphons beginning to gleam, shining into the dark green stagnant water and pockets of mire. Interesting.

“Clever little witch.” He's amused, reverent, and you're irritated by his reaction. “How does it not trap you?” Keening echoes through your soul, frantic and tortured. It’s reaching for something, crying for something, steeped in a distress you don’t understand. An incessant tugging, the faint sound of a melody. A chiming of bells, ringing, and ringing, and ringing. You steady yourself with a deep breath.

“I ask it not to. My magic comes from the Middle, like my mother’s. It makes things... more amenable to me.” You make it sound far worse than it is to spook him, but he only watches you with interest, keen eyes dissecting you from the inside out.

“And will you ask it to release me?” 

“Maybe.” You shrug. He sinks farther, now trapped to his mid-thigh, and your pulse races. You had planned to leave him here, trap him here until you came back, but your magic is clawing at you, heart trying to beat out of your chest, fear and panic colliding with an instinct buried so deep, it can’t be cut out or ignored, an instinct trying to push you into his arms, pleading with you to help him. It hurts, trying to fight it is like trying to swim against a current, your muscles screaming at the struggle, your power thrashing in your veins. The music is no longer a delicate, enchanting thing but a symphony flowing into a fortissimo, brass and strings and keys digging into your soul.

It's too much, your heart pounds in your ears, magic shredding your restraint.

It's too much, and you long to go to him. 

Release him, you command the swamp, and it tightens its embrace, a lover clinging to another, refusing to relent.

Is this not for me?  

No. He is mine. Release him. Now. You press onward, urging the swamp to relax, it’s reluctant acquiesce bringing you a relief so strong you have to hold yourself steady. It recedes, and the two of you stand face to face, chests heaving. You don’t understand what’s happening to you, what this war that rages in your magic, your heart, your entire being means.

He closes his eyes, the shadows receding, disappearing entirely as he takes a long, measured breath, his hand pressing against his ribs, still deep in the dredge of the fen. 

"Are you alr-" 

“Is there anything else I should be aware of, before we continue?” He cuts you off, the heat radiating from his body coming in waves, and you push against the pull.

“No.” You croak. He inclines his head.

“Very well. Lead the way.”

“Why don’t you winnow here?” You're seated on a rock outside the mouth of the cave. The trek itself is the most dangerous part of this task, and the crystal retrieval was uneventful. Boring, even, as you walked side by side with Azriel in silence, contemplating the unexpected amount of remorse over the swamp settling in your stomach like lead.

“I don’t winnow to most places in the Middle if I can help it.”

“No?”

“You never what will be waiting for you, or what you will discover, when you arrive.” You take a bite of your apple and sneak a glance at him. “You’re not angry. About the swamp.”

“No.” He’s preternaturally still, but rife with intensity, alight with an ache you can’t describe.

“Why?”

“I deserve far worse from you.” You say nothing, because what can you say? It’s true.

But if it’s true, why does it feel so awful? 

You stand abruptly, eager to separate yourself from this situation, this confusion and confliction. “I should get these back.” Winnowing from the Middle, at least, is a perfectly safe option, and you’re eager for the escape now.

“Next week?” Your head is pounding, limbs twitching like your body has a will of its own, and suddenly you’re drained, magic and will quickly depleting. He steps closer, brows knitted together in concern. “Are you okay?” No. 

“Y-yeah. I’m going to… I’m going to go.” He frowns.

“You look ill.”

“I’m just tired. The swamp takes it out of me.” You lie weakly with a halfhearted smile that lacks conviction, and before you can do something stupid like reach for him, you draw on your power, giving him one last look. “Next week.”

You’re at the Palace of Bone and Salt when it happens.

The market is packed to the brim, overflowing, most caught up in the approach of Winter Solstice. It’s still weeks out, but all are always eager to celebrate the city’s favorite holiday. Boughs of holly and evergreen, ribbons of red and green decorate the square, twinkling fae lights nestled high and low. You’re looking for bone marrow, but can’t help loitering by the chocolatier’s stall, his perfectly crafted confections artfully arranged in pyramids stretching far past your head. He catches your eye with a smile. “Would you like to try anything?”

“Oh, no, but thank you. They always look so lovely.” He pulls a pink chocolate swirl from the collection that’s caught your eye and holds it out to you.

“On the house then, for Solstice.”

“Thanks so-“ Your gratitude is stolen by a groan, one rattling upward from beneath your feet, the entire market rumbling so violently the stalls creak, their goods tipping to the side.

A quake. 

They’re rare, but not unheard of. The mountains breathe, stretching and straining, the plates they’re built upon occasionally shifting and realigning, all of it causing Velaris’ foundation to shake. These things you know, but you’ve never experienced it firsthand, and you didn’t expect such… force.

The shopkeeper dives beneath his counter, others running in every direction through the market, panic and fear permeating the air. They’re looking for cover, afraid the second and third story buildings may come crashing down on their heads, while others try to outrun it, sprinting away as fast as they can manage.

It’s pandemonium. Everyone is being tossed around, marble and wood falling and rolling, and you’re frozen, rapidly trying to weigh the options, decide what to do when something catches your eye.

A child.

She’s standing in the middle of an aisle, screaming for her mum, and without hesitation, you snag her around the waist to tuck her into your chest, covering the back of her head as you curl into a ball and huddle beneath the counter of the first stall you see.

That’s where you stay, for the next ten minutes. Curved over this little girl who can’t be more than two, holding onto her as tight as you can to quell her screaming, trying to calm her. Things fall on you, something scrapes the side of your face, and it stings, but you don’t let go. You can’t.

You’re somewhere else in your mind. In the Middle as a child, running as fast as you can to the boundary, trying to get to safety as your mother howls. Claws scratch down your back, blackened, putrid magic tries to drag in the bowels of the forest, all while horrid shrieking and crying fills your head. The boundary is too far, and you fold yourself into a hollow, a damp, muddy nest inside the base of a tree where you hold your breath and sit really still, just like you were taught.

The quake ricochets around you, but the screeching in your ears is not from this time, this moment. It’s from then, you and this small child in your arms now the same, scared, alone, and crying for your mothers.

Even once the rumbling stops, you don’t move. Too afraid it will start again and you’ll be caught in the open, you wait. The sticky, festering sap of the memory clings to your synapses, refusing to let you go, embedding itself beneath your skull like it needs to live there, as if you could ever forget. There are moans from the injured, confusion and worry from those who took shelter, but multiple voices rise over the din of everyone else, giving instructions, looking for the wounded and those who need help immediately.

“- was right here, but she let go of my hand… there were too many-“ a frantic female’s voice echoes over through the market, and her terror is met by a kind, reassuring voice.

“We’ll find her.” The girl in your arms makes no attempt to free herself, still shivering in your hold, clinging to you with all her might, and you stay rooted to your spot.

There’s a brush of magic against your mind, a gentle caress that probes the dense sedge wall, and you push it away, opening your eyes to see a beautiful female crouched in front of you. “Hello.” The High Lady. The little girl finally moves, wriggling against you.

“Mara!” Her mother calls, rushing over and scooping her into her arms, sobbing. She looks her daughter over and then holds her tight before trying to approach you. “Thank you, thank you,” she’s reaching for your hand, trying to squeeze it in a manner of gratitude, of love, but you can’t move, still grappling with the noise ringing in your head. There’s more conversation, more of the High Lady’s voice, patient and gentle, and another’s, deeper, heavier.

“-shock, maybe?”

“-go get him,”

“Cassian-“ The second voice is enough to startle you back to yourself somewhat, and you carefully stretch your limbs, crawling out from under the counter and away from them, standing up on your own two feet. The High Lady holds her hand out as if you steady you. “Easy. You’re hurt.” Hurt? You instinctively touch your face, fingers coming back stained crimson. You need to get out of here, need to get as far away from all of this as you can. You’re still trying to right yourself, convince yourself you’re here, not there.

“Maybe you should sit down.” The other one, the big Illyrian who you met in this very place months ago, watches you with concern. You’re shaking, lungs expanding, searching for as much air as they can find, warm trickle of blood falling over your lips and down your chin. Pain registers slowly, no longer isolated to your face, but in your side too, and when you press your hand to your ribs, wet fabric squishes beneath it. More blood.

“Let's get you to a healer,” the High Lady tries, motioning to your head, your side, and when you don’t respond, she frowns, glancing at her companion. The wailing is finally quieting to a point where you can properly think, but words still won’t come, and she’s about to say something else when shadows swirl around the three of you, and Azriel drops from the sky.

Azriel. Your heart sings his name, and the double-edged sword cuts to the quick, opening you up to a strange spark in your chest.

He looks… awful. Insane, even. Wide eyes find you, his wings stretched into a defensive position, shadows spread around him in a dark cloud, and his fear is so palpable you swear you can feel it. All you can do is stare at him as he frantically takes you in, focus never wavering, even as he speaks to those at your side. “What happened?”

“We found her under here,” Cassian points to your hiding spot, “protecting a little girl. We think she’s in shock.”

“She needs a healer.” He grits, hands flexing and relaxing from flat palm into fist, repeatedly.

“We know.” The High Lady angles her body between you and the Shadowsinger. “Az,” her voice is serious, with an undercurrent of authority, “maybe you should back-“

“You need a healer.” He ignores her, and you shake your head. You need to get out of here, to get somewhere safe where you can try to rip out the rot of these memories still nipping at your heels. 

“I need to go. Home, I need to go… home.” I need to go home? That’s the best you can come up with? Cassian snorts, and Azriel says your name, an edge of dominance cutting through the haze of your mind. The blood loss is making you woozy, and the ground is unsteady, continent turning over as you start to feel sluggish. Your vision grows blurry, and then there’s a hand on your cheek.

“Look at me, it's okay.” Azriel murmurs, and you try. You do. There’s something about his touch, the texture of his hands that soothes you, comforts you, but the world is falling away, and darkness is taking you, tugging you into the lull of sleep.

You curl your fingers into his shirt, a last-ditch effort at staying upright, at staying awake, looking up into a never-ending swirl of hazel, green moss and bright umber drenched in panic.

They’re the last thing you see before everything goes black and you slip under.

[heron-knight]

The Wolf at the Door

finally, the moment I assume you've all been waiting for because I know my audience.

Really, that night was supposed to be perfect. All the paperwork sorted, nothing else needing to be done-- you’d been planning it for a few days. Put it off until the moon was full because you’d had work to do every evening before. A lot, actually, now that you think about it. Over the last few months, there had been quite a noticeable increase in the number of people in town with badly injured pets. Never that bad, but enough to make you wonder if nearly half the dogs in a ten-mile radius had been getting into fights suddenly. You’d been suspecting that some animal had probably shown up in the forest. Something big, by the look of the injuries, but probably an obligate carnivore that wouldn’t waste any more energy than necessary fighting a dog. You may still have just been working as a veterinarian in a small town, but that ecology degree sure wasn’t going to waste. It didn’t really matter now, though, you could leave your work out of this. This was your night. Work finished, medications taken, and with no work tomorrow, it was time for a long evening in the woods. Just you, the forest, and the crisp, chill air of a clear night in late fall. Going over your inventory, it seemed like you were fully prepared-- enough layers to keep you warm until you really got moving, a light with plenty of battery that you planned to use as little as physically possible-- and with some deliberation, a small can of bear spray in case your theory of “obligate carnivore that wouldn’t waste energy on fighting a dog and by extension probably wouldn’t attack a human” wasn’t entirely correct. 

Stepping out onto the porch, one breath of the night air was enough to remind you of why you’d gotten interested in your field in the first place. That intoxicating mystery of the dark. What was in it? What was the source of the sound of crunching leaves behind you as you stroll through the moonlit forest? A feeling like another you’d had before, but a bit less personal. Why’d you have to be born a creature that can’t see it? Human night vision is vastly limited even with time to adjust.  You’d always taken every chance to stay out late, to spend long nights standing in a meadow clipping bands onto owls just to know the species composition of the symphony of nocturnal hunters that you’d spent evenings listening to ever since you had been old enough to stay awake that long. Those little discoveries, those moments in class and in your independent studies when you’d see all those points of data and it was almost like what you needed, almost like being able to raise an ear to the woods and have it speak to you in its language of adaptation and trophic webs-- those were almost as wonderful as your evening strolls, lungs filled with moonlight and heart pounding from sheer wonder as your pace quickened almost subconsciously into nearly a sprint, ignoring the trails and leaping over fallen trees, feeling like a part of this trophic pyramid, this hunt, even tinged with frustration at eyes that couldn’t see well enough to find prey in the dark and legs that wouldn’t be able to keep up with it anyway. When the sounds of the night fill your ears and adrenaline surges through your brain, there’s no more worrying. No more thinking about loans or applications or appointment scheduling or how much time they said visible results would take to show up. No more thinking about how best to bring up the subject of the name you had seen your contact saved under on your mother’s phone even though it hadn’t been yours for nearly four years now. A quick run through the night would always tear all your worries from your mind like teeth tearing into a fresh carcass. Besides, that night there had barely been anything to worry about. The weather was perfect, you knew on some level that she’d change it immediately if you asked, and the slight ache in your chest invited the sneaking suspicion that for once, the overall experience varying from person to person might work in your favor, and things might have been moving ahead of the projected schedule. This was going to be a good night. That is, until the next step sent you falling face-first onto the porch as your foot struck something soft but solid that seemed to-- recoil slightly as you tripped over it. 

In the dim light of the porch, you could just barely see the dark shape that had interrupted your planned excursion. Curled in front of your door, breathing heavily through sharp teeth as the small but certainly alarming pool of blood in which it sat slowly increased in size. Your mind raced through all your experience and training as you stood, limped over to where the… creature… lay, and assessed the situation. Okay, we’ve got a… wolf, I think. There are no wolves in this area, haven’t been for centuries. No, I can worry about that later. It’s… hurt. Definitely. Looks like a big laceration along its side, multiple? From antlers, maybe? Okay, don’t panic… you’re trained for this. Okay… you went through your checklist. Okay, veterinary OR… don’t have one in my house. Patient sedated… no, but it probably can’t move anyway. I’d better stay away from those teeth, though. “Screw it!” you said out loud, reaching down and, with not insignificant difficulty, lifting the animal and carrying it into your house. Damn, this thing is huge. Countless papers and dishes hit the floor as you swept everything off the kitchen counter, ignoring the fact that you had definitely heard something shatter as you placed it carefully on top, then rushed into the bathroom and returned with as many towels as you could carry. The next few minutes were frantic-- rushing around the house, turning on as many lights as possible as you grabbed your personal medkit, as well as a few other things. This was far from an ideal setup, but your confidence was undeniable. Veterinary medicine was how you paid the bills. Wildlife rehabilitation was your passion. Besides, the first wolf in the state in around 200 years would be way too interesting to let die. Once everything was assembled, the kitchen was lit, and you’d taken a second to center yourself, you wasted no time in getting to work. Shave the area around the injury, clean the wound, stitch, disinfect, bandage-- all that was practically instinctual. No time to stop and wonder why the wolf was here of all places. It took a while, a not-insignificant number of stitches, and nearly all the bandages you’d had, but after some time your visitor was patched up, moved to the largest dog crate you could find, (though it still barely fit,) and seemed to be asleep but more or less alive. The satisfaction of a job well done, however, quickly faded as a glance around the room revealed the whole first floor of the house to be a mess of bloodsoaked towels, medical supplies, and all the things you’d thrown aside while tearing the place apart looking for said supplies, not to mention the bloodstains all over the carpet, most prominent from the door to the counter but by no means limited to there. Oh, and then there was the hair. As it turned out, when you shave off a large amount of an animal’s hair to have better access to the wounds and prevent infection, that hair has to go somewhere-- which, in this case, was everywhere, including and especially your favorite coat, which you had forgotten to remove once your plans for a moonlit stroll were interrupted, and was now soaked almost entirely through with blood and seemed to be the source of the stains on the carpet from the kitchen to the bathroom and other parts of the house. Exhausted, irritated, and with the adrenaline having mostly worn off, all you could really manage in response to that whole situation was a long sigh. Cleaning up the house could wait. Who cared if the blood started soaking into the carpet? Besides, you really needed a shower then. 

It hadn’t really gotten into your hair at all, so washing off the blood didn’t take much of your attention. The main reason was that a bit of warm water was perfect for calming down and getting a bit more centered. As good a place as any to go over the facts.

There is a very large wolf in my house. I brought it into my house because… scientific interest. Okay, fine. I like wolves and wanted to help it. Sue me. It is in a crate that I really hope it is too tired to try and escape from, because there is no way it would hold.

There is a very large wolf in this state despite them being extinct in this part of the country for quite some time now, and I think if someone had managed to get them reintroduced to this area, I would have heard about it. Besides, that still wouldn’t explain why it’s so huge.

This very large wolf was injured, probably by a deer, and decided to, out of all the places it could have gone, lie down directly in front of my door. If this area actually did have a wolf population that survived the historical extermination attempts, then they would have to be very good at hiding from humans. This one seems to have actively sought human assistance. 

After thinking for a moment, another realization hit. The wolf has seemed… off, somehow. You’re pretty sure it had extra toes, but you’d have to check to make sure. What exactly was up with this thing? This huge, wounded animal that had shown up, completely alone, in front of your door and despite not having lost a ton of blood, had really been a surprisingly cooperative patient. Something was definitely strange, but you did not have the energy to deal with it then, a glance at your phone as you were drying off with one of the last clean towels in the house revealing it to be 12:27. Maybe you had spent just a bit longer than you had realized staring at it as it lay in the crate. The decision to handle that whole situation in the morning was made nearly instantly, congratulating yourself on your decision to handle everything that needed to be done that night before the walk as you pulled on a robe and staggered into your room, collapsing onto the bed and falling asleep much quicker than the average person with a wolf in their house would have. 

Waking up that morning was a slow process as usual, sped up only slightly by the need to go check on the wolf downstairs. Luckily, you still had some spare dog food left over from when you had taken care of the neighbors' dog a few months back, and besides, it probably wouldn’t be particularly feeling like eating in its current state. That gave you a few handy excuses to stay in bed just a bit longer-- that is, until only a few minutes after you went back to sleep, you were woken up by the sound of the coffee maker downstairs. Several possibilities ran through your head, none of them entirely plausible, but when you hear someone or something using one of your kitchen appliances while being the only thing in the house besides a large wounded animal, plausibility tends to be the last thing on your mind. Okay, possibility one: there is someone in my house. I think I would have remembered if somebody had been over while… all that was happening last night, so someone must have broken into my house in the middle of the night, stayed until the sun came up, and… started making coffee. That theory was quickly discarded, as it made even less sense somehow than theory #2. Possibility two: somehow, despite numerous injuries, the wolf that was last night unable to even react when I was putting enough stitches in it to make a scarf has somehow broken out of the crate (without waking me up), and is now wandering around my house and must have bumped into the coffee maker and turned it on by accident. How exactly a wolf, even one nearly four feet tall at the shoulder, could turn on an appliance on the kitchen counter by accident, was not exactly taken into consideration. Even if it had somehow gotten up onto the counter, it required quite a bit of force to press the buttons. Both theories, though unlikely, were better than no theory at all, so both were kept in mind as you rummaged around in the pile of yesterday’s clothes for that can of bear spray you’d been planning to take on the walk. Whether it was the wolf or an intruder, going downstairs unarmed didn’t seem like the best idea. 

The first thing you noticed upon glancing down the stairs was the hair. Yes, there had been quite a lot when you had gone to bed the previous night, but not this much. The kitchen wasn’t visible from the top of the stairs, but the coffee maker was still on. Where did all this hair come from? It practically coated the floor. At this point, you just had to see what was going on, descending the stairs as quietly as possible and pointing the bear spray in the direction of the noise, not sure what to expect… but whatever you might have been expecting, this wasn’t it. The can fell from your hand, landing with a thud on the carpet as she turned to face you. “Oh, hey… thanks.” she said as you stared, her voice sounding tired and weak. The person that stood in your kitchen, wrapped in one of your blankets and, judging from the lack of any footwear, probably nothing underneath it, reached a shaking hand out from under the blanket and picked up a mug of what… wasn’t exactly coffee, but was more just her attempt at it. For a moment, you caught a glimpse of the bandages wrapped around her midsection, seemingly applied quite expertly but tied at one end as if she’d… shrunk after they were applied, leaving them loose-fitting. The crate that you’d put the wolf into was unlatched, the door left open, and every inch of the cushions inside covered with a thick layer of shed fur. “Got any clothes?” your brain had simply ceased to function, all your concepts of causality and rational thought shattered due to the sheer lack of any possible explanation of how she’d ended up in your house… or where the wolf had gone. 

“Who… I mean… why-- how are you here?” was all you could manage as your mind began to short-circuit for a number of reasons.

“You brought me here.” she said, taking a sip of her not-exactly-coffee and immediately regretting it. “Well… not like-- “here” as in the area, but like, into your house. That’s what I was thanking you for. You didn’t like… summon me or anything." She held up the mug. “I… is it supposed to taste like that? I’ve never actually had any before and I think I made it wrong.” slowly, you started to descend the staircase, walking through the piles of shed fur past the empty crate and into the kitchen. “Um… yeah. I-- I think you forgot to put a filter in the machine. That’s why it’s… wait, but you… how did…” she stared at you for a second, waiting for me to figure it out, even through the clear tiredness on her face, it was obviously visible that she was somewhat disappointed you hadn’t already realized. “Wait!” you shouted, all the puzzle pieces snapping together, but without much conscious certainty due to just how outside the box it was. “You… you were the wolf?” she grinned slightly, a sort of “now you’ve got it” expression as she turned back to the coffee machine and tried to get it to work.

“...right. “Werewolf,” “Lycan”, if you want to get scientific.... Whatever you want to call it. Now, I repeat m’ previous question about the clothes. Kind of freezing my knot off--”

“Then why are you walking around right now?” she was completely caught off guard by the fact that out of all the questions you could have asked, that was the one you started with. The worldview-shattering revelations of the nature of biology itself could wait. Your work wasn’t done. She didn’t try to argue as you led her over to the couch, the conversation having paused completely until she was lying down and you had made completely sure that she understood that she wasn’t supposed to get up again, then rushed off momentarily to get what medical supplies you hadn’t used the previous night.

“You’re handling this information surprisingly well.” she mumbled in between sips of the coffee that you had made as you carefully moved aside the blanket, unwrapping the bandages and sighing with relief upon seeing that not only had that bit of movement not damaged the stitches, but also however her transformation worked, it had kept them in the correct places. The medkit was put back on the shelf, and the bandages were cut into a length that fit her current form better. “Most people freak out.”

“Well,” you said, bringing over a second blanket and placing it on top of her, “that’s a disheartening number of people’s reaction to me, so… I kind of get it.” 

“Oh! You’re also…”

“Huh? No, I’m trans. Didn’t know werewolves were real until a few minutes ago.” she chuckled softly for a moment.

“That was what I meant. So am I.” you both laughed for a minute, (her with some difficulty, but with enough volume to reassure you that her lungs weren’t damaged.) “But similarities aside, usually werewolves turning out to be real takes a bit longer than that to process.”

“You’re my patient.” you said firmly. “Top priority was making sure you didn’t get hurt. Second priority, which is what I can focus on now, is figuring out all the werewolf stuff.” she pondered this for a bit, then spoke.

“Okay… so, what’s your first question?”

“How did it happen?” 

“So, Lycanthropy isn’t exactly… well-known. Real lycanthropy, I mean. They don’t teach you about it in school, or anything. However… As it turns out, we’re pretty good for the ecosystem. We fill a niche that’s been empty for a while, keep the deer population under control… so if you know where to look, sometimes you can find an organization that can turn you. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it sucks. The process, I mean, not the lycanthropy. Ten layers of bureaucracy in between you and actually scheduling your appointment, the crazy long wait time once you’ve actually got it scheduled, all the forms of ID you need to bring in case something goes wrong and they need to identify who it was that just ran into the forest never to be seen again… the actual initial turning isn’t as bad as all the warnings they make you read make it look,” she lowered the blanket around her shoulders, revealing a sizable bite scar. “But it’s not exactly a walk in the park, pun intended. It’s definitely worth it though, if turning is what you needed.” she didn’t seem to notice that you had been silent for a while, lost in thought. “Anyway, I’ve been doing pretty well ever since. It feels amazing, going out on a hunt when the weather’s nice. Can’t exactly go into detail on how it feels without getting a little weird, but I think you’d get it.”

“I think I do.” you said, “but… you should probably rest for a bit. We can pick up on this conversation later.” she nodded and shifted her position slightly. “Hey! Don’t scratch that!” 

One implied threat involving a cone later, you made your way back up the stairs. Even if there were plenty of parallels, processing all that information did take some time. “There is a werewolf on my couch” was one thing, but there was something about that whole exchange that made your mind race and your heart pound. Some reason beyond the surprise, beyond the shock to what you had previously believed, beyond the whole excitement of the encounter, hell, beyond even the fact that even though you hadn’t been consciously paying attention at the moment, you were pretty sure that your legs had started shaking when she’d said the word knot, an aspect of the whole encounter expanded on by the fact that it seemed werewolves did not carry their clothes with them when shifted. No, it was more than just that. Some part of it, some sneaking suspicion that prowled in the back of your mind, clawing like an animal in a cage at the walls of your subconscious, a desire you’d had. One you’d abandoned long ago because you’d thought that life didn’t work like that. An offhand daydream that now filled your mind with one suspicion, one question, now to nobody but yourself-- is it really that easy? Does it really work that well? That question you hadn’t let yourself ask for so long, ignored every time because it hurt to think about when your answer had been no. but… maybe. For now, it stayed as it had been. A sneaking suspicion, but now stronger. Maybe your previous answer was wrong.

Your patient, for the most part, did quite well over the next few weeks-- stayed on the couch, had plenty of appetite, and only whined a little bit when you changed the bandages-- you’d even managed to find some spare clothes for her, though you had to search a bit for some shirts that wouldn’t get stretched. Either lycanthropy made HRT more effective, or she’d been on it for way longer than you had. Only real challenge was that she tended to get lonely. You tried to keep things professional at first, of course, talking to her in your “speaking-to-clients” voice, and offering to move her to the couch in your office for a little extra privacy, but with just how frequently she’d asked you to watch movies with her or wait to make a request until you were just about to leave the house, you’d quickly realized that being professional was not at all what she needed. Even though she knew that she was going to be stuck on the couch for a while, even though she was supposed to just be your patient, all she really wanted was to just be seen as a roommate. You could tell in the way she tried to make small talk whenever you walked past-- how excited she always got when you found something to talk about. Screw “keeping things professional.” She needs someone to talk to.

“Wait…” she said one day as you prepared to make a trip to the store. “Can you get me--” 

“You can just say that you want me to stay for a bit longer” the statement caught both of you off guard, a small comment half out of frustration and half out of hope that she’d take you up on the offer. The room was silent for a second.

“Please?” she asked. Slowly, you walked over to the couch, sitting down on one end of it as she moved her legs out of the way. “I… so, you’ve…” she stammered, moving slightly until she was up against the back of the couch and clutching her pillow. “I was wondering--” with a sigh, you removed your coat, tossing it onto the coffee table and interrupting her request by fulfilling it. She exclaimed softly as you flopped down onto the couch next to her. Gingerly, she moved one hand up, out from under the blanket and placed it in yours. You could feel yourself start to blush as the two of you laced your fingers together, her hand slightly colder than yours but warming up quickly. It was nice-- a sort of soft, quiet confirmation, slowly expanded as you wrapped your arms around each other and you were pulled into a tight embrace. 

“Yeah, it’s okay.” you murmured as she held you, starting to… tremble slightly as you moved your hand in slow, gentle circles along her back. She was surprisingly strong for someone so injured, holding on so tight that you were pretty sure you couldn’t leave if you’d tried. “You’re… really touch-starved, aren’t you.” she nodded. One thing was certain, she had definitely needed this. 

After a minute her hands started to wander, tracing along your arms to all over your upper body, an exploration driven by the desire to know you, to memorize your shape, your scent, your warmth. Just thinking about it, that way she explored, immersing herself in a thousand sensations-- mapping out every part of you with a full sensory profile-- just that feeling was on a completely different level from and of the other times you’d spent a quiet afternoon with someone in this way. That she could understand. It honestly left you envious. How could someone be able to know anything like this? To learn of it in every aspect, the full complexity of something all laid out before them, that near-omniscience that you had searched for in every ecology class, every late night spent listening to the sounds of the forest, every time you had sprinted through the woods on a moonlit evening-- to just breathe deeply and find the truth of it, the nature of it. Beyond your limited human senses, looking down from the top of the trophic pyramid freely. 

“...thanks.” she said, letting her hands rest gently on the sides of your face. “Can I… tell you something?” of course. Of course she could. “I’m just-- feeling really alone. I’m… the only one in the state. Had to drive really far to be turned, even. that’s-- that’s not how it’s supposed to be. We’re not solitary creatures.” 

“Lycans?”

“People.”  she curled forward slightly, pressing her forehead into your collarbone. “Lycans, yes, but also just people. Running through the forest, being able to taste the entirety of nature in a single breath-- it’s amazing, but I… I don’t want to have to do it alone, it’s--” slowly, she relaxed her grip, looking up to face you. “It’s still kind of scary, going into the forest at night. It’s huge, wonderful, delicious, but… the first step out the door is still hard to make. I get scared, out there in the woods. I get scared and then-- and then I can’t shift right and I get slowed down and I get hurt." In her voice, you could just barely hear that tiredness that had been there when she had first arrived at your house, the exhaustion of being afraid, permeating through every other aspect of the words-- the sadness, the hope, even the fear itself. She was silent for a second, then leaned in, her face inches, then centimeters from your shoulder until finally she was close enough that you could feel the movement of her lips as she spoke. “May I?” yes. Please. Do it. That feeling, that warmth as you felt that gentle pressure moving across the side of your neck was enough to make your face feel hot, gasping softly as the kiss traveled upwards towards your face, tight and precise as you first felt it on your collarbone but gradually relaxing until you could feel her tongue running along your throat. Could she feel with her lips how fast your heart was pounding? Could she taste it? There was no possible chance of keeping hold of conscious thought as the flood of sensation rushed through your brain, just the desire was left, just the need for this to keep going. No way to contain the sounds that escaped as she bit down gently on your ear. You didn’t need to contain them anyway. 

“Am I doing good?” she asked playfully before sliding a hand around to the back of your head, pulling you closer again and putting your lips to hers. You couldn’t respond, of course, even if anything but moans could come out of your mouth at this point, you couldn’t say anything as the kiss deepened until your saliva was dripping down the side of your face onto the couch. You got your answer across just fine with how much your legs shook, though-- how tightly you squeezed her shoulder as you felt her other hand brush against your thigh. 

Eventually she pulled back, a single tendril of saliva between your blushing faces. You let out a quiet whine. She had stopped just when things were about to speed up.

“We should… probably wait a bit.” she said. “Full disclosure, sometimes I transform accidentally if I get too excited, and… well, I don’t want to tear these clothes you let me borrow, and you said no shifting until I’m fully healed.” 

“Yeah…” you replied disappointedly, slowly starting to cool down slightly. “You’re right. Don’t want to mess up the bandages.” you were both silent for a minute. “But… just wondering… would you have to stop if that happened?” she leaned forward again.

“That’s entirely up to you.” she whispered into your ear. Gradually, you sat up, making sure to keep holding onto her hand as you moved until her head was resting on your lap. You could feel your heartbeat and hers slow down, no longer as frantic as they had just been, leaving only a gentle sort of warmth that you could feel spreading from your fingertips throughout your body as you began to pet her head. You had one question, one request, that you needed to make. You decided to wait until she was in a state to fulfill it to ask. 

You’d suspected that your guest-- no, your roommate, healed a bit faster than average from the fact that she had been able to walk around (probably shouldn’t have, though) immediately after waking up on the first morning, but this suspicion was quickly confirmed as one day while changing the bandages you had noticed that one of the wounds had closed completely. Maybe it was the lycanthropy, maybe the injuries were never as bad as you had thought they were, or maybe some combination of the two plus the fact that she had something to look forward to once she was completely healed. Whatever the reason, the stitches were out barely a month after you’d put them in and almost immediately afterwards, it had gone from her not being allowed to walk to you not being able to for half the day. You’d thought about it for quite some time, of course-- long before you’d even known that werewolves were real-- but fantasizing about it was simply not on the same level as actually feeling the muscles and bones inside the hand that was holding onto your shoulder twist and snap, nails growing into claws as she shifted halfway through, each sensation changing slightly-- hearing the hot breath against the back of your neck turn to canine panting, feeling as newly sprouted fur brushed back and forth against your skin with each movement-- and then that moment after as she changes back, looking at you expectantly with that expression on her face that could not possibly better convey the question of “did I do good?”, waiting eagerly for you to regain your senses enough to answer. Every moment was laced with that question, the one that had gnawed at the edges of your mind since the first morning-- that desire to keep up, to be on her level, that envy for lack of a better word. At the moment, you couldn’t help but feel somewhat like a chew toy at best, not that you particularly minded. Those weeks and eventually months after she had healed were by far some of the best in your life, understanding what she had meant as your long walks at night became better with company. It still felt like just a walk. She couldn’t exactly hunt that effectively with your human footsteps making so much noise, but she had said it was fine. It didn't feel fine, though, not for lack of the excursions’ quality, but because watching her run circles around you in the moonlight, ducking under low branches and weaving through the trees as if she was swimming through the forest reminded you of what you weren’t.

Or rather, what you weren’t yet. 

“Can I ask you for something?” you said one day as you returned from a morning walk. “It’s… I’m not entirely sure if you could, and I’m definitely not sure that it’s entirely legal, but…” She leapt onto the couch, landing in human form and looking at you, confused but intrigued. You took a deep breath, then asked, the question tearing through its cage into your conscious mind as the words formed on your tongue after too long spent waiting to be said. It felt good to finally say them. She smiled when she heard it, as if she had been waiting for you to ask-- hoping that you would finally request that she do this for you. Four words-- that’s all it was. Four words were all you needed. Described all you needed. Compressed that desire, that need to know the nature of the forest, to know her-- all into one question.

“Can you turn me?”

She grinned, standing and walking towards you before suddenly pulling you close and kissing you. Over the time you’d known her, you’d learned that kisses could say things-- so much potential for all sorts of emotions to be woven into the passion. You could read this one clearly in the warm, gentle sigh right before contact, the sense of relief felt in every moment of it, that slight hunger to it-- 

“Of course~” she said, her face still inches from yours. “I could do it tonight, if you want… I’ll need to prepare you a bit for it-- your room as well. It’s quite an… Involved process.” you nodded, almost frantically, your heart pounding in anticipation. “Good!” she reached up and patted you on the head. “Can’t wait.” She turned and walked up the stairs to your room, pulling the blankets from your bed and piling them in the corner. 

“You didn’t seem surprised when I asked.” you stated as you followed close behind, helping set up your room as she directed. 

“Oh, please.” she tossed the towels she had just retrieved onto the now-empty bed and slid over to you, placing a hand on your chin and staring directly into your eyes. That look on her face made you wonder if she was about to sink her teeth into you then and there. “In all that time I’ve been a werewolf-- hell, in all the time I’ve known they existed and probably even before then-- I have never seen anyone who needed this more than you. I could tell from the way you asked how I became like this.” your face had immediately turned bright red. At first, you had thought that part of the excitement of this relationship was in some part due to the novelty, but that notion was quickly disproven as the days turned to weeks and her ability to set your heart pounding with just a few words had not diminished at all. The two of you continued to prepare the room, removing any breakable objects from it as well as “anything you don’t want getting stained.” she wasn’t exactly specific, but while she said that your posters probably wouldn’t be at risk, it was probably best to take them down temporarily, as apparently you could never tell for sure what might be in the “splash zone.” an average person likely would have been somewhat put off by the vagueness or lack thereof of what exactly the experience would entail, but an average person probably wouldn’t have invited a werewolf into their house, and definitely wouldn’t have upgraded the nature of that invitation upon deeming said werewolf healed up enough to accept. The average person didn’t need this like you did, though. Like both of you did. They didn’t feel that frustration, stuck between barely seeing anything and seeing nothing beyond the range of some horrible light as the only means of experiencing the dark. They didn’t feel the need to breathe in the cold night air like you did, to tear into the nature of things, cracking open bones to drink the truth of the forest from inside. They did not care about the question of “what am I?” and even if they did, they did not come to the conclusion of “not this. No, I am more. Should be more. I’ve been working on it, but I’m not done yet.” 

You shivered slightly as you felt the cold air on your skin, your cheapest towels feeling itchy against your legs as you knelt in the center of the bed, arms by your sides. All you’d been able to do was wait once you’d finished setting up the room. You couldn’t focus on anything else with what you knew would happen in just a few hours, and once the sun had gone down you’d practically rushed through the final preparations-- open all the doors from the porch to your room, make sure you were only wearing clothes that you were okay with being shredded, which did not describe any clothes you owned. You regretted your decision to not find any sacrificial clothing  slightly, not expecting how chilly you would get, but apparently once it started, you’d be heating up really fast and would probably just be out of them pretty soon anyway. The room was dark, with the only light coming from the moon through the window. you stared at it absentmindedly.

“So… what are the towels for?” you asked as she paced around, performing a few final checks and making sure said towels covered the mattress completely. You had been so caught up in the excitement of anticipation that you hadn’t quite asked that much about what exactly the process would entail, not that anything anyone would have said could possibly have stopped you from wanting to do this. She reached over, gently lifting your arm and running a single finger from your shoulder down to your hand. 

“This process isn’t any more clean than it is painless.” she said, moving her hand back up and lightly squeezing different parts of your arm and shoulder, as if trying to find the softest part. “When I had it done, I ended up bleeding from my pores. All over. Bones might end up breaking the skin too, but it’ll heal in a few minutes, and next time you shift everything will know exactly where to go.” it felt nice, somehow-- hearing that last part.-- “next time you shift.” you weren’t just hearing her talk about it now. Now you were part of it-- this side, this aspect of the world. You hadn’t even noticed how separate you had felt from it before, how separate even from the concept of yourself you had been. This is who I am. It was almost strange to think about how meaningless to you the word “I” had been until now-- like snapping out of a daydream, only this was you reentering the present-- your sense of self coming back into focus with your consciousness-- for the first time. The air seemed much more crisp already as you leaned back and she began to gently probe your chest and stomach, one of which was already feeling slightly sore from your other journey towards gaining a body that is truly your own, (which you were quite proud of your recent progress in, though the clothes you’d just bought to compliment it were currently lying in the hallway) and the other because on her suggestion, you’d skipped dinner. “We’ll be finding ourselves some dinner out tonight.” she had said earlier. 

You sat up, returning to your kneeling position as she stepped back and leaned forward into a deep stretch before pulling off her shirt and tossing it into the hallway. “Ready?” you asked excitedly. She gave a short nod. Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes, letting your arms rest limply at your sides again, relaxing every muscle as much as you could as she gently patted your head. 

“It’s going to hurt.” she said. “But also… so does everything else, really. No avoiding it if you want to live any real life. Believe me, it’s not easy to take the first step off the porch, and that gets more true the darker the forest is. Yeah, parts of it will suck. Parts of it will make you feel like you’re getting torn apart and that you can’t be sure of anything. Hell, parts of it might make you regret it for a second-- make you think that it wasn’t worth it.” she let out a brief sigh before continuing. “But just remember…” you felt her hand slide down from the top of your head to the side of your face and opened your eyes just a bit to see her staring intensely. “That you’re alive, and all that it entails. Things hurt. Things change. You lose people and you find others. Sometimes it's so dark that you wouldn’t be able to see anything without changing, and sometimes you might find one night that you’ve changed and now you can see the whole forest clearer than ever. It’s going to hurt, but… every second is going to feel amazing.” in the dim light, you could see that she was crying slightly. “That’s-- that’s what it is to be alive. That’s what it means to be you. To finally become yourself. The sheer exhilaration of change. It’s the best thing I’ve ever felt, and sometimes there’s been pain along the way, but don’t let anyone tell you it’s not worth it.” she took a deep breath before stepping back once more. “Alright, that’s enough hype. Let’s do this.” You could see a soft smile on her face before you closed your eyes again, focusing on your breathing as you heard the familiar sound of flesh and bones twisting and warping in front of the bed before that heavy thud as paws hit the ground. Then, from where she stood came a long howl. The sound of it carried that same excitement as you had felt on every long night, every moonlit walk, the same anticipation as you’d had that night, just about to leave the house right before the encounter that changed your perception of what you were allowed to be. 

Your heart almost skipped a beat as the large shape before you lept from the floor and landed heavily on the bed in front of you, nearly pitching you forward as her weight pressed into the mattress. You could feel each step she took towards you, one foot, then the other, then the other, then the other until finally you could feel the heat of her breath and the pressure of her front leg on your thigh, claws digging into your skin sightly as she leaned in close enough to taste you. The anticipation was far more excruciating. You flinched as you felt a cold, wet nose against your chest, stationary for a moment before beginning to travel, exploring every inch of you with each inhalation. You knew that she’d already decided on where to bite. Same place she’d had it, same place every voluntary lycan probably had it. Maybe she was just teasing a bit, knowing how it made you blush whenever she explored you like this-- how much it set your heart pounding just thinking about how close her teeth and tongue were to your skin. That, or maybe she was just taking in your pre-turning scent one last time as a sort of “before picture” so that she could see afterwards how much you’d evolved. Finally, you felt as she moved up, standing at her full height over you as you trembled with anticipation, adrenaline, and who knows what else, opening her mouth and running that huge tongue across your collarbone, saliva coating your shoulder and dripping down onto your legs. Focus on your breathing. There wasn’t anything else to do, really, as she leaned forward and gently but hungrily slid her jaws over your shoulder, making sure everything was lined up perfectly, shifting slightly to right between your shoulder and your neck. You could feel the slight pressure of each tooth against your skin, just light enough at first to let you know where they were, where they were going to pierce. She was large enough when shifted that the front teeth on her upper jaw were almost below your shoulder blade.

Slowly, the pressure increased, gradually enough to give you time to take a deep breath first, to grip the towels you sat on so tightly that your knuckles turned white as she began to bite down, feeling it start to hurt, barely noticeable at first but but increasing in intensity until you had to grit your teeth. The seconds seemed to last forever as you waited. 

It didn’t hurt as much as you’d expected as you felt each tooth sink into you, waves of pain shooting through your entire body as they pierced through skin and fat until they dug between the fibers of your muscles themselves. They punctured through soft and yielding flesh seemingly one by one, the longer ones first, sinking deeper into you with every other tooth that broke the skin until you felt molars scraping directly against your collarbone, threatening to snap it in two. It was only half a second of that intense pain until you felt it-- that other feeling, seeping into your shoulder gradually at first, almost indistinguishable from the warmth of the blood starting to ooze from around each still-embedded tooth. Not pain, not numbness-- clarity. You could feel the texture of her teeth through the pain, her saliva soaking into your bloodstream, even the wind on your skin you could feel more clearly than ever before. Another half second passed, then it accelerated, that feeling surging through you, setting every nerve on fire with the sheer amount of sensation that ran through them. It felt like you never felt anything before then, like all your senses had been dulled for your entire life up until that moment. Not the first time you’d felt something like this, but definitely the most intense. You threw back your head and let out a sound halfway between a moan and a scream, your brain filling with so much of this feeling that you could barely even think about the pain.

The feeling soon passed, not gone but settled, as if it had simply soaked into you. You could still feel it, but not as intensely as when it had flooded through you just a second earlier. Gently, she relaxed her hold on you, teeth sliding out of your flesh as blood began to flow from the wounds, running down your body in rivulets and onto the towels. She gingerly ran her tongue along the bite mark, licking off the blood as much as she could as she shifted slowly until it was the lips of her human form that you felt.

“You can open your eyes now.” she said. The moonlight seemed so bright even through your eyelids now, you’d almost forgotten they were closed. She smiled warmly at you, mouth still stained red. “You did really good. How did it feel?” you struggled for a second to remember how to speak.

“...amazing.” you stammered. You couldn’t even begin to describe it, that way your mind had filled with so much of your senses that your consciousness had barely been able to keep up. Your hands were shaking slightly as you reached up to wipe the blood from her face, almost recoiling when you felt how intensely you were now able to feel the warmth of her skin. She patted your head.

“I knew you’d enjoy it. Can you still feel it?” you nodded. “Is it starting to heat up yet?” as you concentrated, you could feel the warmth around the bite starting to intensify. It spread through your body more slowly than that feeling had, a simple increase in temperature as your body detected something that it didn’t want there. Each muscle seemed to tighten until you could barely move your shoulder and the knowledge that something was happening began to seep into the back of your mind. You nodded again, and she seemed almost surprised. “It’s starting already?” she said as she reached behind you and straightened the towels on the mattress. “Wow, okay… thought you’d have a bit more time to catch your breath, but… just lie back. The more hands-on part’s done. You can let your body take it from here.”

With her help you managed to lie down, the wounds on your back sticking uncomfortably to the towels as your shoulder started to feel painfully hot. She leaned over you and stared directly into your eyes before she spoke.

“The initial shift’s about to happen.” she whispered, squeezing your hand. “I can’t really say for certain what it’ll be like for you, but… I think you’re going to do great and it’s going to feel great. I’m here if you need me.” you looked up at her and smiled.

“I really wish I’d known you back when I was starting my transition.” you said. “Would have been a lot easier.”

Slowly, a dull ache began to permeate through you, starting in each joint and spreading quickly outward until every part of you felt sore and tender. You wanted to stretch, but somehow you already knew that it wouldn’t help. This part is just going to suck for a bit. The pain didn’t turn sharp immediately-- It didn’t instantly give way to the twisting and snapping you’d seen in each of her transformations-- it just got louder as you curled up as tightly as you could, trying to keep your focus on the sensation of her fingers gently pressing into your back, providing some small relief from the soreness. She knew what this felt like. The pain never seemed to reach your mind, though. It didn’t cloud your thoughts like you’d initially expected it to. When you’d first felt it creeping into your muscles, you’d thought that it would only be a few minutes before you were a quivering mess, unable to concentrate on anything but how much it hurt, but… you didn’t give it the satisfaction. Even as it started to get so bad that you began to toss and turn, whimpering almost involuntarily as your whole body felt like it was filled with needles, it never felt to you like anything more than an annoyance. Yeah, it hurt. Like no cramp or pulled muscle ever had before, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care because this wasn’t just pain. There was a reason for it, one that you agreed with so you didn’t care if there was a bit of soreness in the way. You sat up and hugged her tightly. So what if it hurts. You thought. It’s worth it, because even if I- WAIT, WHAT THE-- you fell backwards as you felt it, that sudden jolt that surged through you, muscles twitching as it hit. You heart was pounding, mind racing, entire body shaking as you felt things begin to move beneath you skin. The warmup was over. It was time for the main event.

As the sounds of the night began to come alive just outside the window, every part of you felt like it was folding in on itself and it felt wonderful, each breath sending a pulse of elation though you as your ribs started to warp. What had you expected? Did it even matter? No. no it did not, because nothing your before-self could have imagined could ever compare. Could not compare to the feeling of muscles severing and reattaching themselves, of the flesh of your fingers fusing together as dead skin fell from your fingertips, new cells coating them with a rough paw pad, of the structure of your jaw snapping under the sheer force of its own growth before being pulled back together as your teeth began to lengthen. Nothing could compare to just how alive it made you feel. Each second felt more right than the last, each bone setting itself into its new position feeling like it was always meant to go there, skin itching right up until the moment that fur began to sprout from it-- and something else. Something that you felt as strongly as any physical change, racing freely through both your body and mind as each second twisted them together until there was barely any distinction between the two. Something that you could hear even as your ears moved from their former positions to the top of your gradually elongating skull. Something you tried to put into words, but all that came out was a howl that expressed it better than any language ever could have.

It’s you. Finally, all of it-- all of yourself. It’s you. 

The moonlight tasted clearer on the tongue of what you were than the human you would have died as otherwise, each breath carrying a symphony of scents. The night itself seemed to be what drifted up from the open door downstairs, everything you’d stayed up late pondering now as tangible to you as the floor beneath your feet as you rose shakily from the bed, fur soaked with your own blood and tail wagging like it was the first time you’d ever actually been able to express happiness. She followed shortly after, leaping from the bed with two legs and landing with four, circling around you excitedly. You laid down for a second, letting her explore you as she’d done dozens of times before, licking the blood off half just to know what you tasted like now. 

You rose to your feet and together, descended the staircase and stepped out onto the porch. You’d never thought of the night as empty. Cold, yes-- painfully out of reach, but not empty. Content with the knowledge that it was alive, even if you couldn’t see it. You had thought you were content with it, at least. Feeling the night like this now, every sense telling you all the information that was now within reach, leaping from the porch and sprinting with her into the forest made you realize retroactively that just knowing what you were missing was not enough.The euphoria that came from that night, running through the dark in which you could now see, being a part of it, was as wonderful as the first time you’d worn clothes that made you realize the meaning of the word. Singing in long, single notes that could be heard for miles, no longer simply pondering the mysteries of the forest at night but being one of them. A sound in the symphony for all to hear. For others to ponder themselves and maybe, just maybe, to follow if they allowed themselves to open the door.

[eoieopda]

triple-dog dare | lsm

“Bambi.”

The sternness of his tone surprised both of you, so much so that when you snapped to look at him, both of you froze. Your moon-sized eyes were further proof that your childhood nickname still rings true to date, although your being the deer made him the oncoming car in this scenario. 

He didn’t love that analogy.

Recovering quickly, he pulled the Ace from his sleeve: the surefire way for one of you to get the other onboard:

“I triple-dog dare you to come with me.”

pairing: lee seokmin x reader summary: when you're left off the guest list to seokmin's parent's thirtieth anniversary party, you're content to keep your questions to yourself and stay home. seokmin, on the other hand, is not content. in fact, he pulls the one card he knows will always win. au: childhood best friends to lovers genre: fluff, angst, smut type: one-shot rating: 18+ only. minors do not have my consent to interact. wc: 13k cw: pov switches, complicated sibling dynamics (seokmin’s), there is in fact one (1) bed, halmonis gone wild, stupid childhood nicknames, fingering (v), oral sex (m receiving), multiple orgasms, implied penetrative sex (p in v). reader notes: afab, uses she/her pronouns, wears a dress/heels to the party, is implicitly an only child. the setting is intentionally ambiguous, so she's not implicitly korean and/or asian. there are no descriptions of body shape/size, complexion, etc. a/n: thank you to the incomparable @daechwitatamic for beta-ing this! it's been a long damn time since i've written anything, so this might not have seen the light of day without jo, the hype-man. on that note, i suck at summaries; just read the fic, lmao. svt masterlist. svt permanent taglist. multi permanent taglist.

For being the walking disaster that he is, there have been shockingly few moments in Lee Seokmin’s life where he’s needed to shove his oversized foot into his oversized mouth.

Prior to the incident at your apartment, the last time he’d embarrassed himself like this was when he’d asked his oldest sister, Soyeon, in earnest whether or not she was pregnant, only to learn that she was just bloated; and he’s just an ass.

To your credit, you’re far from cruel when he slips up, but that almost makes it worse. You visibly deflate when he asks his well-intentioned but ill-fated question, rather than letting him have it the way his two siblings would have done.

The day in question went like this:

He asked, “Did you reserve your room yet for the 31st? If not, we can double up. It’ll be a lot cheaper.”

And you blinked, stunned like you’d been slapped. “Have I what?”

It dawned on you both at that moment that, for whatever reason, his parents’ thirtieth anniversary party was in fact news to you. Two things then happened at once: you tried to hide your surprise and the twinge of pain that comes with being excluded; and he racked his stupid brain to find any explanation for why you had to feel either one of those things.

The best option he found was to gently toss his middle sister, Seonmi, under the metaphorical bus. 

“Seonmi’s been working on something special for them. You know how she gets,” he waved dismissively. “So obsessed with finding the perfect napkins — ” He wiggled his fingers for emphasis. “— and creating custom cocktails, that she misses the forest for the trees.”

You didn’t look convinced. Likewise, you didn’t look any less uncomfortable.

Fuck.

“I’m sure it was an honest mistake.” To drive his point home, he reached from his spot on your couch to give your knee a reassuring squeeze. “I have a plus-one, so it’s not like it’ll be a logistical problem. You belong there as much as we do.”

And he meant it, wholeheartedly. 

All his life, the running joke has been that Soonyi and Minseok Lee have four kids: two biological daughters, a younger son, and his otherwise unrelated twin, who spent more time sleeping on his top bunk than in her own home next door. 

The way he saw it — and the way he’s sure his parents would see it — is that no family gathering is complete without you. That’s a hill he’d die on if need be.

You shifted in your seat, which caused his hand to slip off your knee, whether or not you meant for it to happen. Glancing uneasily out your window, you worried your bottom lip between your teeth, mumbling, “I don’t know…”

Seokmin frowned. You didn’t see it, though, and therefore weren’t moved by it. Instead, you cycled through your anxious thoughts at high velocity. If he was still touching you, he’d be worried that your sparking brain might catch him on fire.

“What if it’s not a mistake? I mean, what if it’s a couples thing?” 

He couldn’t even classify these questions as rhetorical because he wasn’t meant to hear them in the first place. Though you asked out loud, each one of them was for your ears only. From his half of the couch — miles away — his frown deepened, unbeknownst to you.

“You know, Seonmi follows me on Instagram; she’d know that Kai and I broke up a few months ago. Maybe she doesn’t want me to feel awkward? Even if I went, and I didn’t feel weird about that, her expecting it to be weird might make it weird, right?”

Fuck.

You’d spiral all day if Seokmin didn’t stop you. As much as he loves how thoughtful you are, he knows better than most that you have a tendency to take it too far, inflicting that relentless consideration on yourself until it wounds. 

“Bambi.”

The sternness of his tone surprised both of you, so much so that when you snapped to look at him, both of you froze. Your moon-sized eyes were further proof that your childhood nickname still rings true to date, although your being the deer made him the oncoming car in this scenario. 

He didn’t love that analogy.

Recovering quickly, he pulled the Ace from his sleeve: the surefire way for one of you to get the other onboard:

“I triple-dog dare you to come with me.”

Begrudgingly, you’d conceded, just like Seokmin hoped you would. You sat with him while he figured out travel plans to the mountain resort, helped him visualize what the hell he needed to wear to an event like this; and when the time came, you sent him half the cost for the room he booked, even though he repeatedly insisted that you didn’t need to chip in.

Now, that unsolicited sum sits untouched in his Venmo balance. You sit next to him on the night train out of town.

Sit, he thinks, is a bit of an understatement. You’re barely upright, so exhausted from your work day that his shoulder and side are bearing most of your weight. His arm went from tingling to numb an hour ago, but Seokmin doesn’t mind. There isn’t a burden he wouldn’t carry for you, up to and including you yourself.

Besides, he’s not worse off for being left to his own devices. In fact, he keeps himself thoroughly entertained by taking selfies of the pair of you. The aftermath will stay securely in his camera roll — largely because you’d kill him if you saw how squishy your face is, pressed against his coat, or how your little pout trembles slightly, almost as if you’re trying to talk through your sleep — but he still finds it worth the risk. This mochi-cheeked version of you is one of his favorites.

When Seokmin has amassed enough silly photos to comprise a dossier, he tucks his phone back into his pocket with a self-satisfied smile. You’re still out cold, so you don’t stir at his subtle movements or the sound of the concession trolley rattling your way down the aisle.

The girl manning said trolley is significantly outweighed by the thing itself. She hardly looks old enough to have graduated high school, he figures, and he can’t imagine how it is that she’s working at this hour — or how she got stuck doing this job, when it takes all she’s got to maneuver the giant metal contraption through all the train cars.

“Anything, sir?” She asks politely, albeit slightly out-of-breath. 

Even though she’s speaking to him, her gaze is directed squarely at his hat, leading him to believe that she may also be too shy for her job. Nonetheless, it’s been two entire hours since his dinner, and he’s on the brink of starving to death, so he coughs up a few bills in exchange for several different snacks. 

She could do him the kindness of assuming his massive pile of food is for sharing, but she doesn’t. She gestures to you and whispers, “Anything for your —?”

Seokmin intercepts the question, knowing exactly where it’s headed: in the same direction as the million others like it that he’s heard over the years. 

“— parole officer?” He supplies with a smile, “No, this nap is fueled by a lot of crab rangoon. She’ll be out for the duration, I fear.”

Both halves of his response seem to stun her, which means he has to cover his inevitable laugh with a fake cough. 

This bit of yours will truly never get old, although the implications that prompt it did a long time ago. It was a stroke of genius on your part, dodging inaccurate references to your relationship status by offering up something too absurd to converse around.

“You two make such a cute couple,” an Uber driver once told you.

“He’s not in a relationship,” you’d politely corrected him. “He’s in witness protection. I’m duty-bound to keep him and his identity safe.”

The silence turns awkward, so Seokmin thanks the girl and gives her a smile he hopes says, “you’re allowed to run away from me now; I won’t take it personally.” She bows her head a little too eagerly, then skitters off with a grimace, like she pulled something in her neck.

Alone again with you, he wiggles gently upright in his seat so that you can rest more comfortably against his pectoral, rather than his shoulder bone. Even though you’re still asleep, Seokmin swears he hears a quiet mmpfh, as if you’re expressing gratitude. He bites his lips to keep from smiling, knowing that smiling in your proximity is one step away from laughter: the only thing you’ve never been able to sleep through.

Instead of giving into the urge, he murmurs, “You should get paid royalties whenever we use that joke. Being as smart as you are should pay off.”

Now, he knows he’s not simply hearing things because you’re just barely loud enough to overcome your own mumbling. 

“Agreed,” you sigh on an exhale before slipping to sleep off again.

“Well?” 

There are two beats between his first question and his next: the unfilled gap you’ve left in the conversation and the cab’s trunk shutting firmly. “‘s that cool with you?”

Seokmin stares at you, staring at him. His expression is soft, like your lack of responsiveness is something to be fond of, rather than annoyed by. It’s unexpectant, too, leaving the door wide open.

You blink. “Sorry — I — What did you say?” 

Hitting him when he least expects it, you shift your suitcase from your dominant hand so you can gesture properly to the bright, poorly crocheted bucket hat flopping over his forehead. “It’s a bit hard to hear you. That hat is so loud.”

His quizzically raised eyebrows drop in an instant. Likewise, that airy smile of his flattens into a straight line. 

Bullseye.

“Is it me that you hate?” He asks, tone dead serious as he points his finger towards his own chest. “Or is it the very concept of whimsy?”

You’re too busy biting back a grin to protest when, without being asked, Seokmin reaches out and takes the handle of your suitcase into his own hand, as well as the garment bag you’d draped over your arm. Before turning away to abscond with both sets of luggage in addition to his own, he shoots you an incredulous look. It dissolves entirely before his face even disappears from view. 

“This is an objectively delightful hat,” he mutters, nonetheless, in furtherance of the bit.

He spots a member of hotel staff standing on the sidewalk directly outside the hotel’s double doors and pleads his case to them. “She made me this hat, you know,” he announces, gesturing back to you with a nod.

The valet’s uniform hat casts a shadow under the lamplight, but it doesn’t do enough to hide the expression on their face. It is abundantly clear — even in the dark — that they didn’t hear a single word Seokmin said before he offered up that bit of trivia, seemingly apropos of nothing. They muster up a customer-service smile that doesn’t reach their eyes and tell him it’s a wonderful hat. Meanwhile, you roll your eyes from behind because nothing either of them just said is true.

That hat is the byproduct of delusions of grandeur and innumerable skeins of color-conflicting yarn. You made it for yourself, believing that you were the kind of cute and kitschy person who could pull it off; and inconsolable weeping Christ, were you wrong. It was — no, is — your greatest fiber arts failure.

Frankenstein’s floral monster would be in a secondhand shop somewhere if you’d had any say in the matter. It isn’t because you didn’t. Seokmin “rescued” it from the “to donate” pile on your bedroom floor. Since then, he’s worn it at every — public — opportunity, season be damned.

Admittedly, he’s exactly the kind of cute and kitschy person who can pull it off, but you’ve decided out of sheer pettiness to keep that appraisal to yourself.

You take your time catching up to him, both because his long legs make it hard to keep pace; and because the room is reserved under his name. After all, he’s the welcomed guest, not the reluctant party-crasher. The receptionist is already handing him a white keycard when you finally reach the desk. Seokmin holds it up between his index and middle fingers, closed-eye grin sparkling in a matching shade of ivory.

Though the journey up to your shared room is long, the real trip is being confined to an elevator with mirrors for walls. 

No matter how hard you try to avert your eyes, you manage to keep finding some new, horrible angle of your stale, post-train state. It’s torture. Three versions of you stare back with deep, dark undereye circles; and all you can think about is how dull your complexion is — especially in comparison to Seokmin, who may as well be bioluminescent with the way he glows from the inside out.

It’s joy, you know, his primary state of being and something he radiates like no other. He’s happy to be here, happy that you’re here, and happy to be happy. Whether or not he means it to be, it’s infectious. Now, you feel yourself starting to smile, too.

Despite your quiet observation, you must have missed him looking at you. Seemingly out of nowhere, he carefully sets down your belongings, raises his now-empty hand, and cups the right side of your jaw. Unaware that you’ve frozen solid, he swipes his thumb carefully over your cheek, tilting his own head to the side and frowning.

“I got you bad, huh?”

You blink.

“The zipper on my coat,” he explains, laughing. “Looks like it took a bite out of you when you used me as a pillow on the train.”

For reasons you can’t possibly explain, the only word to roll off your tongue is a sheepish, “Sorry.”

For a second, Seokmin is just as confused as you are about whether you’re needlessly apologizing to him or his coat. He chuckles quietly at how easily distracted you both are, then he gets back to the point: “Does it hurt?”

“No.” 

Your response comes unnaturally quick. Your pulse does, too, when you finally make eye contact with him. After clearing your throat, you give him a half-hearted smile, ignoring whatever medical event you seem to be experiencing. “I didn’t know it was there until now.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then rescinds his hand. You watch in silence while he re-encumbers himself with your luggage and turns back to face the elevator doors, which open almost immediately.

Seokmin steps out easily, like the weight of your respective burdens doesn’t mean a thing. “I’d say this way, please, but I’ve already forgotten the room number,” he admits with a sheepish laugh. “The keycard’s in my pocket.”

You take his cue and reach into the front, right pocket of his coat for the keycard. As soon as you see the room number, you snort.

“You booked room number 218 because that’s your birthday, and then… what? You forgot your own birthday?” 

“I’m deeply flawed.” He sighs, put-upon. “Now, let’s go, Bambi. It feels like you packed a week’s worth of bricks.”

There’s no time to point out that you never asked him to carry your suitcase or bag for you in the first place. Likewise, there’s no opportunity to ask exactly how many bricks is a week’s worth. He’s on the move again before you can blink, energy evident in each step despite how late it is.

Once again, you follow Seokmin’s lead. Despite the signage, which is clearly visible on the wall, he walks confidently in the wrong direction, prompting you to grab him gently by the elbow and steer him the opposite way. His smile doesn’t falter; he plays it off as if he was just testing how closely you’re paying attention. 

It takes several turns down several additional hallways before the pair of you reach your target. When you come to room 218, you tap the keycard against the reader, causing the lock to click open. You turn the handle, push the door open into the room, and step awkwardly out of the way so your personal bellhop can get by.

“This is what I was trying to tell you when you so viciously insulted my favorite accessory.” Seokmin nods his head towards the center of the room. “All of the rooms Seonmi included in the reservation block have a king-sized bed — singular. The rooms outside the block are criminally overpriced for ski season.”

It’s far from the first time you’ve doubled up, so you shrug. “Just like old times, right? Like, when you thought your house was haunted, and you forced your way into the top bunk with me?”

“First of all,” he says as he sets both of your suitcases down and places one hand on his hip, the other pointing at you. “We were six.”

After locking the door behind you, you toe off your shoes, smirking at him from over your shoulder. “What’s your second point?”

“It was haunted —” He insists. Then his stern expression melts into something smug, the way it always does when he’s about to blatantly rewrite history. “— and you asked me to come up there because you were scared.”

A laugh slips out of you automatically, but you selflessly decide to let him have this. Crossing to him, you pat him on the bicep, patronizingly simpering all the while, “You are the brave one.”

Even though you’re both cowards, and he knows it, he pockets this little victory with a pleased hum and a grin.

Turning away from him, you make a beeline for the closet area near the door. There, you shuck off your coat and hang it up, out of the way. While you do, Seokmin passes you both your garment bag and his. From there, the pair of you work in efficient silence: you, pulling your respective formal wear from their bags and smoothing out any wrinkles; him, tucking away your extensive collection of toiletries in the bathroom.

When everything is in its place, you turn back around and notice for the first time how beautiful the room actually is. Though the shades of the floor-to-ceiling windows are almost completely drawn, the snow-covered mountains are at least partially visible through the gap in fabric. If you had the time, you’d spend all day tomorrow sitting on the forest green, velvet chaise directly in front of the window, staring at frosty peaks so massive, they feel close enough to touch.

To your right, an electric fireplace heats the room, while a portrait-framed television hovers on the wall above the mantle, flipping through famous artworks as a screensaver. In between flashes of Van Gogh’s Almond Blossoms and Klimt’s The Kiss, you catch a glimpse of Seokmin’s smile reflecting on the black screen.

Awestruck, you turn to him and sigh, “Don’t let me get used to this.”

He jerks his thumb to his right, gesturing towards the bathroom. “Don’t judge me if I steal one of the bathrobes. They’re probably more expensive than half the shit in my apartment.”

“I won’t, but they’ll bill you for it when they figure it out,” you warn him. “On that note, do you need to shower or anything before I start my skincare side quest?”

Seokmin shakes his head, causing the crocheted abomination to flop. “All yours. My hair’ll get weird if I don’t deal with it tomorrow before we head out.”

And with that mental image of his insurmountable cowlick, you quickly grab your pajamas and shuffle off towards the bathroom. The first few seconds after you close the door are spent gawking at the insanely intricate, geometric tile pattern in the walk-in shower. 

Thinking of how much time it must’ve taken to lay each one of them, you set to work on your own tedious task: your ten-step regimen of cleansers, toners, serums, and moisturizers. Seokmin says otherwise, but you don’t think any of them truly make a difference. As stupid as you know it is, the routine itself is therapeutic, even if your skin is no less bouncy and glowy than it was before.

When it’s all said and done, you emerge from the bathroom to find your best friend stretched out on the half of the bed nearest the door with his eyes fixed on his phone screen. It’s the side of the room he always chooses, claiming that it’s to protect you from any intruders, but you know the truth: he’s too much of a freeze baby to sleep near the window, and he knows you like it cold.

“Feeling refreshed?” He mumbles to the best of his ability; his sweatshirt hood is pulled up and drawn so tightly that it squishes his cheeks and chin, restricting his movement.

Chuckling quietly as you go, you pad over to your half of the bed and slip under the comforter. Like a moth to a flame, the other occupant sends his last text, tosses his phone to the side, and scoots closer to you, eager to siphon whatever extra body heat he can. His head winds up on your shoulder, while your cheek rests against the top of his head.

“Before you tell me that I look it, I’d encourage you to stare long into the abyss that is my under-eye circles.”

When he laughs, it’s merely a puff of air from his nose. “You never look as tired as you feel,” he says distractedly, fiddling with the drawstrings of his hoodie. “Pretty miraculous, given how little sleep you get.”

That comment warms you up so thoroughly, you wonder if he can feel it. Then, you wonder if that was the point. You intend to tease him for that, but then it dawns on you how fidgety he’s being; it’s rare for him.

“You okay, Thumper?”

It feels silly, using that nickname after so long. Your clumsiness stuck around for the ride, continuing Bambi into perpetuity; but he grew out of his companion name when he hit puberty, and his giant feet were suddenly proportional to the rest of him. 

He’s certainly no bunny, nor is he a child, but the low ebb of anxiety rolling off of him reminds you of the scared little neighbor boy you used to know. It fits, even if it is silly.

At first, Seokmin begins his explanation without peeling his gaze off his restless fingers. “Apparently, Seungcheol and Mingyu are in town.”  Then, his eyes slowly lift up to find you peering down at him. “They want to meet up to go snowboarding before we leave.”

Ah.

There it is: the top-secret look in his eye that only you can decipher. The one he’s been practicing for years, at your insistence, for moments like this, when he needs to be talked into something. When he needs to be brave and avoid missing out on something he’d love, solely because it freaks him out.

You respond the same way you always have; the way you once pinky-promised you always would: “I triple-dog dare you.”

He sighs deeply, neither fully resigned nor relieved, but then he nods. His head knocks slightly against your shoulder as he does. “I’ll do it.”

And that’s that; it’s settled.

Or so you think.

A beat passes in silence, until Seokmin suddenly pipes up again, “But you’re going to have to hold my hand on the chair lift, or I’ll pass out and fall to my death.”

“Deal.” 

You grab his hand now in consideration of your promise and scratch affectionately at his palm. Surprisingly, his thoughts haven’t made him clammy; his skin is even softer than usual, likely due to the expensive hotel lotion he’s undoubtedly now harboring in his suitcase. Tongue firmly in cheek, you look at him sideways. 

“Just — leave the hat in your suitcase, okay? The snow will be blinding enough.”

Seokmin’s been dressed and ready for at least thirty minutes, but you’re still standing exactly where you have been for the last forty-five. Face pinched, you turn this way and that in front of the mirror, smoothing fabric that’s already wrinkle-free, apparently for the hell of it.

“I’m oh-for-three.” Your exasperated sigh is punctuated by your bare, right foot stomping on the carpet. It doesn’t make the impact you likely hope it will, at least sonically; it does, however, speak volumes about how close to the ledge you are.

“All of them looked good,” he says earnestly. “I think this one is my favorite, though, if that means anything.”

Apparently, this is the wrong answer. Your wild-eyed gaze lifts from your own reflection until you’re staring him dead in the eye through the mirror.

“Why did I even pack this?” You ask, “Do you see this?”

Suddenly, you lift a manicured hand to point at your neckline, from which he’d admittedly been averting his eyes. “This is too much cleavage for a family function, isn’t it?”

As quickly as you glanced at him in the first place, you go right back to fussing with your dress, thankfully missing the way he swallows thickly.

Fuck, now he’s staring — but you’re the one that made him look in the first place — and he can feel heat rising to ears, a dead giveaway. His sudden silence does enough to communicate his struggle; he has no idea how to respond without vaulting over the boundaries of your friendship.

Is it hot in here?

Deciding to rely on his usual tactic, he jokes his way out.

“If you think I’ll ever side against tiddie…” He forces a grimace, shaking his head gravely. “Then you really don’t know me at all.”

You laugh loudly, and whatever one-sided tension filled the room snaps like a twig. Better still, the smile you give him stays on your face while you reassess your dress; and Seokmin takes it as a personal victory that you commit to his choice, rather than cycle back through your options for the second time. 

While this means that you’ll both be able to hit the open bar sooner rather than later, the biggest upside is that he no longer has to keep excusing himself to the bathroom so you can change again, and again, and again.

You finish up quickly, tossing on jewelry, and then turn to him. His shoulder keeps you steady while you slip into your devilishly high heels. Seokmin pays them little mind now, however; his attention is drawn to the accessories you’ve chosen. Sure, they match perfectly with the rest of your outfit, but that’s not what strikes him. It’s the fact that everything you’ve picked was gifted to you by his parents at one point or another.

Unable to stop himself, he reaches out and gently taps on one of your dangling earrings. “Eighteenth birthday,” he muses to himself. 

Then, both his gaze and his hand lower to your necklace. He skims his fingertip along the delicate, gold chain, inadvertently making you freeze up. “Christmas 2019?”

You shake your head slightly, though it barely counts as movement.

“Ah,” Seokmin corrects himself. “2020.”

Sensing that he’s somehow made you uncomfortable, he reels himself back in and clears his throat. “Shall we?” He asks, furnishing you with a bent arm to loop yours through.

You take his cue, link your arm to his, and sigh, “I suppose we shall.”

The walk to the elevator is quiet, in that neither one of you says a thing. Seokmin can hear the gears in your head turning, though, without any conversation to drown them out. 

You step inside that glorified, mirrored box; and for a few minutes, he lets you work through the thing he knows ruined your sleep last night. That is, until he hears your breathing come a little quicker than usual.

“Hey.” 

It was supposed to be a jumping off point. He was going to go from there and reiterate that you belong here with him. The plan was to reassure you for as long as it takes to get you to believe it, but you look up at him almost helplessly, and his Etch-a-Sketch brain is wiped clean in an instant.

The very best he can do is smile and offer a single word: “Hi.”

“Hi,” you whisper back, eyes twinkling. 

Your plagued frown curves slightly back in the right direction; the creeping shroud of doom lightens, if only a little bit.

“That’ll do, pig.” You swat his arm, but he says it again, emphatically, “That’ll do.”

Halfway through you scolding him for quoting Babe at a time like this, the elevator door reopens, reading to regurgitate the pair of you out onto the ballroom level. 

Unlike the lobby, which sits only one floor below, this floor looks like it was ripped straight from the pages of a fantasy novel. Everywhere he turns, there’s something new — and vaguely elven — look at. Fairy lights hang in perfectly spaced arches from the lofted ceiling, delicately illuminating the exposed, wooden beams above. The chandeliers — plural — are crafted out of antlers of some kind, cutting between rugged and highly refined.

As stunning as it all is, Seokmin’s mind snags on a single conclusion. You’re the one who voices it, though, much to his surprise.

“This is the most Seonmi thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” you whisper to him, all without taking your eyes off the extravagance in front of you. “Is this a dress rehearsal for her wedding next year?”

He bites down on his lips hard to keep his laughter to himself. Of course, you’re dead on. Nothing about this space feels like his parents, who are supposed to be the sole focus of this entire event. He already found it odd that they agreed to such a big to-do in the first place — especially when it would require their loved ones to go out of their way, literally and financially — but this is….

“Am I being petty, or is this kind of… selfish?”

Petty, no. 

Psychic? Probably.

“You’re right, and you should say it.” Seokmin nods and withdraws his arm from yours so that he can drape it properly around your shoulder. “This way to the beer, please. We’ll need it.”

Merely four steps in the direction to the bar, and a screech rings out from somewhere neither of you can locate. In fact, Seokmin’s head is turned the opposite way when someone launches themself at you, damn near ripping you from his hold.

“Oh, my god! I knew you’d come!”

Soyeon’s relief in seeing you is palpable. Seokmin can practically feel his bones being crushed as she hugs you tight, swaying from side to side. He catches a glimpse of your expression, which barely peeks through the curtain of his oldest sister’s hair; you’re far happier now than you were in the elevator.

His sister kisses the side of your head. “I missed you so fucking much. I love my residency program, but I hate how far away it keeps me.”

A solid minute passes by like this. When it starts to get unbearable, Seokmin clears his throat, hoping to remind his sister that she hasn’t seen him in months, either; and he’s also standing right here.

Instead of greeting him, Soyeon shoots you a wry smile. “Who is he today? A fugitive you’re harboring?”

In tandem, the two of you appraise him with thoughtfully narrowed eyes. See, this he didn’t miss: being both of his sisters’ least favorite younger sibling.

“Oh, no, though I can see why you think that.” You shake your head, then reach out to pat his shoulder patronizingly. “If anyone asks, this is a foreign diplomat, and I’m the interpreter he can’t understand a word without. Best not say hi to him; he won’t know what you’re saying.”

Soyeon nods, though Seokmin wonders if she truly  gets what you’re trying to achieve. Not quite, he realizes a moment later. Instead, she covers his chin with her hand so she can squeeze both his cheeks at once.

“He’s adorable,” she coos. “Doesn’t look old enough or mature enough for diplomacy, though.”

Seokmin rolls his eyes. “Well, we can’t all be doctors, can we?”

Again, in tandem, all eyes on him widen with feigned shock. Between overlapping gasps of “he does understand!” and “someone’s been studying!”, he shakes off his sister’s touch and scowls.

“If you’re going to keep bullying me, can you at least do it at the bar? That way, I can numb my suffering with booze.”

At this, Soyeon drops the charade and pulls him into a hug like a vice grip. She holds him so tightly that his vision starts to get spotty. It’s not until he gently pats her back, begging for air, that she lets him go.

“I missed you too, Thumper,” she swears, prompting you to snicker.

Now, he’s annoyed for a completely different reason — one that makes even less sense to him. That nickname hasn’t bothered him in the last decade, so it shouldn’t now. Then again, the only person who’s called him Thumper since middle school is you.

The rules are different for you, if they exist at all.

“And I promise to catch up with you later, but I’ve got five thousand questions for Bambi, and the answers aren’t half as juicy with you around.”

Just like that, his plus-one is subtracted.

As much as you love Soyeon, she’s no Seokmin. With him, talking is easy; he never rushes to fill silences, doesn’t steer the conversation with a white-knuckled grip. 

On the contrary, his oldest sister comes forward with a pickaxe, smashing through small talk while she mines for the wild stories she thinks she’s missed out on since moving away.

You don’t blame her, really. If you spent all your hours in a hospital, only sleeping in the lulls between other people’s trauma, you’d probably become just as intense — the human equivalent of a cracked-open fire hydrant — in the search for closeness, too.

In the thirty minutes you sit with her, you brief her on all the cliffhangers you’d left her with the last time you saw her.

Yes, you’re still stuck with your lease in the same apartment; and the old lady next door still regularly sets off the building’s fire alarm by accident.

No, you decided not to stay with Kai and haven’t spoken since the breakup; he needed more of your time and energy than you wanted to sacrifice for him.

No, Seokmin still hasn’t gone out with anyone that you know of in months. In fact, it’s been so long since either of you have touched on this topic, especially compared to how little time he and the last girl were together, that you can’t even remember her name. 

Beyond that first, limited fact, you keep your mouth shut about the rest. It’s not your business to share; and it wouldn’t kill her to ask Seokmin about himself for once.

The longer you spend with her, the more frustrated you find yourself getting, although you keep this fact to yourself, too. Soyeon and Seonmi have both spent their lives fussing about Seokmin, talking about him like he’s some helpless baby, without doing much to get to know him.

That’s it.

If you were at all confident that Soyeon would take the initiative, you’d let her find all of this out on her own. She won’t, you know, but maybe it’ll sink in if she hears it from you.

“Seokmin’s doing really well, now that you mention it,” you offer, though she barely mentioned him in the first place. “He got promoted last month; he’s now lead architect on that massive commercial lot downtown. Apparently, it’s still a secret, whatever it is they’re putting there. Must be something special.”

Seokmin is something special, you all but yell inside your head.

Soyeon’s eyes brighten. 

Nobody loves secrets quite like she does. You wait for the barrage, anticipating all the questions to which you’ll have to respond with “seriously, I don’t know,” but they don’t come.

Instead, she puts her drink back on its coaster, reaches out, and squeezes your wrist with her slightly chilled hand. “I’m grateful that he’s always had you, Bambi. If he didn’t, I don’t know if he’d lean in to opportunities like that.”

The look on her face tells you she means it. Maybe that’s what makes your stomach sour: that she can sit there, hearing of Seokmin’s accomplishments, and still find a way not to credit him for them.

Anger ignites inside of you. The flames lick up your esophagus, ready to explode, and you suck in a breath with every intention of letting her burn.

But then an arm slinks around your waist. Seokmin’s head bumps slightly against yours until you’re cheek to cheek.

“I hope I’m interrupting something.”

For a second, you think his slight tipsiness caused him to misspeak. Tilting your head to the side the best you can, you look at him out of the corner of your eye and catch his very subtle wink.

Soyeon opens her mouth, but Seokmin makes his wish a reality.

“Sorry, sis,” Seokmin says, entirely unapologetically. “I just found out that the band takes requests; and I’ll be goddamned if Bambi and I don’t show you clowns the meaning of dance.”

It takes no encouragement whatsoever for you to slip off your stool, get to your feet, and inch your way closer to his side. Then, like a starting gun was fired, the two of you bolt clumsily away from the bar, with you shouting “sorry!” over your shoulder as you go.

Your heels skid against the dance floor when you finally reach it, but Seokmin steadies you before you can eat shit in front of god and everyone.

“You’re way too expressive, you know that?” The fact that he’s out-of-breath doesn’t keep him from laughing. “I could’ve seen that grumpy turtle face of yours from space.”

Unintentionally, you prove his point, drawing your eyebrows together and frowning. “I do not —”

“— Also, I lied,” he interrupts yet again.

This, coupled with the everything else going on, leaves you too stunned to speak.

“This band is all trot, all the time. They don’t take requests — trust me, I tried — but if you stay here with me long enough, we can kill two birds with one stone.”

Seokmin doesn’t wait for you to answer because he knows it’s a yes. He doesn’t wait for you to assume your position, either, and instead holds your left hand in his right before placing your right on his left shoulder. This close, you feel the urge to tell him how handsome he looks with his hair parted off his forehead. You don’t, however.

The music swells behind you. Seokmin leads, and you follow, swaying slowly and moving across the floor.

“Two birds?” You remember to ask, one eyebrow arched.

His right arm lifts. “Spin,” he whispers. You step under his arm, then twirl. While you’re facing the opposite direction, he continues, “There. Do you see it?”

“Oh, my god.”

You do.

The bar stool you were just occupying is now filled by Seokmin’s great-uncle, Hajoon, while his new and much younger girlfriend, Yunhee, hovers near his shoulder. Even from this distance, you can see the look of abject distress on Soyeon’s face, totally unhidden by her attempt to seem engaged.

You return to your position in front of Seokmin, your hand accidentally landing on his bicep, rather than his shoulder. Flustered by the deceptive bulk there, you immediately scoot your palm back to where it belongs.

He leans in so that only you can hear him. It doesn’t feel necessary at all, given how loud the band’s horn section is, but you don’t recoil this time. 

“They had me trapped over by the appetizers,” he explains, low voice making you shiver involuntarily. “Every time he started a story with when I was your age, I wanted to point out that Yunhee hadn’t been born yet.”

You can’t help the laugh that erupts out of you and therefore can’t pull your head away from Seokmin’s ear in time to save him. Instead of wincing or complaining, he looks at you and breaks into laughter of his own as soon as your eyes meet. The effect doubles, and before you know it, both of you are teary-eyed.

“How the hell did you get away from him?”

It’s a feat you've never once managed. Uncle Hajoon’s inability to read a room is equal parts due to his horrible hearing and his tendency to never stop talking. Even if he did leave space in the conversation for you to excuse yourself, you’d never successfully get the message across.

Seokmin lifts his arm again but not for you. He takes his leave to spin himself, simpering as he goes, “That’s where Yunhee came in handy, actually. I didn’t know she had it in her, but she’s not as much of a dud as we initially thought.”

“Oh?”

“She told him that I should be able to dance with my girlfriend, and he shouldn’t keep me any longer.” He shrugs. “It didn’t seem like the time to correct her.”

All the heat in your body goes straight to your cheeks. Nonetheless, you attribute it to the dancing and choke out, “No royalties for me, then.”

“Not this time.” Seokmin shakes his head. “I said that Soyeon was trying to catch up with everyone and would love to hear his stories.”

You bite back a grin. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Maybe.” He smiles with every single one of his teeth. “But you’re free.”

“Surprisingly so. I haven’t felt the Eye of Sauron on me at all yet.” Just in case your statement serves as a jinx, you glance around the room for Seonmi. The tension you’ve been keeping in each one of your muscles slackens when, once again, your radar is blip-free.

“Dinner was supposed to start ten minutes ago. If I had to guess, she’s either leaving a scathing Yelp review or personally waterboarding the chef as we speak.”

“Both at the same time,” you counter, earning a wry smile. “She inherited your mom’s self-assuredness. If she believes she can, she will.”

After the pair of you dance through two more songs, the band breaks, and the hotel’s battalion of waiters come in, bearing domed, silver trays. Seokmin takes off in a hurry for your assigned table in the far corner of the ballroom, so famished that he barely remembers to tug you along behind him.

Through the meal and all its complimentary wine pairings, you do your best to focus on the conversation. Seokmin introduced you to the few people sitting with you that you haven’t had the occasion to meet yet. While he does what comes naturally to him, charming them with ease, you struggle for the first time to pay attention to him.

A few tables over, Seonmi sits down with her fiancé, joining the company of her parents; Soyeon and her date are there, too, leaving Seokmin out by design. Like an insane person, you can only watch her, rather than Seokmin’s blatant theft of bites from your plate. She laughs at whatever jokes her mother cracks, but you’d recognize that look of veiled angst anywhere. She isn’t happy, you realize. You can’t avoid the feeling that you’re the reason why she isn’t.

Time passes, somehow too quickly and too slowly. The plates are emptied, then cleared away by the wait staff — except for your half-empty glass, which is your third. Much like the other guests at your table, the joyful buzz you’d been feeling so far leaves, too.

All that’s left is you, Seokmin, and that ominous, storm cloud you can’t seem to shake.

“You’ll probably feel better if you talk to her.”

He’s always more observant than you give him credit for. You snap out of your zoned-out stare across the room in order to look at him. You frown. “I doubt it. She already looks pissed. Me parading my presence here despite her isn’t going to help anything.”

“Bambi,” Seokmin sighs, not impatient but gentle. “She’s not exactly warm, but she has always liked you. There’s literally no reason why she wouldn’t be happy to see you —”

You open your mouth to argue.

“— that happened over twenty years ago, and you really need to stop feeling guilty about it —”

You close your mouth, cross your arms self-consciously, and sink in your seat. Despite yourself, you glance over at him and catch the way he’s looking at you. He doesn’t need to say the words out loud for you to hear them.

It’s either the unspoken dare, his reassuring, soft-eyed smile, or all the blasted merlot that does you in. You’re not sure which of the three was the coup de grâce, and as you slink off towards her table, you realize it doesn’t matter. For one reason or another, you’ve decided that fear isn’t going to get the better of you this time.

Seonmi somehow senses you coming. Even without the band underscoring your movement, your timid steps across the mahogany parquet should’ve been impossible for anyone to pick up on. 

Must be an older sister thing, you think, being doomed to keep a perpetual eye on others. 

She doesn’t say anything when you slip into the chair next to her, which doesn’t bode well but isn’t a deal breaker, in and of itself. The important thing is that she doesn’t get up to leave. You tell yourself that this is a good sign. The knot in your stomach begs to differ, however.

Say something.

Say anything.

“Everything’s… lovely, Seonmi, seriously.” You gesture around you, smiling, but she only gives you a cursory look. “You’ve really outdone yourself with this one.”

Seonmi takes a sip of her cocktail — something bitter, the petty voice in your head assumes — and lets the corner of her mouth rise slightly. If it’s the closest thing you’ll get to a smile, you’ll take it. She hasn’t granted you a proper one in the decades since you got gum in her favorite Barbie’s hair.

“Thanks, kid,” she sighs, setting the drink back down on her personalized, cardboard coaster.

You can’t remember the last time she called you “Bambi”, let alone your real name. Just like Seokmin, you’ve always been a child to her. Apparently, you always will be, no matter what you do.

Her grip around the glass remains rigid, not unlike her overall posture. Condensation weeps under and around her manicured fingers, uninhibited. You watch those droplets soak through the coaster’s design, darkening her parents’ initials and wedding date, while you mull over whose turn it is to talk.

Ultimately, as is usually the case, Seonmi makes this decision for you. Without so much as a glance at you out of the corner of her eye, she muses, “It was a lot of work, getting all the details ironed out.”

She doesn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear it. One of those details would’ve been the guest list; another, the invitations. Seokmin assumed it was all an accident and said as much to you no fewer than a hundred times, but this little comment from his sister blows his assurances to smithereens. 

Your exclusion wasn’t an accident at all.

Suddenly, somehow, the room is twenty degrees colder. You shoot a panicked glance over to where Seokmin was just sitting, wanting nothing more than to slink back to his warmth with your tail between your legs; but he’s not where you left him. In fact, he’s nowhere to be found.

Fuck.

“Ah,” is the best you can do.

And then the two of you sit awkwardly in silence while the seconds age in dog years.

You should’ve brought a drink over with you so you’d have something to do with your hands. Or your phone — except you left it on its charger, you idiot — or a time machine, so you can revoke your bullshit decision to walk over here in the first —

“He deserves that, don’t you think?”

The combined suddenness of her voice and the switch in topics makes you jolt ever so slightly. You try to pass it off, to pretend that you’re simply adjusting the skirt of your dress, but your efforts go unnoticed. Seonmi is too busy pointing casually ahead, drawing your focus to the center of the dance floor.

Like absolutely no one else is watching, Mr. Lee twirls around his laughing wife, his heart-shaped smile beaming so brightly that it almost hurts your eyes. The love of his life has to hold one of her hands over her mouth to keep her laughter from bursting out; the other hand is raised with the rest of that arm, allowing her husband to spin himself underneath. When he’s halfway through, she surprises him, drops her arm down, and embraces him fully, giggling all the while.

It almost makes you tear up — Mr. Lee’s unabashed, silly love, and how much it reminds you of his spitting-image of a son; the way Seokmin’s mother’s eyes sparkle in the same blissful, radiant way his do. Maybe the same can’t be said for his older sisters, but it’s abundantly clear where Seokmin came from. It’s even clearer where he should end up.

“Yes,” you breathe, and it almost sounds like a laugh because of course, he does. Before you can stop yourself, you ask, “Is that really a question?”

No, you realize too late, it’s bait.

Without batting an eye, she counters, “Is it really so hard for you to let him have that?”

Seonmi turns her head to look you dead in the eye. Confusingly, despite her words, there’s nothing in her tone or gaze that reads like malice. If anything, the slight furrow of her brow shouts concern.

Your mind is spinning too fast to keep up with. Whatever her next move is, you’re too dizzy now to see it coming and too disoriented to follow it. With the knot in your stomach tightening further, you stammer, “Is — what?”

“God,” Seonmi drops her face into her hands. “You don’t get it, do you?”

A fish on dry land, all you seem to know how to do is open and close your mouth. You may not be literally flailing, but with the state your mind is in, you may as well start.

“Seokmin loves love.” 

She says each of these words slowly, like she’s trying to hammer each nail through a thick skull. 

“It’s the one thing he’s wanted most since he was a kid, yet I can count on one hand the number of short-term relationships he’s been in. He doesn’t ever bring anyone home to meet us; he doesn’t bring anyone to weddings, or parties, or holidays; he just brings you.”

Of course, you’ve been right there through all of his situationships. He’s always scant on details when they end — and you’ve never pressed for any — but you know better than anyone that nothing has stuck long-term. 

You’ve never thought about how odd this really is, but with Seonmi spelling it out for you now, you can’t come up with a single, good reason why someone as objectively incredible as Seokmin can’t make these things work — or why, even as you rack your brain, the only constant you can find in his life is you.

She glares now, as if she’s daring you to speak; as if you’ve got anything she’d deem worth adding. The bulldozer revs up again, whether you’re ready or not: “You’ve always been the only person he saves space for, whether or not there’s a place for you, and he has no room left in his life for someone to love him like that —” 

Seonmi points again to her parents, who are circling slowly on the dance floor, talking softly to one another. 

“So, what is it? Do you truly not see what he’s missing, or are you choosing not to because you like his attention?”

Your eyes burn with tears, but you can’t let them fall, and you can’t wrap your head around why that is. 

Who are you hiding them from: Seonmi or yourself?

The longer she stares at you, the muddier it gets. You don’t want her to be right. You don’t want to be the kind of person she’s describing; but there’s something awful whispering in the back of your mind, saying that you might be. 

You’ve left every relationship you’ve been in, telling everyone who asks in the aftermath that you like being on your own better. But that’s bullshit. It’s not your own company that you keep when you’re single; it Seokmin’s. 

He makes sure that you never spend a day feeling alone, that he’s always available over the phone in the rare times he’s not physically with you. As his best friend, he treats you better than every single one of your exes ever has. Like you’re worth more than anyone else will credit you.

What kind of friend are you if you feel relieved whenever his relationships expire?

Seonmi’s hand drops, landing half-heartedly clenched on the tabletop. Just the same, her voice drops until it’s almost a whisper. 

“I am begging you,” she pleads, eyes narrowing desperately as they search yours. “If you don’t want him, someone else will. Please just —  get the hell out of their way.”

By the time you reach the elevator, all you’re left with is a blur. You’ve already forgotten how the conversation ended, or which one of you was the first to get up. If she said anything else to you, it was drowned out by your own hammering pulse and a looping chorus of voice validating your biggest fear, stating in no uncertain terms that you don’t belong.

You’re shaking when you reach your floor. Heels clicking under unsteady footsteps, you make for room 218; and as you go, you shove your hand into the well-concealed pocket of your dress for the keycard Seokmin forgot to grab himself on the way out earlier.

He’s certainly not in the room when you finally step inside, although you have no clue where he’s gone. It’s for the best. The door closes behind you, and with no one to see it happen, you burst into tears.

All rational thought flies out the window, shaken off by the tornado of utter confusion tearing through your brain. You grab your suitcase, needing nothing more than to be anywhere else, and begin haphazardly throwing your things back inside of it.

Why did you still come with him, knowing it wouldn’t end well? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve told him no; he would’ve listened if you truly meant it.

If you didn’t mean it when you initially tried to squirrel your way out of this, why not? Was it just your friend asking sincerely that won you over without a fight; or was it because you knew, deep down, it’d hurt to see him bring someone else?

Why would it hurt?

The answer to that will crack the foundation of everything the two of you have built, but only if you admit it to yourself. It can’t threaten you if you don’t say it out loud, don’t make it real.

So, you won’t. 

You’ll bury it deeply enough to forget about, repour the concrete, and tiptoe through the rest of your life with your best friend still at your side.

That is, if your friendship survives the weekend — rather, your sudden departure from it — at all.

“Halmoni, it’s time to go back to your hotel, okay?” 

He coos this, as if he’s pleading with a toddler at bedtime, because that’s exactly what it feels like to wrangle the drunk, 80-year-old clinging to his arm.

Physically, she needs to hold onto Seokmin to keep herself steady. Mentally, she’s ready to run and has made several attempts to do just that when she thinks his guard is down. It’s no wonder the hotel staff cornered him and begged him for help; she’s too wily for those who don’t know her.

The manager had at least done him the courtesy of hailing a cab. It sits out front, warm and waiting, while he shepherds his grandmother through the lobby.

“— and another thing!” She slurs.

There is never not another thing. She shouldn’t bother concluding her sentences in the first place; she’s never done talking.

“I told your sister — I said, Sunny —”

Seonmi, he dares to presume, although he doesn’t dare to correct her.

“— you can’t have stuff like this —” She gestures animatedly, albeit vaguely around her. “— in places like this and expect retirees to pay for it! I said — oh, what did I say? — Ah, I said, ‘find me the cheapest motel in the area, or I’ll be staying in your room with you’ —”

Her kitten heels hit the brick outside with an angry thwump.

Seokmin can’t help himself. “She didn’t go for that?”

“No!” His grandmother squawks. 

The driver sees the ball of a woman wobbling his way and quickly exits the cab, skirts around it, and flings the back door open for her. 

“I can’t imagine why, halmoni,” he lies through his teeth, which shine down on her in his best, least sincere smile. “You’re a blast in a glass.”

She roars with laughter, even while two grown adults work together to pour her into the backseat without bumping her head on the doorframe. “Glast in a blass!”

“Exactly. Can you —?”

He gives up before he finishes voicing his request; it’s no use. Instead, he bends down to hug her and finagles the buckle of her seatbelt while she’s too distracted to fight him off. That click is the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, after the clunk of the door shutting her in.

By the time Seokmin turns to the cab driver, his grandmother is fully slumped in her seat, pilled peacoat rising and falling with every wine-laced breath.

“I am so sorry.” He sighs, which devolves into a sheepish laugh, and fishes all of the cash out of his pocket. No tip could possibly cover the emotional toll of this ordeal, so he does his best and gives the driver everything he has.

The driver’s eyes widen. Seokmin gets the impression that he doesn’t quite understand the task he’s undertaking. 

Poor bastard.

Seokmin continues, “My grandfather is at the inn already; he didn’t feel well enough to come here, but he’ll be ready to get her inside once you drop her off.”

“Sounds easy enough.” The driver smiles and holds out his hand to shake. 

Seokmin reciprocates, and he declines to explain just how wrong that assessment is. He thanks the man and chirps a quick goodbye to his grandmother before rushing back inside.

Walking into the ballroom, he hopes to find you and Seonmi laughing about whatever misunderstanding had gotten in your way before. At the very least, he expects you to still be sitting next to each other at the same table. That would be good enough, he thinks; he could assist in repairing the situation from there.

The problem, it seems, is beyond his help. Neither one of you occupies the same table. If his quick scan tells him anything, you’re not even in the same room.

No matter which way he turns, he can’t spot you. His sister, on the other hand, is near the far corner, having what looks like a nightmarish conversation with their parents. There are approximately five billion things Seokmin would rather do than get in the middle of that, but you don’t have your phone on you, and he has no other way to find out where you went.

Above the heads of the two women, Seokmin’s father catches sight of his approach. They lock eyes; there’s something insane in his father’s gaze. The older man shakes his head, mouthing “no.”

Seokmin stops short, raises his hands with the palms up to get across his confusion, and mouths back, “Bambi?”

In response, his father extends a single finger and points upwards. He then makes a shooing motion with his hand. His wife and daughter are so engrossed in their argument that neither of them catches the pantomime or Seokmin’s quick exit, back the way he came.

On the elevator ride upstairs, Seokmin worries. The most likely explanation is that you went to find your phone so that you could find him – but you haven’t texted or called him in the time he’s been looking for you, so he supposes it isn’t likely after all. 

Maybe, he thinks, the wine caught up to you. You’re not as strong a drinker as you think you are. While he walks down the hallway to room 218, he steels himself. Even though you both hate it, he’s ready to hold your hair if he walks in and finds you with your head in the toilet. That dress looks too good on you not to be expensive; he’d rather talk you out of your embarrassment tomorrow than have you shell out for dry-cleaning.

You didn’t deadbolt the door behind you, which strikes him as odd. In fact, you didn’t even close it properly; it isn’t latched. All he has to do is tap on it for the door to open.

“Bambi?” He calls out before stepping inside entirely, thinking it’s only decent to confirm in advance that he’s not an intruder. “Sorry for disappearing. I had to pour my grandmother into a cab – it was exactly as awful as it sounds.”

The faint rustling sound he hears isn’t coming from the bathroom, which is both dark and unoccupied. Part of him wants to take this as a good sign, but the rest of him wonders if he’s walking in on a burglary. That flicker of fear is followed by a stupid sense of validation: 

You always laugh at him when he cites this as his reason for choosing the bed closest to the door; you claim it’s statistically unlikely. Finally being able to say “I told you so” after a robbery wouldn’t make either of your belongings magically reappear, of course. That said, it might make him feel a little better.

But the figure rooting through your suitcase isn’t a bandit at all. It’s you with your coat on.

“Um,” he starts, unintentionally startling you. “What is….” 

His question peters out when you look up at him. There are broken mascara tracks down your cheeks, as if you tried to wipe them off without actually looking at them. Above them, your wide eyes are wet, like you’re seconds away from crying all over again. Even worse, you’re trembling.

Seokmin’s only instinct is to reach for you. Before he can wrap his arms around you, you jerk away from him. “Please don’t.”

So, he stops, though he doesn’t understand why. This is quite literally the only time in your life that you’ve pushed him away.

“What’s going on?” Ideally, he’d project calm at a time like this. He just sounds desperate. “What happened with Seonmi?”

“She — um, she didn’t — It wasn’t that bad; I’m just… You know how sensitive I get when I drink wine.”

Like a switch flips, a half-hearted smile takes over the bottom half of your face. It’s not real; if it was, your eyes would light up and crinkle at the corners. Whatever that look is, it’s bullshit.

Seokmin gestures to your suitcase, where everything you brought with you has been unceremoniously shoved. “Sensitive enough to, what, run away? No. I’m not buying it. She said something — or did something — to make you this upset. Bambi, what happened?”

His urgency is selfish, he knows it. Seonmi’s always been way too intuitive for her own good. There’s no way she hasn’t noticed the way he looks at you when you aren’t looking; how god-awful he is at acting platonic.

He tries — has been trying, for a long time now — to shake these feelings off because he knows you’re not emotionally available. Because he knows who he’s supposed to be for you, and how devastating it would be if he threw your friendship away.

That devastation is right in front of him now; and it’ll  push you out of his life forever if he doesn’t shut it down. He has to get in front of it.

You strike first, though. “Seokmin, why didn’t you bring anyone else?”

There are two ways for him to interpret that question: with the emphasis on anyone, meaning not you; or as an escape route. For your sake, he chooses the latter.

“She gave me a plus-one, not a plus-two,” he says softly.

Despite his tone, it must hit you like a punch. You nod curtly, once. “Got it. Basic math. Thanks, Seokmin; that was never my strongest subject.”

Foot, meet mouth.

You immediately set back to work, reaching for the lid of your suitcase to close and zip. Before he thinks once, let alone twice, his hand darts out and flattens against the mesh inner pocket on the top, preventing you from doing so.

“No.” He shakes his head firmly. “Not happening.”

You don’t scowl at him the way he expects, nor do you even stop to look at him. It’s far worse than that; your eyes start swimming, focused helplessly on your suitcase. 

When you speak, your voice cracks. “I shouldn’t have come in the first place. I knew that this invitation shit wasn’t an accident; I knew I wasn’t welcome to —”

“— You came anyway.” Seokmin doesn’t mean to snap at you, but the point is moot. Softening at the edges, he quickly continues, “And I’m glad that you did because I don’t want to be here with ‘anyone else’.”

It’s not the whole truth, so it may as well be a lie. You know him too well for him to get away with it; it was stupid of him to try. Your head turns, and the slight narrow of your eyes says it all.

I triple-dog dare you to tell me the truth.

This fork in the road has two dead ends. His only options are to do just that or double down and lie straight to your face, while you see straight through him. Either option pulls the pin, he figures, so it’s no longer a question of who gets hurt; it’s who gets hurt worse.

Seokmin jumps on the grenade.

“I don’t want to be with anyone else!”

It comes out too loudly, startling you. In a way, it’s angry, too. He wishes could project that anger onto Seonmi for starting shit, as usual, but the person he’s maddest at is himself for putting you both in this position.

For the first time ever, he can’t decipher the expression on your face. He’d shove his foot into his mouth to try and keep himself quiet, but his adrenaline is firing on all cylinders, and he can’t seem to stop shouting.

“And I’m really fucking sorry to say it because I know you don’t want to hear it, not from me or anyone else. So, you can leave, alright? I’m not going to stop you.”

The force of the surprise almost knocks the air out of him, so quick that Seokmin can’t process what’s happening until his back is flush to the wall behind him — until your hands, flat against his white button-up, curl to grip the fabric, and you kiss him so hard that he sees stars.

You’re surprised too, it seems. When you pull away, chest heaving, you freeze in the same way he does. Eyes searching the other’s, unsure of what to do now that twenty-plus years’ worth of boundaries have been blown to bits.

You whisper, “Are you still sorry?”

Of the five million feelings swelling inside of him — fear, kind of; joy, yes; fucked up by your blown-out pupils, definitely — regret isn’t one of them.

Actually…

He cups your face in his hands like water from a spring, drinks down the sight of you in this new and perfect light. “I’m only sorry that it took me this long to tell you,” he confesses before kissing you back twice as hard.

You’d ask Seokmin to pinch you and prove to you that you’re not dreaming, but the fear you feel at the thought of waking up is too overwhelming. 

Even if it wasn’t, he can’t help you, can he? 

His hands are far too busy.

Your pretty dress is long gone now, having been shucked off and tossed somewhere out of sight. In its place, it’s Seokmin’s body that now drapes over yours, warm in touch and tone, like molten gold. 

His middle and marriage fingers curl inside you, working you up again; and all you can do is cling desperately to his hair, whimper, and wait for the fall.

“I take back what I said earlier,” he murmurs between nips and kisses at your neck.

You can’t ask him to elaborate. You’re too close to careening over the edge for the second time tonight; too busy babbling fucking nonsense.

His simper against your throat reverberates all the way down, lights up your every nerve in tandem like a switchboard. “Only an idiot would tell you to be less expressive.”

The pad of his thumb swirls over your clit; its movement synchronizes with his middle finger inside of you, targeting your weak spot. He presses down on that spongy patch of nerves, and your hips buck involuntarily, a hallmark of your body begging for you while your words fail.

“You were right, though.” 

You summon all your concentration. “I’m always right,” you counter. Seokmin pulls his mouth away from the underside of his jaw just to look at you pointedly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

He picks up the pace of his ministrations, pulling no punches. You’re teetering on the ledge with no real ability to lift your own neck; your head crashes back against the pillow as you wail, clenching and gushing around his fingers.

“I do know how sensitive you get,” he snickers before slipping his fingers from you and sweeping down to kiss you sweetly.

The ringing in your ears has barely subsided, but you’ve decided not to take anymore of his teasing laying down. Slipping your fingers from his hair, you move your hands to his shoulders; and with whatever muscle control you still maintain, you flip him off of you, onto his back.

“How long —” 

You climb over his lap and straddle him, placing your palms flat against his chest. It’s as much a show of dominance as it is a carefully disguised trick for balance. 

“— have you been waiting to say that?”

Caught red handed, Seokmin shoots you that trademark, heart-shaped smile. His cheeks were already flushed from the effort he just expended on you; that perfect pink only deepens when he blushes and laughs, “What, you think I can’t come up with killer lines in the heat of the moment?”

You scratch your nails gently down the lines of his abdominal muscles. “Nope,” you purr.

Sitting up on his elbows, Seokmin tilts his head to the side and narrows his dark eyes at you. You’re nowhere near used to seeing him look at you like this, like you’re something to be devoured. The feeling of being wanted so badly makes your stomach flip.

“Give me some credit, won’t you?” He asks, voice low. “You’re a knockout; you’re naked in front of me for the first time; and it’s a miracle I can talk at all when I feel this concussed.”

When you lean in, he licks his lips expectantly. You’re close enough to kiss him, of course, but you stop a few millimeters shy of your mark and watch him fight the urge to pout. His eyes search yours, almost pleadingly.

“Is that why you’re still not naked?”

Seokmin’s next move is to reach for the black briefs he’s still got on, but you stop him, encircling each of his wrists with your hands.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut with a patronizing shake of your head. “You’re fired. I’m in control now.”

If the little sigh he lets out is any indication, he is very much on board with your self-promotion.

He takes your cue and reels himself in, allowing you to move further down his body, your fingertips hooking under his elastic waistband and tugging as you go. When his length finally springs free, you duck your head to take him into your mouth, beyond eager to feel his weight on your tongue.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, eyelids fluttering, while you swirl your tongue around his head. “Feels s-so —”

The rest of his sentence gets stuck in his throat; you take what you can of him down your own throat, working whatever remains with your hand. 

Seokmin wants so badly to watch, you know he does, but he’s sensitive, too. His head tips back, eyes closed and mouth hanging open.

It’s messy, the spit dribbling down your chin and the sound brought forth by the suction of your mouth around him. The obscenity of it all spurs you on. Nothing inspires you quite like Seokmin’s breathy whines and low moans, though. Above all else, it’s his reaction to you that slicks the inside of your thighs.

You’d give him the ending he deserves, right down the back of your throat, but you feel his fingertips graze your shoulder, beckoning you to look up at him.

Voice rough, he pleads, “Come here.”

With his steadying hands on you, you move back into your original position with your bent knees on either side of him. You immediately spot the indent his teeth have left on his lower lip, which is now slightly swollen. Delicately, you brush your thumb over the mark. “Oh, you’re a goner.”

Seokmin looks at you pointedly. Though you tease, you’re even worse off: drunk on the taste of him, as much as the sight of him underneath you, wanting you just as badly.

“Alright, alright,” you concede. “I am, too.” 

The hand you use to wave dismissively at him then reaches down between your thighs, fingers wrapping around his cock and lining it up with your entrance.

“But I’m taking you down with me.”

And you do.

So thoroughly that you barely recall him staggering off to the bathroom when all is said and done, the wash cloth he returns with to clean you up, or the way you slump into his waiting arms before promptly falling asleep.

You sleep so soundly, in fact, that you don’t stir when the sun blares through the open curtains. Likewise, when Seokmin carefully maneuvers himself out of the tangle of your limbs and places your head on a real pillow instead, you’re none the wiser.

What finally gets to you is the clatter of the expensive, hotel-issued shampoo clattering against the floor of the shower, echoing off the tile like a sonic boom. You sit bolt upright in bed, staring bleary-eyed in the direction of the bathroom. 

As if on cue, Seokmin pokes his head out of the doorway to see if you managed to sleep through the noise. Damp hair splays over his forehead, hanging just as loosely as his lazily-knotted bathrobe. If you weren’t still too sleepy to function, you’d love nothing more than to grab him by that tie and drag him back to bed.

“Shit. I’m sorry, Bambi,” he coos, though his mouth is full of both toothpaste and a toothbrush in a distinctly greener shade of blue than usual.

You merely point at his mouth with a half-powered look of distress, otherwise unable to put your suspicion into words. He doesn’t get it; he glances down at his chest, looking for what he assumes is a stray glob of paste.

When you finally do speak, it’s a prayer: “Please tell me that’s not mine.”

Seokmin blinks at you, then down his nose at the toothbrush he’s using. He cocks his head to the side, opens his mouth to assure you it isn’t, and finally, when the realization makes his eyes widen, he groans.

You wail, “Noooooo!”

Memories of your last trip together clash before your mind — specifically, attempting to navigate a drug store in a foreign language while you shopped for the replacement toothbrush Seokmin is currently holding.

Ears bright red with embarrassment, he ducks back into the bathroom. Immediately, you hear a rush of water from the tap, which nearly drowns out his feeble cry of “I’m sorry!”

“I know it’s an honest mistake, but how do you make it twice?” 

You collapse back onto the pillows and bury your face in your palms; and you stay that way, even when you hear him padding softly over to you. The mattress shifts under his weight as he makes his way, one knee at a time, until you feel him looming over you. His hands reach out and gently pull yours from your face.

Before you can get any ideas, Seokmin flattens himself on top of you; a weighted blanket, smelling like vanilla and spearmint. He folds his arms across your chest and props his chin up on the top of his right wrist, bright eyes sparkling as he peers up at you.

Suddenly, you find it very difficult to be annoyed with him. The worst part is that none of this is by design. He always just looks at you this way, not to get out of trouble but because you’re you.

Your hand reaches out of its own accord and brushes the remaining damp strands off his forehead. When your touch lingers, Seokmin leans into it, warming your palm with his cheek.

“Hey,” you say, after failing to come up with anything better.

He beams. “Hi.”

“Why are we awake at this hour?”

That smile of his evaporates slowly, giving way to a grimace you’ve seen before. “Seungcheol and Mingyu want to meet up at the ski lodge before the post-brunch crowd gets there,” he explains. “And I told my parents we’d get breakfast with them first, since yesterday was… well, mostly a disaster.”

“And it will conveniently provide you with time to think of a way out of snowboarding?” You chuckle quietly and pat his cheek. Seokmin shakes his head firmly, then stretches his neck enough to kiss you. “No,” he mumbles defiantly against your lips. “I never back down from a triple-dog dare.”

[ultravjiolencee]

Can i request a fred weasley with maybe a reader from black family that doesn’t really like christmas? thank u so much!! (they’re not relatives and kinda in a relationship)

Weasley Warmth Delivery

a.n! thanks for requesting and sorry if this took me this long, but to be honest i still feel into christmas mood. i tried this new ‘format’ of exchanging letters! mention of my previous work

Dear y/n,

Well, look at that—a letter from Black. To what do I owe this honor? Boredom finally driving you mad in that haunted house of yours? Don’t worry, love, I’ve been expecting it.

Grimmauld Place isn’t exactly the Ministry of Fun, is it? And without me around to liven up the place, well, I’m amazed you lasted this long before reaching out.

First, let me set the scene for you here at the Burrow: total chaos, as usual. Mum’s been running around like a bludger on a sugar high, barking orders about decorating and cleaning things that were perfectly fine before she started. Ginny keeps nicking the fairy lights off the tree to “improve” her room (I think she’s trying to charm them to spell out something rude for Ron), and Percy’s been giving us all his patented look of disapproval. Honestly, I think he was born with that expression.

George and I, naturally, have been hard at work testing a few of our newest products. Let’s just say the garden gnomes had a very eventful morning and leave it at that.

But, enough about the Burrow, it’s too normal compared to what I’m imagining for you. I bet Grimmauld Place is a real barrel of laughs this time of year. Bet you’ve got Kreacher croaking out festive insults like, “Filthy blood traitor scum don’t deserve gingerbread.” Or maybe you’ve charmed those gloomy curtains shut tight so you don’t have to look at your delightful family tree. Is my name still scorched off that thing, by the way? If not, I’ll send George over to fix that. It’s our legacy, after all.

I wish I could say I don’t worry about you being there all by yourself, but you know me—I don’t do lying very well. (Or at all, according to mum. But then again, she doesn’t always appreciate my particular brand of honesty.) You’ve got that whole independent, “I don’t need anyone’s help” thing going on, and I get it. I do. But I can’t help wishing you’d pop over to the Burrow for Christmas. Mum would adore you, I promise. Well, she’d probably scold you for being “too thin” first, but that’s just part of the package deal. Once she’s fed you a month’s worth of food in two days, she’ll be absolutely besotted.

And before you go claiming I’m trying to recruit you to our family, let me clarify: yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Because family doesn’t have to be the lot you were born with.

You’ve got us now, whether you like it or not.

Now, enough of this sappy nonsense. You’ll start thinking I’m losing my edge. Let’s talk about important things—like me. Did I mention George and I managed to sneak a prototype of our newest invention past Mum? It’s called the “Crackling Cauldron Cake,” and it’s exactly as dangerous as it sounds. You bite into it, and it pops like a small Firework Charm in your mouth. George claims it’s “too risky for mass production,” but I say he’s lost his Gryffindor nerve. (He was almost a Hufflepuff, you know. Don’t tell him I told you that.)

Oh, and speaking of risky ventures—have you heard from the “adorable” bunch at Hogwarts? Lee says everyone’s still whispering about us switching ties that morning. Apparently, there’s now a theory that we were secretly meeting in the Forbidden Forest for mysterious reasons. Honestly, they’re creative. I’ll give them that. Maybe we should encourage the rumors. Keep them on their toes, you know?

Alright, I should wrap this up before the owl starts biting me again. (Did you train this thing to attack, or is that just a natural Black family trait?) But seriously, don’t be a stranger. Owl me again, even if it’s just to complain about how miserable it is without me around. I’ll write back—promise. And if you’re feeling really brave, you’re always welcome here. I’ll even let you beat me at Wizard’s Chess again, just to keep things festive.

Take care of yourself, alright? And if Grimmauld Place starts feeling too cold, just think of this letter as a little Weasley warmth delivered right to your doorstep.

Yours (because I’ve decided you’re mine to pester now),

Fred

P.S. If you don’t write back soon, I’m sending George over to prank your front door. You’ve been warned ;)

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Hello Aubrie! Goood, I love your writing so much, and I couldn't wait to send in another request!

Could I ask for Eyeless Jack and his s/o going on a date day? How it would look like and all that? (can be sfw/nsfw)

I decided to keep it just SFW this time as I was just in a fluffy vontent mood today, but you can feel free to request date night specific spicy stuff with EJ next time if you'd like :) I hope you enjoy, I'm extra tired today so my writing may be different but I had a need for EJ fluff

Your date day actually ends up being a date night with this one, as your boyfriend is nocturnal, however, he gets up a bit earlier than normal if the two of you want to spend a "day" together. Normally waking at about 6:00 pm, Jack will get up around 4:00 on a day the two of you wish to spend together. He'll spend a little while waking up, curled up in bed with you, discussing things you want to do, getting ready to go out with you, just waiting for the sun to go down more so Jack can handle being around the light (as he can't handle visibly bright light very well, hence the nocturnal part :p).

He'll make sure you get something yummy to eat for dinner, and that's usually your first spot on your date nights. The Underworld is full of restaurants that operate 24/7, so he'll take you out to eat at whichever place you'd prefer to go to, and you'll both sit and talk for a while over food. Even with the nocturnal citizens out and about, the Underworld is a lot more quiet at night, so Jack enjoys walking through it with you, enjoying the peace of it. The two of you might window shop a bit, going into any stores that catch your eye. I think if it's warm enough you two have a tradition of getting ice cream together, because there are places that serve a mix of demon and human appropriate flavors, so you can get whichever flavor you'd prefer, and EJ can get his go-to blood ice cream so he can enjoy it as well. Following that, Jack always loves taking you for another walk, this time through the forests of the Underworld. The air is nice and fresh, and the creatures running about are usually attracted to Jack, so he always gets excited by the chance to tell you what the different animals are, and because they trust him so much you can even pet them while they sit contentedly beside him.

It's not until either the sun starts coming back up or you start to get too tired that the two of you finally begin to make your way back to the mansion together. Once you get back, Jack normally prefers to enter relaxation mode with you again. You'll take a relaxing shower together, and then put on some perfectly fluffy, soft pajamas (Jack is a connoisseur of comfortable fabrics), and curl up in bed once more. Some nights you guys might put on a show in the background, or some music, or anything you're in the mood to watch and just sit, and cuddle to the background noise. However, there are also nights like tonight, when you snuggle up and read together. It always starts with both of you reading your own preferred books in silence, but then usually one of you grows more tired faster than the other (usually you, as it's generally 5:00 am by this point), and the other person will read their own book aloud for both of you. Days like these generally end with you fast asleep in Jack's arms due to your need for sleep overcoming you, and Jack will always chuckle and set his book aside, before pulling you into his chest, and finally falling asleep himself. You usually always wake before him, unless you sleep the whole day away (sometimes Jack also just refuses to let you out of his arms on purpose but shhhh it's fine, it doesn't matter), but post date day snuggles are also mandatory in this relationship, so really, date days are like two days in one because you've gotta recoup your energy from staying up so late. Even if the two of you just spend a date day curled up inside playing board games or reading, or even just silently snuggling up, Jack doesn't mind, so long as he gets to spend as much time with you as possible, anything is fine in his opinion. He's just thankful to have you there with him.

[ariadne-karloff]

Random headcanons

Food.

Creed doesn't have a lot of control when eating: he eats like it's the first time in ages, and could be the last. He basically inhales the food, actually enjoying it only after he's eaten enough and or feels safe. He could keep eating indefinitely if you put food in front of him, no restraints, no shame, just a void to be filled. His healing factor helps him battling the nausea and the too full part. If he's by himself, he then nap the hell out of all that food. The presence of food, even still alive, gets him sidetracked and he needs to refocus on the task at hand.

Sleep.

He sleeps curled up, or half curled, with his head on his arms. If he's sleeping with someone, the someone becomes a teddy bear. He secretly loves being the small spoon but it's very difficult to find someone big enough. But with his past lovers they found a way: he stays face down and they sleep literally on him. Apparently it was Mystique the first to think of it, but Victor remembers someone else, heavier than her, and with the scent of clear waters and snow and forests. He runs hot, but if he can, he sleeps hidden in blankets, still trying to banish the cold he felt when he was in the cellar and during the first winter he was alone outside.

Mental Health.

The Canon: He never left that house, as he said himself. There's the mini "Spider-Man. Punisher. Sabretooth: Designer Genes" where he basically says he has PTSD. In another one, "It comes with the claws" (it's a Daredevil issue if I remember well) it seems he's not completely grounded, and he doesn't know what to do with people (and specifically women. He takes one and he's very gentle and careful but doesn't know what to do with her).

The headcanon: his mental health is highly challenged because of his upbringing. When he was prisoner in the cellar, he lost a great part of his ability to understand people and the notions he had, leaving him extremely late in what a person should know or feel. He basically lost roughly 3 years (old 90s canon). The solitary confinement is torture and he's been closed there for ages, plus the father hurting him and withholding food. So, yeah, he's weird and has a LOT of problems. Since he tried to get help but people said he didn't deserve it, he chose to be not conforming and accept that "normals" will never accept him for what he is, but he push it in their faces.

He def has ADHD and he's not in tune with emotions. As a defensive mechanism he shares false facts about his misdeeds to create a different picture of himself, and this is the same reason behind some of his taunts.

His Mother

As you may have read on my stories, his mother tried to protect him. She couldn't help him because of the abusive husband, and also cultural setting, but she loved him dearly, and tried to do all that she can. She gave him all the food she can hide from her husband and also blankets or things to keep him warm, and she talked to him. She also cleaned him and his small place, trying to keep it as clean as possible. One of his most treasured memories it's her using warm water and a soft cloth to clean him, and then letting him sleep a bit on her. Her arms were the safest place on earth for a long, long time. So yeah, I'm following the canon in which he spared her, after killing his father. She kept him safe even knowing he was completely deranged and out of his mind. She would have kept him with her, but Victor was restless and needed to get away from everything and go deep in the woods.

Queer.

He def isn't straight and he also is "age blind". For the "not straight part" it's the comics fault. He's queer coded to the bone. In some issue he's pictured like one of those "bisexual evil characters", but nothing is clearly stated (as it's pretty common).

Clean.

He can't stand being dirty. He washes as soon as possible, and he does that even when running free in the Canadian forests. He wouldn't have a strong scent because it's dangerous and helps finding you. Many people think he stinks because he doesn't smell of chemical products, and also after battle who would smell like flowers?! No one.

He's an asshole.

Absolutely an asshole. He's snarky, pushy, talks too much about the wrong things, tries to boast himself and he's too loud. He also tends to vanish up north without saying anything to anyone to recharge his batteries. But kids weirdly feel safe with him, so probably he's not so bad. Even if he sometimes says he eats them for fun (like the cats, he doesn't eat them, there's not enough to eat, not even as snacks)

[propertyofwhitney67]

How would the LI react to a pc that starts needing a cane for chronic pain? Just one day they start using a cane to help walk around?

I wish I could use my cane without being yelled at

Whitney is going to try to kick it out from under you bc he's such an ass. He's gonna ask why the fuck you need it, then he's gonna feel bad but won't show it. Now if he sees anyone fucking with you about it he's beating them.

Kylar is running up to you, stuttering and asking so many questions. You will have to stop him bc he will keep going. He treats you with even more care, almost like you'll break and it will be very annoying

Robin is obviously worried and asks if you're ok. He won't push too much but wants to make sure you're alright

P!Sydney is basically the same as Robin but he also offers many resources to help

C!Sydney is the same as his pure counterpart

Alex doesn't notice at first but when he does he asks if you're ok and if you need a break to take it so you don't hurt yourself, besides that he leaves it be

Avery just kinda eyes it and says to find one that goes with your date night outfit so you don't look like an idiot on dates

Eden is very concerned as to how you made it this deep into the forest with a cane. He makes sure you're ok and doesn't let you leave for a few days. Now he always walks you back to town so you don't get hurt

[adventures-in-a-world-of-fiction]

For some reason, as I was going to sleep last night, my brain decided to throw at me a bunch of ideas for a pantomime script. The main plotline is that the village where it's set is being terrorised by a monstrous creature (which turns out to be a cursed prince, because pantomime). There's a running joke that whenever anyone talks about the creature, they pause and there's a "dun dun DUN!" sound effect before they say the word, but one of the characters can't get it right and there's just a series of silly sound effects when he tries and everyone acts like it's his pronunciation.

Villager: We can't go into the forest because of the... (dun dun DUN) creature. Stranger: The creature? Villager: No, not the creature. The... (dun dun DUN) creature. Stranger: Ah, got it. The... (slide whistle noise) creature. Villager: No, you're saying it wrong. The... (dun dun DUN) creature. Stranger: The... (fart noise) creature. Villager: Your pronunciation is terrible. Stranger: I'll get there. I'll keep working on it.

The hero is a monster hunter who comes to the village with his agent (think Geralt and Jaskier in initial vibes and costuming). His agent is trying to make him into a Brooding Action Hero but the monster hunter keeps messing up his image by admitting his likes to do embroidery or wearing the flower crown given to him by the love interest.

Agent: You'll never make it big in the monster hunting world if you don't have solid branding. You need to get a traditionally masculine hobby. Like lifting weights. Or staring into a whiskey glass while not talking about your feelings. Or... or... BAH: Hitting people while wearing lots of leather. Agent: We're not talking about my weekend plans right now.

The agent is implied to be very... open to love. He ends up with the transformed prince at the end and is only slightly disappointed that the prince in question been turned back into a human instead of staying as a monstrous creature.

Agent: In fact, one time, there was a thing with tentacles that... (looks at the audience and finishes hurriedly) my friend here dealt with before it did anything we can't talk about in a family show.

I have all these bits of ideas that I want to try and string together into a coherent whole but it's missing things right now. I feel like I need to give it an actual villain, maybe the person who cursed the prince to turn into a monster.

[morinotsume]

These road trips of his were usually his way of running away from something. From the pressure of expectations and obligations, from the mental load of the people who he loved but who sometimes didn't understand how overstimulated a man with heightened senses could get. This time, as they rumbled their way through the breaking day, he felt like he was actually heading toward something. The destination he knew, but the metaphorical road that lay before them was full of the most wonderful, hopeful unknowns. Weird feeling, looking forward to the future.

Her arms around his middle, so trusting and warm, kept him grounded and alert as they rumbled along. To him, the vibration of the engine was a comforting sensation, the song that usually heralded freedom. True enough, her hands were just as dangerous as his own, but just as he would never use his claws against her, he knew at the most fundamental level that she would never use her powers to manipulate him. She didn't need to -- all she had to do was ask.

When she shifted closer against his back Logan reached down and gave her leg a gentle squeeze, lingering briefly before going back to the handlebar. Comfortable, that was the word. Normally people getting this close to him made him tense, but she fitted against his body like she belonged there. Maybe because she did, he wouldn't question it. Her question, though, made him ponder for a moment. "Couldn't tell you," he admitted, hoping his answer wouldn't get completely snatched away on the wind. "Guess you threw off my internal compass, I could'a sworn I was heading to one 'a my army buddies' hunting cabins."

They had left the forest behind for a while, heading up onto a bigger highway and finally, here and there, a few dots of civilization. He jerked his chin forward, a quick no-hands point. "Truck stop comin' up. Dunno 'bout you but I'm ready for a break." Beyond the next exit they found the kind of truck stop that popped up with nothing else around but a dingy motel, a stopover for truckers on long hauls needing to stretch their legs and sleep somewhere that wasn't the cab of their rig.

Kind of place that didn't ask too many questions. Just his style.

Another half a day.

Silver Fox drew in a deep breath and then let it out slowly, reminding herself that this was necessary. The old cabin held too many bad memories for them to spend the night there, and she didn't want it to hurt her and, especially, to hurt Logan any more than their visit already had.

But what she had said inside still stood. With him, she would go anywhere.

So, she took the helmet as it was once again offered to her. Silver Fox made sure that the bun her long braid had ended up tied in was secured and wouldn't come loose during the trip before she finally put the helmet back on.

This time, when they got back on the motorcycle and left for this place he said they could build a future in, his place, there was no hesitation or awkwardness on her part to wrap her arms around him. After all, he's her husband and if he remembered that he loves her, then she's certain he also remembered that she wouldn't ever use her powers on him against his will.

And this time, as they drove away from their blood-stained past, towards their hopefully much brighter future, she rested her cheek against his back, feeling as if she might fall asleep.

His grip tightened on him a little. Hands holding onto the jacket he wore, both because there was still some lingering fear of falling off, and because she was trying to stay awake. Silver Fox didn't want to relax too much, to fall asleep and wake up only to realize that this was all a dream and he wasn't there.

To stay awake, she ended up shifting so that her chin was on his shoulder instead. The vibrations in that position made her teeth click from time to time, making it impossible to fall asleep— which was just what she needed.

"What made you come back here?" she asked, knowing she didn't need to raise her voice. He would hear her. He always did.

[rooolt]

the thing is I need to stop feeling like a trapped dog frantically pacing around my cage about the dndads finale before tonight because I feel in my heart the new fantasy high will make me equally as crazy

[lycanlovebites]

I’m having normal thoughts about boys right now ok (I have a deep visceral need to hunt someone through the forest, nothing but the sound of him gasping and breaking through the brush with his heartbeat thrumming like an animal of its own in his chest and in my ears, my paws beating against the earth as I race after him, teeth clicking and practically foaming at the mouth at his scent. Just him and me in the dead of night. And when I finally catch him I pin him to the ground and fuck his brains out under the full moon <3 )

I can be left alone with a pretty guy in the middle of the night under a full moon. Yeah just leave him by the forest :) no yeah don’t worry abt it haha yeah I’m just gonna go out for a run :) it will be good for me and also him. Enrichment :) being hunted by a big werewolf counts as a couples exercise right

[transhoverfish]

check out my new and incredibly cool subnautica challenge!! i call it: Go More Than Ten Meters In Your Seamoth Without Hitting 17 Entire Fucking Fish. so far proving to be impossible.

[quibbs126]

for the fankid requests,,, perhaps darkrasp?

Oh lord IT’S FINALLY DONE

I finished this like a month ago, still forgot to post him. I’ll try doing that now

“Within the gardens of Chateau Raspberry, one may find this black and white Cookie training vigorously to hone his skills. Born of chocolate, a generous amount of whipped cream, and raspberries in place of normal cherries, it isn’t uncommon for others to not recognize that he is part of the noble House Raspberry. Because of this, Black Forest Cookie has resolved to work twice as hard to improve his skills, to show that he is the embodiment of House Raspberry’s ardor and skill, and that he will carry on their legacy.”

“He wonders about his father’s past.”

Sorry this wasn’t a very good description. I just wasn’t sure how to word it and make it look good. I need to read more descriptions to get better at this (also writing this descriptions is kind of the reason I’ve been putting off posting these)

My ideas for him is that he’s a swordsman, wants to live up to House Raspberry and particularly his mother’s legacy, and while he gets along with his father, he knows very little about his past (since here Dark Choco doesn’t really talk about it much, he never went and worked things out with his dad). Also he’s a bit of an introvert and just wants to sword fight and read books, but I didn’t know how to work in that last bit without it sounding weird

Anyways, design notes time

So the name Black Forest comes from Black Forest cake, since that was the closest thing I could think of that combines chocolate and raspberries, even though black forest cake is made with cherries. For a time I was considering using Raspberry Jam instead, but then I went back to Black Forest

Black forest cake:

I admit, he looks like he’s from the 1700s or something. Granted, I don’t think that’s too out of place in the Hollyberry Kingdom

The hair I remember being something I struggled with for a while, until I kind of settled on this for his hair. I’ll be honest, the sketch I did up top really helped me get a good idea for his design and finally finish it (granted that was a couple months ago)

I had always wanted to give him a white outfit, since Dark Choco and Raspberry both have costumes in white, and I was able to do that here

I’m sorry, this is a bad post (I’m talking description wise, the art itself I don’t think is too bad). I designed him a long time ago, I’m not good at writing the character descriptions, and frankly I’m just writing this because I feel like I just have to get it out and actually post these requests. So I’m just gonna stop now, hopefully next one I post I’ll be able to write a better description, and I hope you like…whatever coherent stuff you can find here, and his design I guess

[icewindandboringhorror]

Lineup of all of the characters that appear long enough to need a visual representation of them in the game lol

[articskele]

IF I HAD A NICKEL EVERYTIME I WANTED TO BE FRIENDS WITH A DUO OF CHARACTERS FROM A HORROR GAME, ONE BEING HUMANOID AND THE OTHER BEING A MONSTER WITH SHARP TEETH-

[pyrriax]

i love writing terrible crossover fics that nobody asked for ever.

what normal person decides to cross lifesteal and outsiders smp just because. like it's not even the MAZE part of outsiders smp. it's the world outside of the maze. that we know very little about.

anyways i have like 500 words that'll never see the light of day unless i feel possessed by the need to share this dumb fic