#Sea Of Treachery | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novaursa · 2 months ago

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The Dragon's Right (12)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 700+

- Previous part: 11

- Next part: 13

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The skies over Dragonstone were overcast, a heavy blanket of gray clouds that seemed to press down on the ancient fortress. The sea winds swept through the courtyard, carrying the salty tang of the ocean as you stood, watching the crimson form of Caraxes descend from the heavens. The Blood Wyrm was unmistakable, his long, serpentine body slicing through the air with a grace that belied his fearsome reputation. As Caraxes landed with a thud that sent vibrations through the stone beneath your feet, you couldn’t help but feel a strange mixture of nostalgia and wariness.

It had been ten years since you’d left King’s Landing, ten years since you’d made your choice to live in exile with Rhaenyra, far from the politics and treachery of the court. Yet, even here, on the windswept isle of Dragonstone, the shadows of your past seemed ever-present. And now, with Daemon’s arrival, those shadows had come calling once more.

Daemon slid off Caraxes with a practiced ease, his movements as fluid and confident as ever. His silver hair, longer now, whipped around his face in the brisk wind. He wore a dark riding cloak that billowed behind him as he approached, his expression a curious blend of amusement and something else, something that made you tense.

“Nephew,” Daemon greeted, his lips curling into a wry smile as he stopped before you. “It’s been too long. I’d say Dragonstone suits you, though I must admit, the quiet life doesn’t seem quite your style.”

You clasped his arm in greeting, your grip firm as you met his gaze. “Daemon,” you replied, your tone cordial but guarded. “I’d say the same for you. But then, I don’t imagine you’ve come all this way just to admire the scenery.”

Daemon laughed, a low, almost conspiratorial sound. “No, no. Though I must say, the view from the skies is magnificent, as always.” His eyes gleamed with that familiar mischievous glint. “I couldn’t resist dropping in. I still remember the show we put on all those years ago—Lannister’s face was something to behold, wasn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Yes, you did enjoy yourself, didn’t you? Stirring up the hornet’s nest and then watching it burn.” There was a pause, then you added, more seriously, “But we’ve paid the price for it, haven’t we? Exiled from our father, from the crown. All for defying a marriage that should never have been considered.”

Daemon shrugged, as if such consequences were of little concern to him. “What’s life without a bit of rebellion, hmm? You and Rhaenyra made your choice, and I supported you then as I do now. Besides, it was amusing to see the Lannisters quiver for once. You took what was rightfully yours—no more, no less.”

You nodded, though the weight of the years spent in exile bore heavily on your shoulders. “But why are you here now, Uncle?” you asked, your voice turning serious. “You didn’t come all this way just to reminisce.”

Daemon’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a more contemplative look. He took a moment, glancing around the courtyard, his eyes lingering on the old walls and the distant sea beyond. “Viserys sent me,” he said finally, his voice quieter. “He wishes to see you both. He’s… missed you, despite everything. The years have not been kind to him without his children. And he wants to meet his grandchildren.”

The mention of your father’s name brought a mix of emotions surging to the surface. You’d tried to bury your anger, your resentment, but hearing that Viserys wanted to see you now, after so many years of estrangement, felt like reopening an old wound.

“He wants to meet my children now?” you said, your voice flat, betraying none of the turmoil inside. “I suppose it’s been difficult for him, hasn’t it? So difficult that he married Alicent Hightower after Otto couldn’t push her onto me as well.” Bitterness seeped into your words. “And then he tried to do the same with Rhaenyra.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching you closely. “I won’t deny that Otto Hightower’s machinations played a part in all this. And yes, Viserys made his choices. Poor ones, perhaps. But he’s still your father, and the weight of his crown has only grown heavier over the years.”

You turned away, looking out toward the horizon where the sky met the churning sea. The memories of those last days in King’s Landing, the betrayal, the forced choices—it all felt too close, too raw, even now. “He was willing to sacrifice both of us for the sake of alliances, for the sake of his damned peace.”

“And now he’s paying the price for it,” Daemon said softly, his voice lacking its usual bite. “You and Rhaenyra—your absence has left a wound in him. He’s not the man you remember, nephew. The years, the burdens of the crown… they’ve taken their toll. He’s not well.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the storm of emotions inside you. Part of you wanted to scoff, to dismiss the idea that Viserys could feel regret, that he could truly want to reconcile. But another part of you, the part that remembered your father not as a king but as the man who had once held you and Rhaenyra close, who had smiled and laughed and told stories of old Valyria—that part of you ached to believe it.

“And what of Rhaenyra?” you asked, turning back to Daemon. “He’s banished her in all but name. What does he want from her now?”

Daemon sighed, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “He wants his daughter back. He wants his son back. He wants to meet the children he’s only heard about in letters. Whatever anger or pride kept him away before, it’s fading. He’s sick, Y/N. And he’s afraid.”

You clenched your jaw, the conflicting emotions tearing at you. This was the last thing you had expected—a summons, an invitation to return after all these years. And yet, the thought of facing your father, of returning to that world of intrigue and betrayal, made your blood boil.

“It’s not that simple,” you said quietly. “We’ve built a life here. Our family is here. And after everything that’s happened…”

“No,” Daemon agreed. “It’s never simple. But he’s reaching out, in his own way. He’s trying to mend what’s broken. If you’re willing to listen.”

You looked down at the stones beneath your feet, the wind carrying the distant cries of the dragons above. This was a decision that couldn’t be made lightly. Too much was at stake—your family, your children, and Rhaenyra’s heart, which had been battered by years of rejection and exile.

“And if we say no?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Daemon shrugged, though there was a seriousness in his eyes that belied his casual posture. “Then you stay here, and the world keeps turning. But know this: Viserys is dying. If you don’t see him now, you may never have the chance to see him again.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating. You turned away, your heart pounding as you tried to process what Daemon had said. It felt like a trap, like the last desperate plea of a man who had already lost too much. But there was also truth in it, a truth that made your chest ache.

“I’ll speak to Rhaenyra,” you said finally, your voice strained. “But I make no promises.”

Daemon nodded, his gaze understanding. “That’s all I ask, nephew.”

He turned then, walking back toward Caraxes, who waited patiently in the courtyard. As Daemon climbed back into the saddle, he looked back at you one last time, his expression solemn. “Take your time, Y/N. But don’t take too long.”

With a final nod, he urged Caraxes into the air, the great dragon’s wings beating powerfully as they lifted off the ground, the sound echoing across Dragonstone.

You watched as they disappeared into the sky, the wind whipping around you, carrying with it the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future. The decision lay heavy on your shoulders, a choice that could change everything once again.

The horns of the city rang out twice, their deep, resonant call echoing across the Red Keep and through the streets of King’s Landing. The sound brought King Viserys back from his restless thoughts, his frail form stiffening as he looked out the open window. His children had returned, just as Daemon had promised. The realization brought a mix of relief and trepidation to his heart.

Viserys turned to Ser Harrold Westerling, who stood dutifully at his side. The years had not been kind to the king; his skin was pallid, his frame thin and weakened, and his once proud stance was hunched, as if the weight of his crown had finally crushed him. His breathing was labored, each intake a struggle, but his eyes, though dimmed, were still sharp with anticipation.

“Ser Harrold,” Viserys said, his voice strained but determined. “Prepare an escort. The Prince and Princess are to be brought from the Dragonpit to the Red Keep with all the honor they are due. Ensure their children are treated with the respect of their station.”

Ser Harrold bowed, his face a mask of concern. “As you command, Your Grace.” He hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on the king’s weary form. “Shall I summon the Maester? You seem... unwell.”

Viserys waved him off, his hand trembling. “I’ll see my children first. There will be time for rest later.”

With a nod, Ser Harrold left to make the arrangements, leaving Viserys alone in the chamber. The king took a deep, shuddering breath, leaning heavily on his cane as he made his way toward the door. Each step was a struggle, but the thought of seeing you and Rhaenyra again after so many years gave him strength he had thought long gone.

The courtyard of the Red Keep was filled with anticipation as the welcoming party assembled. Lords and ladies, retainers and servants all gathered, whispering among themselves as they awaited the arrival of the Prince and Princess. Viserys stood at the head of the party, flanked by his Kingsguard and councilors. His gaze was fixed on the grand entrance, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

And then, you rode in, leading the procession on horseback, Rhaenyra at your side. The sight of you both, after so long, took his breath away. You had changed in the ten years you’d been away—no longer the young man who had left King’s Landing in a storm of rebellion and defiance. Your hair, still the pale blond of your Targaryen lineage, was longer now, pulled back into a neat braid. Your features were more defined, a hardness in your jaw and eyes that spoke of battles fought and won. You wore dark armor, polished but unadorned, the emblem of House Targaryen etched into the breastplate. There was an air of command about you, a strength and resolve that had grown in your years of exile. But there was also something colder, a guardedness in your expression that made Viserys’s heart ache.

Rhaenyra rode beside you, her presence as commanding as ever. Her silver hair, loose and windswept, framed her face, and her violet eyes were fixed ahead, the only hint of her anxiety the slight tension in her jaw. Behind you both, riding on smaller horses, were your children—Jacerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. They sat tall in their saddles, their expressions a mixture of awe and trepidation as they took in the grandeur of the Red Keep.

You dismounted first, your movements fluid and controlled, as you stepped forward to greet your father. Rhaenyra followed suit, helping the children down from their mounts. Viserys felt a lump in his throat as he watched, his eyes lingering on his grandchildren, whom he was seeing for the first time in the flesh.

“Father,” you greeted, your voice formal and cold. The title was spoken without warmth, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of disappointment and disdain. “It’s been a long time.”

Viserys’s heart clenched at the harshness in your tone, the bitterness that lay just beneath the surface. He took a faltering step forward, leaning heavily on his cane. “Y/N...” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “You’ve... you’ve grown into a fine man. I—”

“Save the pleasantries, Father,” you interrupted, your voice low but cutting. “We both know why we’re here. You sent Daemon to bring us back after ten years of silence. What is it you truly want?”

The courtyard seemed to still at your words, the gathered nobles exchanging uneasy glances. Rhaenyra stood slightly behind you, her face unreadable as she placed a reassuring hand on Jacerys’s shoulder. The boy looked up at his mother, his eyes wide with uncertainty, but he remained silent.

Viserys swallowed, the pain in his chest worsening. “I wanted... I needed to see you,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ve missed you both, more than I can say. And I... I want to meet my grandchildren.” His eyes moved to the three boys, his gaze softening. “They... they’re beautiful, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head, her expression guarded. “They are my pride, Father.” Her tone was polite but distant, and Viserys felt the chasm between them, one that had only widened with time.

You turned to Alicent then, who stood beside Otto, her face pale and tense. “Alicent,” you greeted, your tone almost polite but edged with disdain. “Or should I say, Your Grace?” You gave her a curt nod. “I must confess, I’m unsure of how to address you now.”

Alicent flinched at the coldness in your voice, her eyes lowering for a moment as she struggled to maintain her composure. “Prince Y/N,” she began, her voice strained but steady. “It is... good to see you after so long. The king has been unwell, and it is a comfort to him to have his family near once more.”

“Family,” you echoed, the word heavy with irony. “Yes, I suppose that’s what we are. Though I doubt Rhaenyra and I were much of a comfort to him when he chose to marry you.”

Alicent’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she forced herself to meet your gaze. “I never wished to cause you or Rhaenyra pain,” she said quietly, her voice sincere despite the tension between you. “I—”

“Stop,” you said, your tone softening just slightly. You could see the pain in her eyes, and though part of you wanted to lash out, you restrained yourself. “This isn’t about you, Alicent.”

Before the silence could stretch any further, Maester Mellos stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Prince Y/N, Princess Rhaenyra,” he greeted, his tone deferential. “Welcome back to King’s Landing. We have much to discuss, but for now, let us focus on your safe return.”

You nodded curtly, though your gaze remained on your father. “Yes, there is much to discuss.”

The tension in the courtyard was palpable as you turned to Tyland Lannister, who had remained silent through the exchange. His face was a mask of civility, though there was a tightness around his eyes as he forced a smile.

“Prince Y/N,” Tyland greeted, his voice strained. “It’s good to see you again. The realm has missed your presence. We hope you’ll find King’s Landing... accommodating.”

You studied him for a moment, your expression unreadable. “Lord Tyland,” you said finally. “I hope your brother has recovered from the shock of our departure all those years ago.”

Tyland’s smile faltered, but he kept his composure. “Lord Jason has moved on, as have we all,” he replied, his voice tight.

Before the exchange could escalate further, Otto Hightower stepped forward, his voice smooth and diplomatic. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation inside, Your Grace, Your Highness. We’ve had food and wine prepared, and there is much to discuss.”

Viserys nodded, though his gaze remained on you and Rhaenyra, his eyes lingering on the boys beside her. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, let us go inside.”

You exchanged a glance with Rhaenyra, who gave a small nod. The five of you—husband, wife, and children—followed the king into the Keep, the tension hanging over the family like a storm waiting to break.

The grand hall of the Red Keep was filled with the soft clinking of silverware and the murmur of conversation as the family gathered for the first meal they had shared in over a decade. The long table was set with an abundance of food and drink, from roasted game and fresh fruits to flagons of fine Dornish wine. Yet, despite the luxurious spread, the atmosphere was strained, the tension palpable in every glance, every word exchanged.

Viserys sat at the head of the table, his frail frame dwarfed by the opulent chair. He watched his family with a mixture of relief and trepidation, his gaze flickering between you, Rhaenyra, and your children, and then to Alicent, who sat to his right, her expression carefully composed. On the other side of Alicent were her children—Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena—all of whom sat quietly, their eyes darting curiously to you and Rhaenyra.

You and Rhaenyra were seated directly across from Alicent, your children beside you. Jacerys and Lucerys were trying to appear composed and dignified, their youthful faces betraying their unease in such an imposing setting. Joffrey, the youngest, shifted restlessly in his seat, glancing up at the grand, unfamiliar surroundings. You reached out and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, a small smile on your lips.

Viserys cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. “It is... heartening to have my family together once more,” he began, his voice weak but sincere. “We have much to discuss, but let us first enjoy this meal.”

The conversation started tentatively, with polite inquiries about the children and your life on Dragonstone. But as the meal progressed, Viserys turned the topic to the elephant in the room, his eyes resting on you and Rhaenyra.

“I understand,” Viserys said slowly, his gaze shifting from you to Rhaenyra, “that you were married in the old Valyrian chapel on Dragonstone. An ancient and sacred place.”

You inclined your head slightly, your expression neutral. “Yes, Father. Rhaenyra and I were wed there, according to the customs of our ancestors.” Your tone was measured, but there was a subtle edge to it. “It is as valid a marriage as any other in the eyes of our house and tradition.”

Tyland Lannister, seated a few places down, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His lips pressed into a thin line as he recalled the enormous sum House Lannister had spent on the grand wedding that never took place, not to mention the damage to the Sept near Casterly Rock. “Of course, Prince Y/N,” he said, his voice strained. “One can hardly dispute the... sanctity of such a union. Though the Sept where... your departure occurred still bears the scars of that day.” He forced a polite smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

You gave him a cool look, your expression unyielding. “I’m sure House Lannister can afford a few repairs, Lord Tyland.”

Tyland’s jaw tightened, but he did not press the matter further, his hand clenching around his goblet.

Alicent, who had been observing the exchange quietly, set down her knife and fork, her eyes lingering on you and Rhaenyra, then shifting to the children seated beside you. There was an underlying tension in her gaze, a restrained irritation that simmered beneath her polite facade. It was a feeling she had harbored for years, one that had only grown as she watched you and Rhaenyra defy everything the realm expected of you.

She couldn’t help but wonder, as she often had, if Rhaenyra had deliberately lured you into her bed before you left for the Dornish border. Had she seduced you, entangled you in her web to secure your loyalty and affection so completely that you would defy the king and steal her away from her own wedding? The thought gnawed at her, though she pushed it down, focusing instead on the repulsion she felt at your union. To her, who had been raised in the Faith of the Seven, your marriage was an affront, a sinful act of selfishness that mocked the very traditions she held dear.

As Alicent’s gaze lingered on your children—on Jacerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—Rhaenyra felt the weight of her scrutiny. She looked up sharply, her eyes locking with Alicent’s. There was no warmth in Rhaenyra’s gaze, only a cold, defiant challenge. For a moment, the two women stared at each other, the years of bitterness and betrayal hanging between them like a shadow.

“Rhaenyra,” Viserys said suddenly, breaking the tension, his tone filled with a forced cheerfulness. “I must say, the boys have grown strong and handsome. I would very much like to get to know my grandsons better.”

Rhaenyra tore her gaze away from Alicent, her expression softening as she looked at her father. “They are as spirited as their namesakes,” she replied, her voice steady. “Jacerys and Lucerys have been practicing their swordplay, and Joffrey, well... he is still finding his way, but he has the heart of a dragon.”

Viserys smiled, though the effort seemed to cost him. “I look forward to seeing them in the training yard. Perhaps they could even teach their uncles a thing or two.” He gestured toward Alicent’s children, who had been watching the exchange in silence.

Aegon, now a young man, glanced at you and Rhaenyra with a mixture of curiosity and something else, something darker that he hid behind a lazy smirk. Aemond, his face serious, studied you with the intensity of someone trying to understand an enemy. Helaena, on the other hand, seemed lost in her own world, her fingers tracing patterns on the tablecloth as she muttered softly to herself.

You looked at your half-siblings, your expression unreadable. “We will see, Father,” you said evenly. “It’s been a long time since we’ve shared such... family activities.”

Alicent’s eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, she almost spoke, her lips parting as if to say something, but then she stopped, her fingers tightening around the stem of her goblet. She looked at Viserys instead, forcing a smile. “The children have missed having their father present. I’m sure it would do them good to spend time with their family,” she said, though her words felt hollow.

Viserys nodded, his eyes distant. “Yes, yes... family. It is what binds us, even when we are apart.” He looked at you then, his gaze lingering on the hardness in your eyes, the guarded expression on your face. “Y/N, Rhaenyra... these years have been difficult for us all. But now that you are here, perhaps we can begin to heal these wounds.”

“We’ll see,” you said quietly, your tone flat. “It’s not so easily done, Father.”

The conversation drifted on, the tension ebbing and flowing with each exchange. The food was eaten, though few seemed to have much appetite. The wine was poured, though most drank sparingly. The atmosphere remained strained, the past casting long shadows over the present.

Aegon, his gaze flicking between you and Rhaenyra, leaned back in his chair, his smirk returning. “So, what’s life like on Dragonstone, brother? It must be... exciting, living among the dragons and the ghosts.”

You looked at him, your expression cool. “It has its challenges,” you replied, your voice calm. “But it’s home.”

“And the people there?” Aemond asked, his tone more direct. “Do they welcome you as their Prince, or do they fear the dragon that stole the princess away?”

There was a sharp intake of breath around the table, but you merely raised an eyebrow. “The people of Dragonstone know where their loyalties lie,” you said smoothly. “And they respect those who defend them, not those who sit idle in luxury.”

The barb hit its mark, and Aemond’s eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Alicent spoke up, her voice strained but firm. “That’s enough, Aemond.” She turned to you, her gaze steady. “Y/N, Rhaenyra... despite everything, I am glad you are here. For the king’s sake, if nothing else.”

Rhaenyra’s lips tightened, but she inclined her head slightly. “For the king’s sake,” she echoed, her voice tinged with bitterness.

The uneasy quiet was punctuated by the occasional clink of cutlery against porcelain, the scrape of a chair, or the hushed murmur of a courtier whispering nervously. Though there were many gathered at the table, it felt as if there were only two camps—those who stood with you and Rhaenyra, and those who supported Alicent and her children. And, of course, King Viserys, caught between them all, like a man trying to hold back a tide with his bare hands.

Alicent set down her goblet, her fingers lingering around the base, and cleared her throat, drawing the attention of the table. Her eyes moved from Rhaenyra to you, then back to Rhaenyra, a calculated look in them. “Rhaenyra,” she began, her voice polite but edged with something sharper. “It’s been so many years since you left. We all... wondered what compelled you to take such drastic actions.” She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I suppose, after everything, you must have had your reasons for eloping and leaving your family behind.”

Rhaenyra stiffened, her fingers curling around the stem of her goblet. “My reasons, as you put it, were very clear, Alicent.” Her tone was steady, but you could hear the barely restrained anger beneath the surface. “I chose to marry the man I love, the man I wanted to spend my life with. That is a choice that, as I recall, was not available to you.”

A sharp intake of breath rippled around the table, courtiers exchanging glances. Alicent’s smile faltered, but she recovered quickly, her eyes flashing with something dark. “You’re right, of course. Duty has often dictated my choices. But not everyone has the luxury to simply follow their heart, especially when the stability of the realm is at stake.” Her voice was soft, but there was steel in it.

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. “The stability of the realm? Is that what you call forcing me into a marriage with Jason Lannister? All for some political gain?” She leaned forward, her voice rising slightly. “You speak of duty, Alicent, but don’t pretend for a moment that you or your father haven’t benefited greatly from those same decisions.”

Alicent’s face flushed, but she kept her composure. “We all have a role to play, Rhaenyra. You were supposed to be the princess, to stand by your father’s side, not flee to Dragonstone with your brother and leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces.”

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to retort, but you reached out, placing a hand on her arm, your touch gentle but firm. “Enough,” you said quietly, though your voice carried authority. You turned to Alicent, your gaze steady and unreadable. “We did what we felt was right, given the circumstances. And it’s clear those decisions were not made lightly.”

Alicent met your gaze, her eyes searching, as if trying to understand you, trying to find the man she remembered. “And what circumstances were those, Y/N?” she asked, her voice softer now. “What was so dire that it justified breaking your father’s heart and turning your back on the realm?”

You exhaled slowly, your eyes flicking to Viserys, who watched the exchange with a pained expression. “Our father was forcing Rhaenyra into a marriage she did not want, to a man she did not love. And he was willing to do the same to me.” Your voice was calm but firm. “I made a promise to protect my sister, and I will not apologize for keeping that promise.”

The hall was silent, every eye on you and Alicent. You could see the hurt in her eyes, the resentment she tried to hide behind her composed mask. You turned away from her then, focusing on Otto Hightower, who had been watching the exchange with a calculating expression.

“Lord Hightower,” you said, your voice carrying the weight of your title. “Perhaps you could enlighten us on the current state of the realm. I would hope that as heir to the throne, I would be made aware of any... pressing matters.”

Otto leaned forward slightly, a faint smile on his lips as he addressed you. “Of course, Prince Y/N. The realm is... stable, for the most part. The Stepstones remain a volatile area, despite Prince Daemon’s recent efforts. There are still struggles with Dorne, though nothing that threatens immediate conflict.” He paused, his gaze shrewd. “There have been whispers of unrest in the Riverlands, but they have been managed thus far.”

You nodded, though your expression remained serious. “And what of the alliances formed in my absence? Surely, there have been changes in the political landscape.”

Otto’s smile widened, though it did not reach his eyes. “Indeed. Since your departure, several key marriages have strengthened ties with the Reach and the Stormlands. The marriage of your sister, Princess Helaena, to Prince Aegon has also ensured a more unified front within House Targaryen.”

You glanced at Aegon, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked at you with a mix of curiosity and disdain, his mouth twisted into a faint smirk. “And what of your marriage, Y/N?” Aegon drawled, his voice carrying across the table. “I’ve heard many tales of the... unique customs on Dragonstone.”

You shot him a cold look, your patience wearing thin. “My marriage is as strong as any in this room,” you said sharply. “And it is recognized by those who matter.”

Before Aegon could respond, Viserys raised a hand, his voice trembling but determined. “Enough of this bickering. We are here as a family, not as political adversaries.” He looked at you and Rhaenyra, his eyes pleading. “I have missed you both terribly. And I wish to see my grandchildren grow up knowing their family. Whatever has happened, we must find a way to move forward. Together.”

There was a moment of silence, the king’s words hanging heavy in the air. You glanced at Rhaenyra, whose face softened slightly, her anger ebbing away in the face of her father’s frailty.

But Alicent wasn’t done. She turned back to Rhaenyra, her eyes hardening. “And what of your sons, Rhaenyra?” she asked, her voice deceptively light. “You’ve been away so long. Do you ever wonder what kind of life they could have had here, at court? Among their family?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze snapped to Alicent, her eyes narrowing. “My sons are dragons, Alicent. They belong on Dragonstone, among their people, not in this nest of vipers.” Her voice was cold, each word a dagger.

A murmur rippled through the courtiers, tension rising. You could see Otto’s calculating gaze flick between you and Rhaenyra, as if weighing the implications of every word spoken.

Alicent’s face tightened, but she didn’t back down. “I suppose that’s one way to see it,” she said quietly. “But a child should know their family. Even if that family isn’t perfect.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward, her voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you dare presume to lecture me on family, Alicent. You, who wormed your way into my father’s bed, who bore children of your own while trying to strip me of everything that was mine.”

The tension at the table was suffocating now, every courtier’s gaze fixed on the two women, their faces pale with the anticipation of what might come next.

Before the situation could escalate further, you interjected, your voice calm but firm. “We will discuss this another day,” you said, your eyes moving between Alicent and Rhaenyra. “This is not the time or place for such discussions.”

Alicent’s gaze flicked to you, her eyes filled with a mixture of resentment and sadness. “You’ve changed, Y/N,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. “You used to care more about... so many things.”

You felt a pang in your chest, but you forced it down, your expression unyielding. “I still care, Alicent. But my priorities have changed.” You glanced at your children, who were watching the exchange with wide eyes, their confusion and fear evident. “My family is what matters now. And I will protect them, no matter the cost.”

A silence fell over the table, the weight of your words settling like a stone. Viserys looked between you and Alicent, his eyes filled with a deep sorrow, as if he were watching his family splinter before his eyes.

Otto, ever the diplomat, leaned forward slightly, his tone soothing. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation another time. For now, let us focus on what unites us, rather than what divides us.”

Viserys nodded slowly, though his gaze remained troubled. “Yes,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes, let us try to be... a family again.”

The meal continued in strained silence.

The bedchamber in the Red Keep felt both familiar and foreign after so many years. The room was adorned with rich tapestries depicting dragons in flight and the Targaryen sigil emblazoned proudly on the walls, a constant reminder of your heritage and the legacy you bore. The soft flicker of candles illuminated the space, casting a warm glow over the plush rugs and the intricately carved bed that dominated the center of the room.

You stood near the window, gazing out over the sprawling city of King’s Landing, the lights of the city twinkling like distant stars in the darkened sky. The sounds of the bustling capital, though muffled, reached your ears—the hum of voices, the distant clatter of hooves against cobblestone, the occasional call of a merchant trying to sell his wares even at this late hour. It was a strong contrast to the quiet, windswept solitude of Dragonstone.

Rhaenyra was across the room, slipping out of her gown and into a simpler, more comfortable robe. Her silver hair, loose now, cascaded down her back in waves. She watched you from the corner of her eye, sensing the tension in your posture, the heaviness in your shoulders.

“Y/N,” she said softly, her voice breaking the silence that had settled between you. “Are you all right?”

You sighed deeply, turning away from the window to look at her. “I’m not sure how to answer that,” you replied, your voice tinged with frustration and sorrow. “Seeing him today... I barely recognized the man who was once our father. He’s a shadow of what he used to be.”

Rhaenyra moved closer, her bare feet silent on the thick rug. She reached out, placing a hand gently on your arm. “He’s aged more than the years should allow,” she agreed, her tone laced with sadness. “But it’s not just time, is it?”

You shook your head, your jaw clenched. “No, it’s not.” You turned back to the window, the city sprawling out beneath you, feeling impossibly far away. “It’s them. The Hightowers. Otto, Alicent... they’ve twisted him, manipulated him. I remember a time when he was strong, decisive. Now he seems... broken, as if they’ve drained the life out of him.”

Rhaenyra’s hand tightened on your arm, a gesture of solidarity. “They’ve poisoned his mind with their ambitions. Alicent has always been her father’s pawn, and Otto... he’s wanted to control the throne for as long as I can remember.”

You nodded, your eyes narrowing as you thought back to the day’s events, the way Otto’s gaze seemed to assess every word, every action, always calculating, always scheming. “I saw the way he looked at us today, weighing the situation, trying to find a way to turn it to his advantage. And Alicent...” You trailed off, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “She’s no different. They want to use Father as a puppet, to control the realm through him.”

Rhaenyra sighed, her gaze dropping to the floor. “And he lets them. He let them slither their way into every corner of his life, every decision. He’s not the father who once stood before the council and proclaimed us his heirs, who would have fought for what was right, no matter the cost.”

You turned back to her, your eyes softening as you reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face. “I know, Rhaenyra. I know. But what can we do? If we push too hard, if we try to wrest control from them, it could tear the realm apart.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed with defiance. “Then let it tear. We have dragons, Y/N. We have strength they can only dream of. We can remind them what true power looks like.”

You shook your head, your expression pained. “I don’t want to fight them, Rhaenyra. I don’t want to start a war. But I won’t let them continue to destroy what little remains of the father we once knew.”

She looked at you, her gaze intense, searching your face for answers, for a way forward. “Then what do we do?” she asked quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

You took a deep breath, your hand still lingering on her cheek. “We play their game, for now. We show them we’re not weak, but we don’t strike unless we have to. Father needs to see that we’re here, that we’re not abandoning him to their schemes. Maybe... maybe we can remind him of who he used to be.”

Rhaenyra leaned into your touch, her eyes closing briefly as she took comfort in your presence. “I want to believe that’s possible,” she murmured. “But I fear he’s too far gone. Every time I look at him, I see the pain in his eyes, the weight of all these years of being pulled in different directions. I see...” Her voice caught, and she paused, taking a shaky breath. “I see how they’ve taken him from us.”

You pulled her closer, wrapping your arms around her, holding her tightly as if you could shield her from the world, from the pain that seemed to seep into every corner of your lives. “We’ll find a way, Rhaenyra. We have to.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there in the low lit chamber, the world outside forgotten as you held each other, drawing strength from the connection that had carried you through so much. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, and the distant sounds of the Red Keep—the footsteps of guards, the murmur of servants—faded into the background.

“Do you think he’ll see it?” Rhaenyra asked softly, her head resting against your chest. “Will he see that they’ve twisted everything, that they’ve made him into a tool for their own gain?”

You sighed, your fingers gently tracing circles on her back. “I don’t know. I hope so. But even if he does, I’m not sure he has the strength left to fight them.”

Rhaenyra pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting yours, fierce and determined. “Then we’ll be his strength. We’ll remind him that he’s not alone, that he still has us.”

You nodded, your gaze steady as you looked down at her. “We’ll fight for him, for the father we remember, for the man who once fought for us. But we have to be careful. We can’t let Otto and Alicent see us as a threat, not yet.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. “For now, we’ll play the dutiful children. But if they push us too far...” Her voice trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging in the air.

You leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “If they push us too far, we’ll remind them what it means to cross House Targaryen.”

A faint smile curved her lips, and she reached up to cup your face, her thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “I’m glad I have you by my side,” she whispered, her voice filled with emotion.

“Always,” you murmured, your voice firm. “Now and forever.”

The two of you stood there for a long moment, the weight of your responsibilities, your fears, and your love all intertwined in the quiet darkness of the chamber.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #rhaenyra x y/n #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra x you #rhaenyra x male reader #rhaenyra targaryen

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mutantleaguerecords · 6 months ago

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#mutant league records #spotify #sea of treachery #metal #metalcore #Spotify

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mingi-s-dimples · 2 months ago

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Vampire's Den

KINKTOBER DAY 1 - REQ. BY @mingleshine:

~ "vampire mingi x siren fem reader, enemies to lovers type shi. vampires and sirens hating each other’s species, etc etc, whatever you want 😭😭 also maybe some praising, degradation kinks?"

pairing: vampire!mingi x siren!fem reader

genre: 18+, filth (ish), enemies to lovers

summary: Meeting one of the vampires that once saved you at the bar you often frequent... ends up being one of the spiciest nights you've ever had with someone and.. with your mortal enemy.

wc: 3.2k

warnings: vampire x siren, enemies to lovers, reader is bratty & cockt af, Mingi is really strict, threats & death threats, mentions of death/murders but not happening in the present, only in the past, knife play, bickering, size kink, big dick!mingi (obvi), choking, degradation (slut), movement restriction (cuffs), face fucking, deepthroating, gagging, throat bulge (yes from Mingi's dick), some praising (good girl), creampie, anal, lots lots of cum, 2 rounds implied 3rd round, manhandling, completely consensual, unprotected (wrap up irl!), unedited, for sure forgot sth.

Author's Note: Enioy, my love. I hope it's up to your expectations 😋. I enjoyed writing it so much! I'm so sorry I am so so behind with some of the other fics 😭 I'll finish them on time I promise 🫣. ENJOY MY LOVES !

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction & does not represent in any way the reality of the member.

In the world of the immortal, where darkness and the supernatural intertwine with the shadows of the mundane, two ancient species have long harbored a deep-seated animosity toward one another. Vampires, with their predatory grace, and Sirens, ethereal creatures of the sea with voices that could enchant and destroy, were bound by a history stained with blood and treachery. Their animosity was woven into the very fabric of their beings, a loathing that stretched back to the time when the world was young, when both species ruled their respective domains with an iron fist. Yet, in this tale of enmity, there lies the seed of an unexpected bond, a story of two souls who defied the boundaries set by their kind.

The hatred between vampires and sirens was born in the primordial past, a time when their realms occasionally overlapped. Vampires, with their insatiable thirst for blood, often found themselves drawn to the shores, where the songs of the Sirens would lure them. But the Sirens, masters of deception, used their melodies not to enthrall but to lead the vampires to their doom. Many a vampire met their end, lured by the promise of sweet blood, only to be dashed upon the rocks or drowned in the treacherous waters. In retaliation, the vampires waged a silent war, hunting Sirens who dared venture too close to land, their fangs seeking to pierce the throats that sang such deadly songs. Over centuries, this cycle of violence and revenge became a grim tradition, each species teaching the next generation to despise the other with an intensity that only the immortal could sustain.

For vampires, Sirens were creatures of deceit, their beauty masking the malice in their hearts. To them, Sirens were nothing more than wicked seductresses, whose only joy lay in the suffering of others. Conversely, Sirens viewed vampires as predators devoid of honor, bloodthirsty beasts who knew only hunger and destruction. The disdain was mutual, and it ran deep, as both vampires and Sirens prided themselves on their power and immortality. Neither could bear the thought of being outwitted or bested by the other, and so the feud persisted, a war of attrition waged in the shadows and in the depths of the oceans.

Amidst this bitter rivalry, the mortal world continued to spin, blissfully unaware of the ancient conflict that simmered beneath the surface. Cities grew, technology advanced, and the supernatural beings who once ruled the night began to adapt to the new world, hiding their true nature behind human facades. Vampires, with their ability to blend into human society, thrived in the bustling metropolises, while Sirens, whose powers were tied to the sea, became more reclusive, retreating to the depths of the oceans where they could sing their songs undisturbed. Yet, even as the world changed around them, the hatred between the two species remained unyielding, a constant in an ever-shifting reality.

But as with all things, the tides of fate are ever-changing, and it was in this time of uneasy equilibrium that you, a Siren of exceptional beauty and power, found yourself unexpectedly drawn into the orbit of a vampire named Mingi. The circumstances of your first encounter were anything but ordinary, marked by suspicion and hostility, as was expected between your kinds. You were young by the standards of your people, but you had already earned a reputation for your deadly voice and your ability to lure even the most cautious of sailors to their watery graves. Mingi, on the other hand, was an ancient vampire, one who had walked the earth for centuries, his power and influence making him a figure of fear and respect among his kind.

Your paths crossed on a moonlit night, in a city by the sea where the line between the mortal and immortal was blurred by the neon lights and the pulse of music. The city, with its sprawling docks and crowded nightclubs, was a place where humans indulged in their vices, unaware that creatures of myth and legend walked among them. It was here that you had come to escape the suffocating silence of the deep, to taste the chaos of the human world, if only for a night. But even as you reveled in the music and the laughter, you felt the presence of another predator in your midst, a dark shadow that moved with the grace of a panther.

Mingi had been watching you from the moment you stepped into the club, his keen senses alerting him to the fact that you were no ordinary human. He recognized the aura of power that clung to you, the subtle grace with which you moved, and the way your eyes seemed to glow with an otherworldly light. To him, you were a curiosity, a puzzle to be solved, and yet, beneath his curiosity lay the age-old enmity that had been drilled into him from the moment he had been turned. Sirens were not to be trusted, and you, with your beauty and your voice, were a danger that needed to be eliminated.

The tension between you was palpable from the moment your eyes met across the crowded room. There was no need for words; the enmity between your species spoke for itself. You knew what he was, just as he knew what you were, and in that moment, a silent challenge was issued. The air crackled with anticipation as you circled each other, like predators vying for dominance. But this was not the open sea, where your voice could carry him to his doom, nor was it the shadowed alleys where he could strike unseen. This was neutral ground, a place where neither of you held the advantage, and so you were forced into an uneasy truce, if only for the duration of the night.

It was a strange dance, the two of you weaving in and out of the crowd, each keeping the other in sight, yet never getting too close. You could sense the power that radiated from him, the strength that came from centuries of existence, and yet, there was something else, something that piqued your interest despite yourself. He was different from the other vampires you had encountered, those mindless beasts who thought of nothing but their next meal. There was a sharp intelligence in his eyes, a cunning that matched your own, and it was this that made you pause, that made you wonder if there was more to this ancient rivalry than you had been taught.

For his part, Mingi found himself equally intrigued by you. He had seen many Sirens in his long life, had heard their songs and watched as they lured men to their deaths, but you were different. There was a fierceness in you, a fire that burned just beneath the surface, and it drew him in despite the warnings that echoed in his mind. You were a challenge, a mystery wrapped in danger, and he had always been drawn to the thrill of the unknown. And so, instead of making his move, instead of ending the threat you posed, he found himself engaging in this strange game, this dance of predator and prey where neither was quite sure who held the upper hand.

"We meet once again, y/n." Mingi whispered, slowly approaching you.

"Hello, Mingi. Haven't seen you in a while" you said, with anticipation.

Truth is, there was a single moment were the two of you met in the past. It was when one of your siren friends was being chased down by some vampires, and Mingi stepped in to stop them. Why? It's been dozens of years and you still don't know the answer.

"How have you been... in the past few..50 years?" the vampire said.

"It doesn't concern you, sweetie. What are you doing here?" you said, confidently.

"Ah, I understand. Still feisty, huh? Well, I was just.. out, for a drink, nothing much."

He continues,"Y/n,I'll keep it short. This is basically my club. I've been coming here for the past 500 something years. If you come back here unnannounced, I'll kill you"

"I don't mind, Mingi. Try all you want. You better do it soon cause that's the only way you'll make me stop coming here." you said, smirking.

"Is that right? What if I kill you right now, hm?"

"You won't. You didn't back then, so what will make your words believable?" you scoffed.

"We'll see, sweetheart." Mingi said and pushed you to the wall, hands over your head, a knife to your throat.

"Now... what should I do with you? You've got quite a mouth, you're basically begging me to put you in your place."

"You fantasise about that image a lot? You seem quite...excited about it." you said looking down to your feet, something catching your sight. A slight bulge could be seen from his thight leather pants.

"Wha- god no, don't flatter yourself. Stop glaring." he said, a bit of harshness in his voice.

"Then what does this mean?" you said and moved your knee up to his crotch, getting a low grunt out of his chest.

"You know what..." he said and closed the distance between the two of you. "Kiss me."

"You have a fucking dagger to my throat, Mingi."

"So? You look angry. How about... you take all of that energy and put it to some good use? Like.. getting on your knees for me right in this instant?" the vampire said, smirking. His dagger still at your throat, but he soon retracted it for a moment.

You continued, smiling sheepishly, "And what's in it for me?"

"Awh, don't look at me like that, sweetheart. You're lucky you're hot, otherwise you'd be 6ft underground right now. After all, you're a siren."

"You think I'm hot?" you smirked, teasingly.

"No, that's not what I-"

You interrupted him, "Your cock says otherwise." and indeed, his cock was already straining against the thight fabric, screaming to be let out. He was big as fuck, too.

"Oh? You think you're hot stuff, huh?" he said as one of his hands went right for your throat. "I want to wrap both of my hands around your throat, and choke you until the life in your eyes dies down."

A smirk curled on your lips despite the pressure of his hand on your throat. Your voice came out in a husky whisper, laced with defiance and heat. "You think you're the first one to try and break me?" Your eyes locked with his, a challenge sparking in the depths. "Go ahead, Mingi. Try. But you'd better be ready to commit, because I don’t plan on going down easy."

You leaned into his touch, the tension thickening between you like a coiled spring about to snap, daring him, teasing him with a sharp, dark grin. "And don't forget," you added, your voice low, laced with seduction and venom, "I bite back."

"I bet" Mingi said and leaned in for a kiss, his tongue interlocking with yours. His hands were roaming freely on your body, from your back to your waist and to your ass, slightly squeezing it.

"You know.. I hate you so, so much, y/n" he whispered, breaking the kiss for a moment.

"And why is that?"

"Back then when I didn't kill you and your little friend, I was so mesmerised by your beauty. I thought you'd be a good round, maybe more.." he giggled. "And I hate it so much... how good you taste" his hand went to the back of your neck.

He continued, "Look at me."

"No."

"Look. at. me"

"Why?"

"Do as I say"

"And why should I?" you said, smiling sheepishly at him, with an almost innocent look.

"You little slut-" the vampire said as he manhandled you in his grip, one hand under your ass and one on your back. He went in for another kiss while he was walking up the stairs, then dropped you somewhere, on a bed.

"See.. this room is mine, y/n. Mine to use freely."

"Ah, I see. Should I care?"

"I can see that you are fucking bratty. Aren't you afraid of what I could do to you if you go againt me, mm?" he scoffed, climbing on the bed and pinning you down.

"Not. at. all."

"We'll see"

As soon as he finished his words, he got off the bed and opened a drawer. He took out some cuffs and threw them on the bed, rapidly followed by him climbing on the bed again. He then pushed you to the headboard, tying your hands behind your back.

"Oh, so this is how we're playing, huh?" you scoffed. "Don't be fooled, I like this shit."

"Y/n. babe. You didn't even have a choice. but I'm glad you like it. Now..." he dragged you closer. "What should I do with you? I think I'll leave your clothes halfway on... you look so hot in this corset, god dammit." he whispered as his hands went to your skirt, forcefully taking it off. You were left in only your panties, soaked with your arousal. "Oh wow, all wet for me?" the vampire scoffed. He looked at you for a moment and decided to unbuckle his leather pants, not breaking eye contact with you.

"Damn.." you whispered among seeing his cock spring out of his briefs, it's huge length and girth taking you aback. You knew that was gonna hurt as hell.

"What? Like what you see?" he giggled. "Come here."

"Hm?"

"I told you to come here" and he didn't even finish talking that he grabbed you by your waist, bringing you closer. You were now sitting on your knees on the bed, eyes looking up at Mingi, him standing straight on the carpet, right near the bed frame. Your cunt was rubbing against the now-wet fabric under you, the linen soaked in your juices.

Mingi's right hand went for your chin, stroking your cheek softly, his left hand pumping his aching length lazily. "You see my cock?" he said and guided the tip to your lips. "You're gonna take it all up your throat" his pointing finger under your chin, poking you to open your mouth. You took his dick in your mouth, trying to adjust to the girth. It was really stretching your mouth out, the corners of your lips aching and tears swelling in your eyes.

"Mhm, just like this." One of his hands went to the back of your head, tangling in your hair. "Though.. it's not enough" and he thrusted himself in your throat, your nose hitting his pelvis. You gagged on his dick, but he didn't move. He stayed like that for a moment, letting your throat get adjusted to his size. In the meantime, you wanted to touch yourself so bad, but your hands were tied at your back so you were left with grinding against the linen.

"You feel so good, sweetie. Let's see, how much can you take, hm?" the vampire whispered, pleased by your performance. He then started mouth-fucking you. He went on for a couple of thrusts, stopping for a moment, as deep as possible deep down your throat.

"Look at this..." Mingi said and touched your neck, feeling a small lump. "See how good you are to me, hm? I can even feel my cock deep down your throat from the outside. Such a good girl.." he leaned in and pulled your hair to make you look up at him in the eyes. His cock dropped heavily from your mouth, precum dripping continuously from the red throbbing tip. "Look at me" your head dizzy and spinning, your eyes went up to his.

"W-what?" you murmured.

"What do you want from me, sweetheart? Tell me. I can fulfill any of your desires" the vampire said, eyes glistening red with lust. "Tell me."

"I w-want you to fuck me" you said.

"Hm? Say it again."

"I want you to fuck me!" you scoffed angrily, catching a glimpse of his smirk as soon as you finished your words.

"Good girl. Turn around, ass up"

"I hate you so much, Mingi"

"I love you too, y/n. Turn the fuck around" the vampire said and manhandled you on your belly, untying the cuffs and throwing them on the floor. He took a moment to look at the exposing position you were in, your breasts slowly falling out of the corset, your ass red from all his fondling until now. He slapped your ass once, getting a soft moan out of your slowly rising chest. He spread out your cheeks, one of his hands fondling with the rim. He prepped you for a moment then pulled you closer, his aching tip throbbing against your hole. Without warning he pushed himself in, bottoming down. You let out a loud moan, feeling your hole being stretched out. It hurt so bad, yet it was so pleasurable. Tears formed in your eyes once again, gripping the sheets around you.

"Once again, babe.. take it all up" he said and started fucking you rapidly, holding onto your ass and back for dear life.

"You feel-" he bottomed down completely once more. "So fucking good". He was becoming louder and louder, sometimes letting out soft curses and whines. He was getting closer, you thought. His thursts became sloppied and heavier, filling you up good.

"Ng-baby. I'm so close" he gripped your back tighter, deepening himself. One of his hands went for your neck, holding it from under your body, his plump lips leaving soft kisses on your spine and back. He thrusted a few more times before you felt heavy strings of silky cum filling you all up. He fucked you through his orgasm, sending you over the edge.

"Oh-my god" you shouted and gripped the sheets once again, feeling the knot in your belly getting thighter and thigther.

"What, y/n? say it. Use your words" he said, panting.

"I wann-na c-cum" you whispered.

"You want me to make you finish, sweetie?"

"Yes fuck please, Mingi!" your voice coarse and your breath hitching. He started rapidly pounding you, his hands all over your body. He picked you up, his chest close to your arched back, he was kneeling on the bed. His left hand on your belly, holding you close and his right hand on your neck, his thumb rubbing your lips. You took his finger in your mouth, sucking on it slowly, with every of his thrusts. He fucked you for a couple more times and you felt your high washing over you.

"I'm not done with you" he said and fucked you through your orgasm, himself being close again. He once again came in you, filling you up.

He stopped for a moment and stayed like that, hugging you from the back, you cockwarming him, your juices slowly seeping out of your hole right on his dick. He took his time to put you down slowly, to which he then laid next to you.

"I never thought I'd fuck my mortal enemy, y/n." he said, looking at you.

"Me neither. I hate you so much, man. I could kill you right now and no one would ever notice." you said, cocky.

"Still bratty? After I fucked you dumb? Want me to go for a 3rd round?" he said and pinned over you.

"Bet." you copied his words and taking that as a yes he leaned in for a kiss, letting you know he wasn't even close to being done with you for the night.

NETWORKS:

@illusionnet

@blossomnet

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@mingleshine @musiclovingfairy @crazylittlebisexual @sanhwalvr @gong-fourz @arki-sha @artistic-rendition @hongjoongtime117

#illusionnet #blossomnet #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez fic #ateez x y/n #fanfic #smut fic #ateez #ateez smut #smut #mingi s dimples masterlist #mingi x you #ateez smut mingi #ateez mingi #mingi x reader #mingi smut

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hwaightme · 8 months ago

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Panacea

(masterlist)

🌊pairing: poet!seonghwa x doctor!gn!reader 🌊genre: fluff, slice of life, slow burn, healing, strangers to lovers, comfort 🌊summary: what do a poet who lost his inspiration and a cosmetic surgeon who lost their empathy have in common? when you make an escape from the city to a memory-filled cottage on the edge of the world, you meet park seonghwa, a poet who, after growing fatigued of shallow critique and unwanted attention, is on a search for true beauty. you, a surgeon who cannot bear to hear nor assess another patient , abhor its twisted definitions. as the seasons change, storms abate and your paths entangle, you discover a new, unparalleled kind of beauty. 🌊wordcount: 32.8k 🌊warnings/tags: semi-edited, attempts at sijo (forgive me), discussion of beauty standards, mention of surgery/clinics, weather imagery, nightmares, discussion of life and death (jokes relating to death), talk of oc death, urban/rural comparisons, isolation, burnout, philosophy, judgement of media, seaside, cliffs, dialogue + inner thoughts, perspective switching, falling in love, loving another's mind, talk of what is 'real' beauty, food (incl. meat), eating, cooking, implied anxiety, implied impulsive thoughts, sneak into home, lmk if anything else 🌊author's note: happy birthday, seonghwa, wishing for you and for atiny alike to have a cherished panacea and a love brighter than the stars <3 hope you enjoy, all reblogs and notes appreciated~

🌊playlist: 'unreal unearth' and 'unheard' by hozier, 'dark corners and alchemy' + reason to live by mehro, love letter from the sea to the shore by delaney bailey, okinawa by 92914, yeti + village song by paris paloma, exhale inhale by aurora, butterflies by tom odell, house song by searows, cornflower blue by flower face, icarus and apollo by ripto, the view between villages by noah kahan, my love mine all mine + i'm your man by mitski, when i c u by pomme

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

Art. Expression, embodiment, eternity. The world was art. From how the leaves trembled in the wind to how the water rippled, from a heartwarming smile to an earth-shattering glare, everything could be immortalised with an inspired, skilled transition. A perception of the eyes or the heart or the mind could be turned into anything from what might have been virtually nothing. Internal palaces, interpretation, innovation all were crafted and translated through art, onto canvases - trillions of brushstrokes, onto countless pages - trillions of priceless words, onto generations - wisdom and creation passed from one to another, all throughout history, leaving no stone unturned. To study and perceive art was to learn of the beauties of the universe, with beauty being a reflection of both aesthetics and terror. Such was life, and it breathed through the arts. From the beginning of time all the way to the modern era, art was a human’s true loyal companion. And even after the human would pass, art remained, loyal, vigilant, forever telling the tale that was cast onto a medium. One does not create art, one breathes it.

This is exactly why when an artist cannot create, it feels as though air has been knocked out of the lungs, a boulder weighed down on the chest, and the priceless essence of inspiration’s air could not be further away - a lost soul sinking into the hopeless abyss. The world grew darker and darker, until it fell silent. The artist, the art - a relationship of worship and boundless adoration, but also that of treachery and misery. Such was the fate of the one who stepped onto the thorned path of creation. One such humble human who, unlike a myriad of others, stumbled into the realm by accidental interest and longstanding innate passion, and due to the spontaneity and retained connection with the self had achieved relatively impressive success, was none other than Park Seonghwa. The poet. The visionary. The artist. Blessed with the spoken and written word, craftsmanship in rhythm and rhyme, grace in prose, he was a promising rising star in a progressively shallow world. As the consciousness melted into brevity and emotionlessness, he fearlessly dived into what made the soul, picking it apart, analysing it, and pouring the golden threads onto paper. An observer, he loved the colours of nature with all his heart. Every season, every day retained a magnificence for him which he tried to depict and incorporate in his work. Both experimental and traditionally sound, his “studies of daily life miniature wonders”, as he called his poetry, resonated.

But, as known far and wide, resonance brings expectation, and Seonghwa could not escape it either. Invitation after invitation, interviews and talk shows, signings if he was lucky to find a group of those truly interested in his craft; events all came clawing at him, tearing at his energy and soundness of mind until there was barely anything left, and even then, the droplets remaining were only thanks to his suddenly rediscovered harshness, followed by a series of declinations and digital disappearances. He made people feel, and in turn, the people felt like he owed them. The so-called success, or, in other words a nightmarish scrutiny that he could never foresee in the midst of his art, did not come without unrelated commentary either. From his attire to his physique to his facial expressions during public events - and on the occasion someone would recognise him on the street: his neutral, perfectly relaxed face, were all now considered to be public property. He could not breathe. Seonghwa’s hand shuddered whenever he would lift it in an attempt to write, aching, a nervous tremor turning into an earthquake the more he strained himself.

It was an impossible venture. Everywhere Seonghwa looked, everywhere he went, there were eyes and opinions, louder than his mind could ever be. The wind was no longer whistling a melody, returning to an indecipherable cacophony. The strawberries that the poet had purchased in the super store on the way to the edge of nothingness, where he was staying, were no longer sweet, crimson warnings left to rot in a bowl on the windowsill as he scurried from room to room out of fear of being spotted from the outside. There should be no one where he escaped to - an ancient cottage that belonged to a relative whom he had never known, but had spontaneously gotten close to out of necessity - was it a cousin?… leading to a spot where nothing ran, life was but a stillness, obedient to the sun and rain, lifting sorrows with the fog, falling into a slumber with the blanket of the pitch black night. In an effort to avoid the crowds and the rashness of his own potential future actions, Seonghwa had made an escape to what he would call ‘the void’. Forest, barely a hamlet to house civilization in the distance, sea. Infinite expanse of grassland, cliffsides, seagulls ceaselessly patrolling the skies. Within the first few days he had already forgotten where he was, and where he had come from. Such was existence without inspiration and purpose.

Rise and pretend to follow rhythm. One word on a page, floating towards abandonment. Ink drying. Lukewarm tea descending into the mouth of the sink. Swaying tulle, the only reminder that there was movement. Seonghwa collapsed onto the cream-coloured sofa, his dark tresses which had gotten considerably longer over his period of hiding after the astonishing battles with too many opinionated ignoramuses spilling over a throw pillow. He shut his eyes, a dull pressure behind them and of his temples becoming more pronounced. When was the last time he had a truly restful handful of hours of sleep? It would be bold to assume that he could answer that question. He could hear the creaking of the fence gate outside - the construction had a mind of its own, having sagged under its age and the salty air. Now, one of its corners sometimes dragged along the gravel path leading from the cottage out, and to the vistas of a tumultuous seaside. No one in sight except himself, and even then, Seonghwa avoided mirrors, terrified that he, too, would begin to repeat the utterings voiced to him again, and again. Black tar that stuck itself to his brain. He rubbed his temples, pinched the bridge of his nose, massaged his forehead, knowing full well that whatever he was planning to do was futile. There was no cure to this kind of sorrow. Only time. Fatigued from deliberation and heavy dread that plagued him, reducing function to nil, Seonghwa drifted, only the echoes of a suppressed catharsis haunting him.

It was a lulling ripple. Susurration of the shimmering waves, languidly guiding the timid moonlight. As the wind picked up, so did the infinite blanket of deep midnight blue, decorated with threads of pure silver. The whispers soon transformed into a harmony of echoes, filling the air with a chilling premonition. The quietude – the chosen one, to be sacrificed to the orchestration of natural disorder, a cyclical necessity. There was no rule, no need. Only the endless expanse of the living, breathing, turbulent waters. A storm. A roar engulfed the atmosphere, and all that dared oppose the metamorphosis. Imminent destruction of aquatic grace, devolving into a nightmarish, ghoulish madness. Reminiscent of a clamour, the waves crashed against your consciousness, persistently, repeatedly, threatening to tear away at your cranium and pour over into your lungs, taking ownership of your paralysed form.

Seonghwa struggled to catch a single breath, heaving, and yet running on empty, a shallow, superficial hint of oxygen lumped in his oesophagus. An unforgettable burning – his eyes, his nose, his lips, all enslaved by the agonising salt that penetrated their protective membranes and made him shriek as it buried itself in his cooling bloodstream. Seonghwa was losing to the elements, succumbing to the fatigue that was seeping into his aching, overstrained limbs. On the verge of giving up and letting go of the spirit that had driven him to struggle in the first place, he tried to shut his eyes just as he had done to his art, praying he would be let down slowly.

In futility and a sudden moment of clarity, the world went silent once more, only with a soft bubbling to accompany as he descended further and further down into the dark abyss, bidding farewell to the omniscient, looming and cruel sky. He was unsure whether what he was experiencing was a hallucination or a reality, however he distinctly felt gentle arms wrap around him, and pull him close to the body of another being, cradling his drowning form. The young poet allowed himself to relish in the sensation, lest it be the last, ignoring the light that was approaching once more. It was impossible to assume for it to be anything except the path to divinity, and for the trusted guide of the currents to be a guardian angel, carrying him through the sea to his final judgement.

The foreign warmth unwound Seonghwa, and he was in a blissful state of somnolence. Nothing existed except him and the sea that embraced him, sheltered him from the squall above the surface. The state was reminiscent of an embryo, yet to experience the harsh realities, beatific and unaware of what was to come. A mysterious stranger, a figure of grace made of sea foam, erasing his terrors and returning him to the terrestrial realm where he belonged. The sea, bewildered and endeared with his feeble mortality had bestowed mercy upon him - a foreign act, and yet it turned into a saving grace from the treacherous domain. He was not a being of the prejudiced, ravenous ocean. As his back felt the wet sand beneath, and a pressure on his chest, expelling water that was ravaging his lungs grew stronger, he was more confident in his livelihood, despite having lost his breath, his sight, his hearing. Nothing existed except a storm somewhere far from him, and a brutal stinging of salt that consumed the arteries. The liquid trickled from his frozen lips and down his cheeks, absorbed by the grains that were already sneaking into his hair. The pressure was getting more intense, bordering on unbearable. His ribs, subdued by agony, were begging for relief. His mouth opened in a silent scream, a hand shot out into the darkness. A snap. A crashing of a wave.

Seonghwa jolted awake, feeling his chest and looking around. The window, which had previously been left open only a crack, had swung open fully, and the tulle had flown out with what had to be an oncoming gale. A drumming resonated from the inner walls of the house, one which he decisively ignored and let it be consumed by the chaos outside. Leaning over to take a cautious peek, the young man rapidly discovered a downpour that was soaking the thin, white material - a flag begging for forgiveness from nature. He hurried from the sofa, almost stumbling over his feet and the carpet, careful to not slip on the puddle that started to form below the sill, on the aged floorboards. Cursing under his breath, he fought against the creaking wood that was ruthless in wishing to hold the window in place, until, in a final fit of frustration, Seonghwa pulled wildly, nearly tumbling back as the frame slid into its rightful location with a stubborn shake. He hit the curved iron handle back into position, noting how even more of the white paint on the frame had chipped off, and the wood beneath was starting to show signs of potential rot. Since he was merely a guest, though it was nearly approaching half a year that he had been residing in the cottage, he would have to call someone in his family about this, wouldn’t he? A stray finger glided over the damage, and he pondered how long it had been since the wear and tear had started. Who was it that left this cottage to abandon, for people who were virtually strangers to occupy for a temporary retreat?

He placed a hand to his chest, feeling the beating of his erratic heart, not yet calm from the nightmare. Curious, how the sea had crept into his mind so strongly. The guardian and the destroyer of the surrounding grounds. A mirror of the skies with a presentation and strength of its own. Undoubtedly scornful of his hollow presence - an artist who ceased to create. What could be more tragic and distasteful? He pulled at the loosely woven white sweater that hung loosely on his body, pinching the white sleeveless tee underneath when he spotted a speck of dust, or was it a grain of sand? He raised an eyebrow, trying to contain the particle between his fingers but failing to do so as it rolled down until it disappeared against the floor. Right, he had cleaning to do. He shook his head and led himself to the kitchen, where he grabbed rags, a bucket, some supplies to aid him in fixing up the attacked corner of the living room.

With an anxious swiftness, Seonghwa took down the translucent curtain and wiped the floorboards, the wall, the window sill, sighing at the scenery outside. Steely grey skies and thunderous clouds the colour of smoke and ash, diagonal rain rendering it almost impossible to see the rocky cliffs and hills that otherwise highlighted his vista. Waves took on a hue that was reminiscent of a mixture of emerald and onyx, with thick streaks of foam the colour of melancholy. Rocks, eroded and reshaped by the waters, were splotches of black in the landscape, and the tall grass - golden and green from the tedium of perpetual beatdowns by the sun and the storms, brushstrokes that blended with the speeding droplets. He paused. How marvellous it was, to become one with the sky. A connection to the heavens as it weeped, mourning the mortal motion of the earth. He squeezed the rag feeling the clouds’ tears well up between the digits. Surely, if he had been saved in his dream, there was hope? Seonghwa tilted his head, still, ensnared by the scenery outside, not too dissimilar from what had been his unconscious battle. The sea saved him. His beloved nature, void of humanity, of quotidien illness innate to every being. Those graceful hands, sending him in a spinning dance through the grand depths, a soothing drowning. Blind to the temporary, he had the pleasure of consuming eternal presence. Perhaps this was a sign, and not a horror that he had lived through.

After wiping the last of the moisture and taking the items back to the kitchen, he ambled back to the room. There was nothing stopping the waves. Untouched - not by the fishermen who he would see from time to time, not by the adventurers tourists who wanted to take in the views of the rising sun, not by those who, at least on paper, owned the neighbouring lands. Everyone was subordinate to the sea. Including himself. The dream was a call. It had to have been. He put a palm over the centre of his ribcage, the bone whispering what had unfolded a mere few minutes ago. The intensity of what reminded Seonghwa of an exorcism was nothing short of a twisted blessing. A shy smile crept onto his lips as the cottage took the brunt of another gust of wind and spears of rain and a ghost of a plank somewhere in the house groaned. Or perhaps it was the cottage itself, mumbling a greeting to its waking occupant. Swaying of the history contained within the building, time in every chip of paint, in every brick.

There was not much to fear in the sea’s cradle. In the middle of nowhere, with only himself and the coming autumn to keep him company, Seonghwa sensed the ebbs and flows of his soul start up again. He raised his hand to eye level, stretching it out until the fingers were splayed apart and the palm was flat and facing the floor. Much to his unexpected delight, it remained steady, obedient, attuned to his present musings. His legs led the way, guiding him to a door that was located almost under the stairs. With a click of the handle, the room he had made his office and study was revealed. An antique lacquered mahogany table, much too large for the space available, had been a formidable foe for the last few months, and now, was shining a different colour. Seonghwa ran a hand over the intricate detailing of its edges as he pushed the matching chair back. Glanced up, took in the scenery on the other side of the window - much smaller than the one he had fought against, but allowing him to behold the memorable landscape nonetheless.

Gingerly, he pulled at the iron hook of the top drawer, revealing a black, leather bound notebook and a pen - his favourite, from the little shop down the street where he lived in the city. Glossy chrome silver, ergonomic, and made to be a medium for the arts. Seonghwa noted the dryness in his throat, and adjusted the collar of his sweater absent-mindedly. It was easy, right? Just pick up the pen, take out the book and open it, sit down and- and what next? He paused, hand hovering over his tools. What was next, indeed? Flutters of ideas like fragile butterflies suspended in the mind palace, wishing for transition into the world of the living. Could he do it? Upon asking himself the question, he swore he heard the sea roar louder, and the cottage creak in response. With a shake of the head, he decided. Enough was enough. He had to try - it was now or never. He fell into the seat, holding his breath as he clenched the pen, letting it dig into his skin - a lethal blade. A blank page scrutinised him. On instinct, he decorated it with ink, flowing into the barren landscape, introducing himself.

천둥과 회색 바다, 갈매기 울음소리 (the thunder and the grey sea, the crying of seagulls)

폭풍은 심장의 리듬을 만든다 (the storm makes the rhythm of the heart)

입술과 볼에 소금이 행복한 추억이다 (the salt on the lips and cheeks is a happy memory)

The rain was still pouring when Seonghwa woke up again, having resorted to resting his fatigued body on the same sofa rather than carrying it upstairs. It was quieter that way, without the tears pouring directly on the roof above. Having dipped his fingertips back into writing, and dabbling in a more liberal interpretation of sijo, he was spent, as though he had gone through a war, crawled under barbed wire to find his own reflection on the other side. The poet ran a hand through his locks, still messy from the tossing and turning that he had undoubtedly done while asleep - at least this time he had no dreams, even if it was exactly through such a manifestation that he had discovered the urge to try and revive his calling and skill. He checked the time, the antique clock on the other side of the room idly ticking away regardless of what happened around it. Early dawn, and yet the surroundings remained immersed in grey. He stretched, not caring for the wool throw that he had used as his blanket sliding down to pool on his lap. A strain in his neck - he tilted his head to stretch the sleepy, insubordinate muscle, wincing as he seemed to have struck a painful point of tension. It was time to rise with the rainclouds. Seonghwa shuffled into his slippers, the chill creeping across the floor discouraging him from forgoing the action, and grabbed the throw, folding it on reflex.

One foot in front of the other, eyes still half-shut, the walls served as guides towards the staircase, and the wooden handrail was a direct lead that let him doze as he felt for each new elevation. The rain pelted the skylight that shed some light on the stairs, the thrum an intense melody. And to think that it was sunny and warm - the epitome of summer, only a mere few days ago. Well, he said few days, but that was more a liberal interpretation than anything. Stuck on the edge of early spring, the seasons had passed by him at a menacing pace, summer, autumn, winter all blending into one monstrous creature. When he reached the second floor, something prompted him to pause. Seonghwa squinted, focusing on the door at the far end of the corridor, more specifically, the decorative woven carpet that was hanging off a neatly hammered nail right into its centre - ornate, depicting a lighthouse scene that had instantly made the young poet wonder if there was one in the vicinity of the cottage. But it was not the carpet itself that momentarily disturbed him, but rather the angle at which it was hanging. Over the time of Seonghwa being in this property so far, he had already done his fair share of cleaning and adjustments, as one would expect, but not a single time did he see the item move off the centre of the thread that was hooked onto the nail - perhaps only when the door itself was used. Since Seonghwa had selected a room that had windows that looked in the direction of the fence gate and main entrance, rather than to the side and towards the cliffs, he had no need to enter the darkness, only for general upkeep. What had made the item move? Raising an eyebrow, he approached the door, creaking of the floorboards accompanying him. No sound from behind the door. Only the heaving of the house that saw many storms in its day. A chuckle involuntarily escaped him as he adjusted the carpet - he must still be under the impression from the dream, that must be it. Everything was suspicious; but that was how he usually got when he was in the depths of ideation. Sensitive, responsive, one with the world. Patting the rough fabric, he turned, making his way to his quarters.

The decor was simple, minimalist, with echoes of nautical and rustic themes. A tiny model of a sailboat in a bottle, displayed on a slab of wood that must have been cut and taken from the forest nearby. A laundry basket made out of a rope so thick that Seonghwa assumed that it used to be on a ship before settling in the cottage for retirement. White sheets, with a line of pale baby blue chequered fabric running through the very top, marking its direction. Matching chequered pillows - large, soft clouds stuffed to the brim with feathers, perfectly made. The bed had been left untouched by him that night, and remained in suspense. He ran a hand over its edge, feeling the soft fabric. Carefully, he placed the throw at the end of the bed, and turned towards the double wardrobe - well, he was being rather kind to call it that. Not quite a single, not quite a double, the piece which looked to have been made by whoever had been the owner of the land a while back stood proud, without any particular definition. It served its purpose, and was happy to do so. From the carved patterns around the handles to how the doors easily swung open, this piece of furniture was nothing like what he would see in the city. It contained love, care. Was one of a kind. Perhaps that was another issue he would have to take care of, should he return to the metropolis soon - change his interior. There was enough standard decor for him to turn into an automaton. An apartment like everybody else’s. Enough space, but no room to breathe - existing only to live up to or fulfill expectations.

He changed into a pleasant neutrality - in fact, most of the clothing that Seonghwa had brought with him retained a quality of muted bliss. Beige and cream, black, white, shades of grey, a few patterned pieces containing navy, diluted pinks here and there, he wanted to blend into the scenery. Shake with the tall grass. Stretch his arms out and embrace the sky, floating towards it. But for now, a white shirt would have to do. He made a couple of small adjustments while looking at the mirror that hung above the cabinet directly at the end of the bed, flush against the wall, flicking the dangling silver earring that he had left in since yesterday, used to napping with the accessory. A couple of brushes with the comb he kept on said cabinet, and finally, the look was manageable. Knowing he would be careful, Seonghwa decided to wash up before continuing on with his day; more adventuring around the house, down the stairs and off to the side past the kitchen. He stared at his reflection, dismissing the hints of stubble that were beginning to show themselves - as if anyone would care if he scrapped shaving altogether. No one except himself. The rest of the steps he could not skip over, diligence and habit taking back the reins. Routine, but in the house so far removed from places where routine was king, it was reassuring.

Soon enough, there were scrambled eggs on a plate, fork lying to the side, and a steaming cup of black tea in his hand as he flicked through his midnight musings. Not too bad. Certainly not the best. At least not to him. His hand was rash, his thoughts unclear, his rhythm lacking. It had to be better than this; the voice of judgement returned to him and struck him like lightning, only this time, the current of the bubbling waves dampened the effect. Why was it that he began to sound like those he grew up and returned to listening to? So much running, and to return to the same vocalisations? Enough. He set the notebook down, and took a sip of the still hot tea. Clarity, that was what he had to practise. Since he was alone, he had no other opinion to fear, and could work on his reconnection with art to his heart’s content. Seonghwa was lucky enough to not be tied to anything nor anyone in particular, and the continuously rising popularity of the songs he had worked on as a poet and lyricist a little while ago ensured that if need be, he had financial cover.

A stray thought about the outside world passed him. Did he still matter, or was he gradually being forgotten? One wave after another, one artist was bound to surpass another. Such was the harsh reality. His breakfast was cooling as he stared at the pristine table cloth, mulling the notion over. Time ran differently here, that much was certain. Could that mean that out there in the city, centuries had already passed? What was he missing? A mild panic started to rise in his throat, and on instinct he stood up, foregoing the rest of his meal in favour of a stroll within the confines of the walls but not before grabbing the tiny black notebook.

One step, another, and soon he fell into a rhythm, traversing the territories of the kitchen, dining and living room area, ambling into the miniature office space, back out again until he was retracing the same patterns, writing characters on the floor with each footfall. He was ink, combatting resistance to absorption into the primordial canvas, towards artistic immortality. Seonghwa wanted to push himself at first opportunity. He had to write, had to provide the listening curtains and chairs with fresh prose or poetry, whatever came to mind and was reasonable first. He was Park Seonghwa, for goodness sake. It should come easy. The months were just a pause like that when one holds their breath. Each day a microsecond. The shake, starting from deep in his upper arm and trickling lethal poison down to his wrist and fingers, started to give signs of its awakening. No, it could not be! The poet stopped, not dissimilar to how a car would stop at the edge of a cliff. What was happening to him? The book found recluse from his spiritual agony above a fireplace, one of the elements of the house Seonghwa had had no reason to experiment with, not being bothered by the howling cold drafts. Toying with the edge of his sleeve, he succumbed to pensive disorder, eyes locked on the unassuming object.

"Not today then…" the utterance melted into the ambience, "fiendish creature."

Determined creaking of wood and its crash jolted him off the spot, and Seonghwa was almost pulling himself up the stairs. The house was old enough to need repairs, but this could be major, and all the more disastrous if the rain bled in. Heart jumping out of his chest he skipped steps, alarm bells ringing in his ears. He had been submerged in his philosophies for so long that he could have easily missed some more complex deteriorating hazard of the cottage, particularly since he never had to even consider such a thing back in the capital. Maintenance, checks, security… all automatic and managed by someone he would never see, while here, he was the one responsible. He, the pseudo-owner for the coming season, had to see the outcomes, and admonish himself in the mirror should anything go wrong, which was probably one of the reasons why he preferred to not use the object more than necessary. He turned his head side to side, to the skylight, behind him, all for nothing. Only the drizzle, and the decorative carpet, tilted. Like it had been pushed on purpose. He inched towards the door, looking for any shadows that may fall through the crack at the bottom and stretch outwards. Stopping right in front, he put an ear to it, while pretending to adjust the piece of fabric. Nothing, or the house was keeping secrets from him, too. Fed up with the mystery, he yanked the handle, and then gave it a violent twist and push, all to no avail, meeting a secure lock. Did he accidentally lock it the last time he had been in? Seonghwa could not remember, but the curious appearance of this issue was more than inspiring. The storm was playing tricks on the poet again, whispering devious tales in his ears. A late night fog, he descended to the ground floor in search of his weapons to carve the enigma, not hearing the sigh that carelessly escaped through the keyhole.

차가운 강철 바다가 겨울을 삼킨다 (the winter is swallowed by the cold steel sea)

모래는 신성한 행위의 비밀을 간직한다 (the sands hold the secret of the sacred act)

장난꾸러기 봄은 또 무엇을 가져올까 (what else will the mischievous spring bring?)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

It wasn't that you were tired per se, it was just that if you were to spend another day doing what you had been doing, you would make it a personal goal to destroy the world. But you were smarter than acting on the manic rage that lapped at the shoreline of your consciousness, and so you did what any good citizen would do and removed yourself as cleanly as quietly as possible. On paper, there was nothing wrong, and a sabbatical did not seem to be out of order, especially considering the hours you had been putting in for the last few years. Some of your longer-term patients did have to be reshuffled of course, but you did not mind that one bit - they would not be haunting you anymore, at least not for the time period of professionally approved evaporation. There was no greater joy than shoving your identification badge into a drawer and ridding yourself of your scrubs for longer than a few hours.

Bare essentials in a rucksack and a train ticket was all you needed, and once you arrived at your safe haven, it would be piece of cake to hitch a ride from one of the farmers you had befriended - who knows, maybe this time around you could get on one of the fancy new tractors. When the prospect of returning to your favourite place was feeling more real, you could not help yourself but turn back to your tendencies of being a dreamer. It was always more delightful to live in the clouds to the rhythm of the sun’s rays rather than to a beeping of the heart monitor. You could almost imagine the journey, the beauty of it all.

But that turned out to be the farthest from the washed out reality that was possible. Somewhere around two thirds of the way to your sacred destination, right around the time when a toddler - evidently born and raised in the urbanscape, had finally stopped whining about going to some place where "there was nothing", and dozed off, huge storm clouds started to roll in from the direction of the coast. Just peachy, especially when your destination was a cottage that might as well have its address quoted as 'the sea'. But you were not made of sugar and could stand a couple of angry raindrops on your waterproof jacket, and besides these problems were ones you much preferred to deal with, unlike the constant barrage of everything at once back in the concrete cage. Less yammering, and the words that were exchanged in the country were compact, concise, meaningful. No beating around the bush or claiming ownership of other people's business, so long as you didn't interact too closely. But that was what the distance between the beloved cottage and any more major settlements was for - the most secure barrier of them all was time and energy, and very few would want to waste that on an extra trip that would be entirely fruitless.

A couple of droplets was an understatement as your soaked clothes were quick to tell you. Thanks to the unusually strong storm for this time of year there was no way for you to get to your asylum easily either. No one was out, and no good person would let even their work dogs out in such weather. You, however… you could not care less about it, or about anything except getting to the cottage for that matter.. Some sacrifices were worth it. And so after getting to the tiny village thanks to the same family with the toddler since it was on the way - the last remotely reliable collection of society before natural and non-human wilderness, through sludge and torrential downpour you tread, practically having to feel your way forward since the downpour painfully obscured your vision. Your feet knew the right path at least, and after you had donated the last of your social supplies to those metropolitan holidaymakers for your own benefit, with every metre you conquered you ended up striding faster and faster. Until you saw the lights. They could only mean two things. Either Old Man Yang came back to life and was perusing his grounds like Old Hamlet, or there was a guest. As much as you wanted the answer to be the former, it was obvious enough that the occupant was somebody else. Not that you were too bothered. You knew this house like the back of your hand, and were aware of how to get in and out pretty much unnoticed. Plus, it would not be the first time you would be doing so. Most people limited themselves to a couple of rooms, fearing that they would be overstepping should they actually ‘make themselves at home’ - a huge advantage for you when it came to climbing in. Little did they know that they would make Old Man cuss them out for their timidness if he were still around.

The first step was to avoid the front gate - a flimsy construction that had been installed without much skill nor effort, and so performed what you would generously call the bare minimum, only just holding itself together. Slanted and chipped, the fencing was in an abysmal state, off-putting, marking anyone who needed to stay at the cottage as truthfully desperate. You smiled bitterly - what a realisation. You continued on your way to the other side of the plot, barely guarded by a bush fence and the occasional appearance of proper stone fence pieces. This was mainly for show, to mark that the owner, or well, previous owner of the house was aware of what was ‘standard practice’ around these parts. Outward aesthetics was something that you had grown to despise over the years, hence why the tongue in cheek mockery of it in this construction spoke to your soul, and made the haven that much more homely. It was good to be back.

You navigated to the back of the house and ducked to squeeze through the hole on the wall. Much to your fortune, the room that was the speediest to access from a stealthy climb onto the shed located to the side of the building and a couple of shuffles of boxes was empty, though shockingly clean. It was obvious to the naked eye that the bedroom was visited quite regularly, at least to keep things neat and dustless. You nodded to yourself as you took off your shoes and clothes, shoving them in an oversized plastic bag that you had packed, originally for future laundry, now as a way to keep the items from bringing the rain indoors. The cold air hit you in one swoop, sending a series of shivers over your bare body. Hopping to the chest of drawers, you haphazardly went over the contents of each one until you found the towels, wrapping yourself in the largest one and throwing another onto the floorboards, roughly shoving it over to the puddle that still had formed under the bag. Once satisfied with the half-hearted drying, you changed into a fresh and remotely warmer set of clothes and hopped under the covers, drowsy and worn out from the impromptu hike and battering from the violent skies.

Just as your eyes started getting heavier and heavier, and you were losing yourself in the sound of the rain against the roof - a favourite of yours when it came to forgetting the nonsense you had to work towards back in the capital, the creaking of the footsteps jolted you from the somnolent fall and back to high alert. Was the guest brave enough to venture onto the second floor? Really? You concluded that they were comfortable using one of the other bedrooms, and that they were alone - the latter was a commonality among the guests of Old Man’s home, however, so that conclusion did not take much work. The steps ceased to resound across the corridor right behind the door, leaving shadows through the creak below. You froze and inadvertently held your breath, waiting for the guest’s next move. It was not that you were particularly scared of the potential interaction, but you did not want to deal with the terror that they might experience of having a random stranger appear in a house that was in the middle of nowhere. To a person ‘not in the know’, your presence would be more than horrifying. And so to do the other party, and your sleepiness, a favour, you stayed put.

More shuffling, a tug on the decor on the other side of the door - so sensitive that it probably shifted because of your jumping about, and in what must have been a quarter of an hour, maybe even less, the guest disappeared downstairs. The rain had gotten lighter since the time when you had just arrived. Rustling. Pots and pans clinking against one another. Opening of the fridge - so the stranger was making breakfast. You grinned into the bedsheets and snuggled into the warmth. How you missed this place. Its sounds, its welcoming nature, its beauty that defeated all definitions of the word. There were no standards that you needed to abide by while safely by the sea. No roadblocks, no arguments, no regrets or shame on people’s faces. Perhaps this was another reason why you did not want to interact with the guest - that would mean you having to stare at them, and goodness forbid you would be unable to turn off your work brain and end up micro analysing them. No, you needed to sleep that off. At some point while you were drifting in semi-consciousness the pacing that the stranger had commenced had stopped, and a concerning silence washed over the property. Eyebrows furrowed, you lifted your upper body. When no other sound came, you slid out of the bed, too curious to try falling asleep now. One step, another and you were already turning the door knob, cautious to push the door discreetly. You listened. Creak, sigh, so they were still-

That deep and smooth voice? So the guest was likely male, okay stay calm. You tried to reason, but the phrase kept replaying in your head, and you found yourself being ashamed to admit that, at least from this distance, the tone was more than pleasant. Perhaps you should try introducing yourself - at least to have a conversation. What were you thinking? This was someone who you did not know, someone who could be dangerous, who could attack you - no, not today, not ever. At least not until you were to run out of crackers, apples and water in your bag. Rapidly, you reversed into the living room and without a second thought, shut the door like you normally would. Clearly, you could not think straight after lateral human interaction as almost instantly you heard chaotic shuffling from downstairs. In one last strive to protect yourself you remembered the key to the door that was located on a tiny table set right by the wall to the right. One swipe, one twist, and you launched yourself into the bed in an effort to hide and minimise any movement for when the man arrived. And just in time, because just under quarter of a minute later, the stranger was back, and was attempting to enter the room while you were damning your curiosity. It was comical how the only thought that crossed your mind was the hope that if you were to cross paths with him eventually, that you would not have to cut your getaway short and go back to the heartbreaking world of expectations, regrets and erasure. Perhaps it was selfish to say, but here, in the cottage, you could live for yourself and think for yourself for once and not feel as though you were overstepping.

At some point between then and the moment you realised that the rain had stopped, you had fallen asleep, missing the entirety of the morning. You were gazing at the walls, the light from the window, the silhouette that your items strewn about on the floor, with different eyes. A revival. You were finally home. And that was when your own behaviour hit you; indeed, you were home! No matter who that other person was, you knew the ins and outs of this house better than anyone else, and just listening to the man walk around was enough to make the conclusion that he was definitely a newcomer. Probably was here for some weeks, maybe a month at most, but that was not enough to be aware of the creaks in the stairs or where all of the emergency supplies were located - the shed had been left untouched all this time, as you had spotted out of the corner of your eye. He was being cautious. Not quite living. Well, at least he was being respectful.

You patted the bed and slid out from under the covers with a stretch. The hints of sunshine were protruding through the clouds, transforming the views from your window into an infinite stretch of dewy, silvery green and a glistening and bashful blue, protected by the rolling behemoths of cloud up above. For once, you were looking forward to the coming day. You pushed yourself off the bed and stepped closer, now having the fence that you had recently infiltrated the cottage through in your sight and beyond it - the same gorgeous grassland that broke into a shallow, albeit fragile dockside. Technically, it was still part of a long series of cliffs, revealing limestone and chalk and iron from all ages, but that was a two or three hour walk down the coastline. Here, those titans were friendly pets that you could easily scale and hop down from. Nonetheless, they did a brilliant job in separating the marine from the earthly, reminiscent of the mythical division of the mortal and heavenly realms. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a certain someone treading that legendary midpoint, dressed in a simple shirt and wide, skirt-like trousers. You leaned onto the window sill, well aware that it was not going to do much in helping you discern the details that made up the enigmatic figure, but you were going to pretend like you were confident in your assumptions about the aesthetic appeal.

Dark hair, falling to somewhere close to the shoulders, tall in stature, of a thinner build, or at least that was what you guessed when the figure turned to step closer to the edge. They were holding something in either hand, and whatever it was appeared important, but the distance concealed such tiny details from you. You couldn't quite form a complete picture, but it was easy enough to put two and two together from the silence that currently reigned over the house and the stranger out for a stroll, that this was probably your impromptu housemate. Not too bad, a nice blob in the distance that you could appreciate through the horizon's blur. More importantly, this person with dark hair and a deep voice was giving you control over the ground floor for a short while, and you desperately needed to make use of the resources located there. You laid out a high speed itinerary for yourself and made a dash for the door, counting the seconds that each task took you. This behaviour was something you were unlikely to ever get rid of - your studies, and then your job both permitted you too little time to have the luxury of wasting it. How long could an inhale and exhale take?

It was astonishing just how neat the cottage was - you dared to say that it was the neatest that you had ever seen it - major refurbishment and repair requirements aside. So this guy was detail oriented, clean and homely, huh? You ran a hand over the kitchen counter while passing it to rush to the shower raising your eyebrows at the lack of dust. Damn, you might have underestimated what kind of guest this individual was. Your surprise was not limited to the main living area - the bathroom almost reminded you of the scrub room and theatre with how spotless it was. Not a single timescale stain on the glass or mirror, perfectly arranged decorations, laundry basket and towels. Even the bar of soap was turned to the smaller side so that it would be easier to use and not linger in moisture. Inadvertently, you shivered, almost slamming the bar down and moving to ruffle the towels just the slightest bit so there would be a breath of life in them. You kicked the bath mat slightly off centre, disturbed by its impeccable alignment with the tiles. Oh, this man might become your enemy. This was about to become a crisis.

One purposefully careless shower later, you had drawn a smiley face on the mirror and were now unceremoniously raiding the kitchen, claiming that you were famished and urgently needed to make the most chaos-inducing meal of all time, which given the available ingredients just so happened to be a monstrous apple pie. You were not sure what exactly provoked you and caused you to ignite the oven with a fire of rage, and channel a palette of negativity into beating butter and sugar, but this was most certainly the most ‘vigorously’ that you had ever made a pie. Whizzing through the stages of making the pastry and sending it away to cool, you took to making the filling, whispering each one of your actions out loud, narrating as though you were back in the operating room. You needed the knife, you needed the cinnamon, you-

Slamming the utensils onto the cutting board, nearly sending a small ceramic bowl flying in the process as your sleeve slipped over its rim, you groaned in disapproval. This was exactly what you were trying to escape from, and yet anything you did was simply returning you to your daily life. Why did your hands, your mind have to live in just one place, erasing the moments when your body as a whole experienced joy? Why was it so easy to retrace the steps back into personal nightmares? Damn your steady hands, your unbreakable focus. To hell with it all. On the verge of throwing the knife at the neighbouring wall, you toyed with the handle. You were tired. So unbelievably tired of the nonsense that had accumulated over your time back in the city. While anyone else would say that you had been lucky to receive what you had - an education in a prestigious university, renowned across the nation, residency in high ranking hospitals, settlement in a private clinic in an expensive district, a career in the medical field that was deemed ‘not too intense nor too gory’... you could not help but wish to burn it all in favour of the paradise that you ran to.

Your childhood. Carefree, in a small town by the sea. In fact, on a clear day you could see the outlines of it from here - on many occasions you had stood by the fence gate with Old Man, who had taught you how to read the clouds, the forests, spot things no one else could. How he, with his wrinkled, dry hand pointed in the direction of what were your roots. But not your home. You had hugged him tight that day, muttering that it was in the cottage that you were happy. Old Man never forced you to leave. In fact, the room that you were staying in had always been left ready for a guest - you. But of course, in the eyes of everybody else, this was not what was considered successful. Study, take exams, study, do extracurricular activities, fix your pronunciation, change your look, change yourself to be like someone else, for what? To appease others, as you had realised in the middle of your time at medical school. You were a talking piece, a conversation starter. Nothing more. And so, with every opportunity, you stepped farther away from those who had taken your clarity and safe haven.

Old Man died when you were about to graduate university. You found out only two months later. Since then, you were on your own. You clenched your hand into a fist until the knuckles turned white, while tears inadvertently pooled in your eyes before you dabbed at them with the corner of your sweater. Your childhood home did not exist anymore - you checked two summers ago. Deemed too rundown since no one had moved in after your parents made a mad dash for the metropolis, it was now just a bitter memory. At least in the act of honouring the past you were victorious. Your body began to move on its own accord, floating through the instructions, from one step to another, at ease since your thoughts were preoccupied by reminiscence. For a person whose livelihood majorly relied on their hands, you were terrifically remiss about what you subjected them to; some of your colleagues were known to wear gloves almost all hours of the day, others refrained from doing anything physical unless it was lifting a scalpel. To put it simply, this drove you mad. Every single one of them: self-important, unaware, isolated. Let this pie be baked in hellfire for all you-

Mid-spin, just as you were finished with making the filling and were in the process of lining a baking tin with some of the pastry, the front door creaked open, revealing the figure that you had spotted outside of your window, walking alongside the beginnings of what would be a cliff’s edge. You stood still, holding the pie tin, feeling the grooves of its edges, balancing the dough that was still wrapped in clingfilm right in the middle, as though if you were to not move this man would not see you. Heart quickening to a nauseating pace, the intense scrutiny that you were receiving made you want to collapse behind the counter. Before this moment, you had convinced yourself that you had fully adopted a devil may care attitude, and that you were ready for whoever you would encounter, having prepared the humble abode for a you-style reception and to assert who truly was deserving of ownership of this property. But something about this enigmatic persona who, just like you, remained unmoving, echoed the seastorms. A roaring of the waves was contained in his orbs, so dark due to the light being behind the man’s back that you could barely detect the transition from pupil to iris. A nose worthy of being depicted in renaissance paintings, in fact, if you had to pinpoint one way to describe the stranger, is that he reminded you of subjects that graced the walls of art galleries, selected by masters to be immortalised in the artists’ name. Nameless, much like he was to you in this present moment. His lips, ever so slightly parted as if he had been on the verge of saying something to you, only for the aim to fall short of execution, voice drowning in doubt or disgust. The corners of the man’s mouth were gently downturned - not unpleasantly so, but rather giving him an aura of intimidation that intrigued you. Shadows on his face suggested to you that he was unshaven, though, you had to admit that it was not too bad of a look. In fact, an interesting edge of ruggedness that balanced with his longer locks gave the man a new form of allure, and in turn, forced you to keep your eyes on him despite feeling inklings of terror. The scene reminded you of a faceoff between two territorial wolves - whose domain was this? Only time and a match of resolve would tell.

He was the first to break eye contact, sighing and moving to take off his shoes and trench coat. You remained still - a hostile animal that was expecting aggression at any moment. The man was silent, unphased by your ‘out of the blue’ appearance at least outwardly, and you were not certain whether his lack of reaction was something to be taken with gratitude or suspicion. As you inspected his motions, how he stretched out his arm to hang the trench coat on the rack that was hammered to the wall, with the right nail ever so slightly lower than the left, how he ran a hand through his hair, casting shadows over what hinted at months of fatigue. Not quite pallid, but definitely tired skin, holding times of discomfort, sleeplessness. Dark circles under those deep, pensive orbs, cheeks that were somewhere between sunken and youthful. The man stood before you in a white shirt, the colour a last cry to some form of purity and hope. You could guess why he was at the cottage, since it was not too challenging to see your own reflection in the corners of his soul, much like you could sense that he was reading you. He reminded you of an angel who was tired of praying, barely capable of carrying his body. Pressed down by the story that had been written for him, he was likely here for an escape, to drown out the sounds of whatever he was running from. Perhaps you should be friendly, and welcome this lost soul. After all, he could be unaware of where he is nor of what unspoken rules exist around here. The least you could do is make him feel at home-

“You made a mess,” and just like that, all desire to be amiable flew out of the window and into the sea. His curt comment was like a burning cold scalpel, words too familiar to be neutral and well-received.

Before you could respond, the man was well on his way to the bathroom, and judging by the slam of the door, he was not very pleased to see the rearrangements you had made. No comments followed, however, and instead, the pause was filled by the sound of running water, followed by a muffled mumbling when following a couple of rattles, the pressure inevitably dropped and there was barely a trickle. You shook your head, amused by how this man had been living in this property without the basic knowhow. Clearly, he was one of the many cityfolk who wanted to try his luck while on holiday. Exotic stay to talk about with his glamorous friends, you bet. For him to explain how ‘the bucolic was not even as appealing as literature made it out to be’. Standard. Faceless. You would forget him in no time, especially since he would probably leave before it got less fun and more mundane to stay out in the wilderness. That pretty face should not know harshness. With a huff, you set the tin down onto the counter and set the oven to preheat. With swift, irritated movements, you took to lining the metal with the dough, and in no time shifted to ladling the filling inside, halting to watch the last of the fruity cinnamon remnants dribble from the bowl down to join the rest of the sweet and sour promise.

The man returned when you were in the process of lacing strings of dough together to structure a coherent design. With an embarrassing surgical precision, you focused on the patterns - culinary sutures, almost horrified by the technique that you could not prevent from channelling itself through your body, to your very fingertips especially now that there was an audience. If he wanted to give you a stern talking to, it had quickly dissipated and mid-stride, the stranger was observing you as though you were carrying out a sacred ritual. The spotlight was on you as you demonstrated how to put the flesh back together. Piecing the skin bit by bit so as to ensure minimal scarring, careful now, people come to you to make themselves feel beautiful after all. String by string, the pie was looking more like itself, a recipe book photograph, something worthy of immortalising as the model step before baking. A beeping confirmed that the patient was relaxed, steady, with a perfect heart rate - good, all the readings were steady, now all you needed was to make the final - you felt for the tray finding empty space. Did someone misplace the tools? Panic shot into your nervous system and with a jolt you pushed yourself away from the table, only to find yourself gazing, startled, at someone who you had begun to assume was an intern. The guest, or cohabitant? An eyebrow raised, the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he took in your state. You clicked your tongue, finally putting two and two together and grabbing the timer behind you, purposefully taking your time so that you would not have to look at your newfound personification of madness for longer than necessary. So much for an introduction; the figure who was still a mystery to you slinked back into the shadows, with only the click of the office door serving as a confirmation that he was real. You rubbed your temples, the distant thrumming of a headache resembling a thunder that crawled over the horizon. Demonstratively, you sprinkled some flour onto a previously clean spot on the wooden countertop, only to automatically reach for the towel and drop the action again. No, it was time to bake. You needed to bake. You needed to make this place feel like home for the next couple of months, even if this peculiar character was going to be sharing it.

When you finally slid the pie into the oven and shut the door, giving it one last look before setting the timer for forty-five minutes, a curiosity crawled from the crevices of your mind and poked at you. Were you really going to avoid that man for your entire stay, assuming he was leaving soon? You had already admitted to yourself that he was objectively… and subjectively attractive. That much you had to give to him. Attitude - you were not quite ready to make judgments about, considering that if it were you in his place, you would have been chasing yourself around the house with a frying pan. It was comical, really; a stranger in a house, baking like they own the place. In spirit you might, to a person not in the know you were the official owner, but to the family who inherited the place you likely were nothing but a pest or an echo of the past that they were trying to forget. At least they did not demolish the cottage yet.

With a side step, you headed in the direction of the couch, but moved on when you noticed more damage than you had been used to on the window off to its side. Running a hand over the edges, it was clear that a certain someone had not shut it properly when nature had played up outside. So you had your tasks being planned out for you; with a grin, you nodded at the prospect. Nothing like good old maintenance of a castle in the sky to do the trick of dissociating you from your own life and responsibilities. All you needed was the right tools, perhaps some wood, and some paint. And then the fence gate could do with some tender love and care… you listed off parts of the house that you wanted to renovate or check on, imagining something greater and better than yourself. You noted the gentle breeze outside, and even though a greyness prevailed, it was far more promising for a brighter day than the performance the clouds had put on yesternight; maybe this autumn would not be too rough, and would show you its beautiful colours.

You did not see the mysterious guest until it was approximately dinner time. The pie was being kept safe and warm in the oven, and you were idly leafing through an ancient magazine - the remnants of days that you had spent at the cottage back when Old Man was still around. Another thing frozen in time, to be forever beautiful until you were to forget it. The shadowy presence commanded your attention almost immediately, and you lifted your head only to peer into a solemn darkness in the shape of a scowl, etched out on exhausted elegance. The man sighed before crossing his arms, and leaned against one of the few segments of the wall that was not bowing under the weight of framed memories, pins and nails.

Just what was this person thinking? As the clock marked your shared awkwardness with every tick, you grew more self-conscious. Was there something so repulsive about your presence, that the guest, or rather… the present resident, could not bear to function without hostility? Letting the pages fall onto one another, forming a yellowed stack, you rose from your position, having been hunched over the combined kitchen and dinner table.

“Some pie?”

The words landed somewhere between your two forms, unusually shy, a request so timid and tentative that it might as well have been the wind outside. One tick of the clock, another, and another. It was easy to wonder if you appeared untrustworthy. It must be the way in which your brows were positioned, or how the corners of your mouth naturally curled ever so slightly downwards if you were not paying attention. Or maybe-

“Sure. Thanks.”

That same tone. Words, curt, unforgiving, but a step towards proper introduction. Who knew such coldness could evoke a wave of joy in anyone? As though on command, you hurried to the kitchen, a childish excitement overtaking you as you imagined the reaction he might have to your baking. It was one of the few things that was your safe haven - although you did not indulge in the activity too often, you had experienced the euphoria that came with it enough times to elevate it above the usual hobby. He had to enjoy the apple pie, surely.

As you grabbed the towel to use as makeshift heat protection, and prepared a mat onto which to set down the perfectly warm pie, you noticed the dark haired man match your movements. Narrowly missing your elbow, he navigated the space with calculated reach, and produced cutlery, plates, and a couple of mugs. Without any consultation, his selection of items was soon on the table, and next, the kettle was obediently bubbling up with excitement for another steaming cup of tea. You raised your eyebrows and huffed, balancing the pie in your hands as you walked around the counters and gently set it down. With a nod you confirmed your own satisfaction and gestured to your partner in table-setting to take a seat. He refused, instead remaining standing stock still by the lonely piece of furniture, pupils gliding along wherever you went.

Those deep eyes, a blended mahogany and sienna, depending on how downcast the lashes appeared to be, remained trained either on you, or were burning holes in the tablecloth as you picked at your respective slices. The wisps of flavour and freshness escaped the filling, an unfathomably lush aroma clinging desperately to the air in the search of a satiated appreciator. But to no avail. No lips uttered a single word of praise, nor did you dare ask for it. It was a habit that you had been forced to break away from come adulthood, not that it had ever given you much satisfaction before the fact. You tried to convince yourself that the culinary feat was as delicious as Old Man had told you it had been, but in the gloom of your company and circumstance, it tasted bland, colourless, miserable. As though you were eating your own forlornness. You rested your fork on the edge of the plate, no longer having the courage to take another bite.

Just when you were about to give into your impulses and storm out, only pausing to consider if you should permanently borrow the rain coat that was hanging by the front door, the man quietly raised a piece of the dessert to his mouth, not minding your not quite discreet gawking. Savouring every bit of texture, the harmony of ingredients that collaborated to produce the bucolic ideal in gastronomic form, he revelled in the taste of home. You noted the subtle changes in his appearance as he roughly sliced away another bitesize piece with his fork, then another, features relaxing into the experience as though finally after many days if not weeks he saw the sun. You melted into a close-mouthed smile, turning away to let your gaze aimlessly wander across the living room.

“It’s good.”

“Thank you.”

There it was. Your first exchange. The beginning of something. Or the end. Perhaps both. When you turned back, no longer did his face appear as dangerous, instead sustaining an almost amiable curiosity.

“Why aren’t you eating?” his question held genuine concern as he paused, darting down to your hands and back upwards.

“I- oh, sorry, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” settling in what you assumed to be the safest option, your trained clinical professionalism you responded and started to hack away at the pie before you. Your choice of words provoked a chuckle - an unexpected sound that echoed in your ears for a little longer than you would have liked.

“Not at all… I think the two of us are even,” ever so enigmatic, your interlocutor responded. You let a slice of apple melt on your tongue, fructose and syrup clouding your nerves over choosing the right way to respond.

“...In?”

“Two people caught adrift in the middle of a storm, unsure of whether to keep holding on, or to let go. Are we not alike?”

Peculiar expression, unsettling, piercing through you and laying you bear until the pie left a bitter aftertaste. But of course, you could not do anything except pass it off as nothing. It was only natural for your self-acknowledged and accepted self-denial. Moreover, how could you two be similar? Obviously from different places, with different visions, the only thing that brought you together was this little cottage by the sea. At the same time, the words planted a seed of curiosity in your mind. Old Man liked to say there existed no coincidences, only well-hidden strings of fate and twists of certainty. You peered at the man again, gaze inadvertently settling on the freckle that was positioned almost perfectly in the middle of his collarbone - even what some of your clients considered to be an imperfection contained balance and elegance. Like hell would anyone ever be able to replicate that. Out of habit, you measured angles, sized up the man sitting opposite- at least you were not giving him the doctor smile yet - staying at the cottage was already doing you some good.

“So…” you began, but the words died away faster than flowers in early spring before you could deliver them, joining the disappearing wisps of heat from the pie.

“What brings me here? I assume that is the question,” so the delivery was successful. You nodded, attempting to ignore the hint of smugness tugging at the stranger’s lips, “I needed a break. So… I looked for a place. Remembered some relatives, then… ended up here. Yourself?”

“Oh,” you revealed your surprise, the phrases playing back in your head. ‘Relatives’... so Old Man did have someone inherit the property after all?

“Oh?”

“Sorry. You just said, ‘relatives’?”

“Well, yes,” he set his cutlery aside, gracefully picking up the cup of tea to take a sip before continuing, “this cottage is under the name of one of my cousins, however, as you can see… they have no use for it. Hence why I was told I can stay here for as long as I like.”

“Luxurious.”

“Hardly.”

“Limitless time off? A rarity in this day and age,” you sighed, giving a bittersweet smile.

“Everything is measured by time, be it days or bills. Runs out eventually.”

“That-” you paused, “is true,” it was difficult to admit that the smile you received from your fellow dessert buddy was charming, but there was simply no other way to describe it. Except perhaps ‘dazzling’ would do, but you did not wish to get ahead of yourself and swoon over a man whose name you did not even know.

“So, dare I ask the same elaboration? What brings you to the edge of the world?”

The clock ticked loudly in your ears, and you swore you could sense the draft creeping across the floorboards and over your feet. The moment was surreal, and not in a million years you would think you would find yourself in a situation such as this. At least not when considering the gruelling cycle you had subscribed to since you were young enough to give up your dreams in favour of others’. You were here because you were re-tracing your steps back to a time when you still had air in your lungs and a fighting spirit that had not been charred by a bleak reality and troubling conventions that society hammered down on everyone without exception. In some sense, for a little while, you did not wish to be yourself, but a version that you kept hidden away.

“I suppose I needed a break too, so I came back to the one place that I know as a paradise.”

“Intriguing. Did you know great uncle Yang?” he followed, tilting his head just a little.

“Yeah. Quite well, actually,” you were curt. Unwilling to share too much, but the man pressed on.

“How?”

“Came ‘round quite often,” you poked at the remnants of your pie slice.

“I wish I could have,” caught off-guard, you lifted your head, perplexed, “I have only heard about how amazing of a man he was. Distance proved to be unconquerable for me, and excuses far too strong to rebuke. Am I correct in assuming that you were closer?”

“Closer… I guess. I… well. I’m from this area. Grandpa, he- him and Old Man Yang were friends so…”

“Is your grandfather from the village-”

“He was… he had resided in a neighbouring house before it got torn down.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for bringing the mood down.”

“The mood is how it is - like the weather, sometimes you need a little rain to appreciate the sunshine.”

“A poet, aren’t you?” you half-joked, trying to turn the situation around. The memories were flooding back at a fast pace, and you were struggling to keep up with them. The guest, however, was instead taken aback, as though your jesting was an accidental truth. You raised an eyebrow.

“How did you… do you know me?”

“I feel like we have been apologising back and forth but, really sorry am I supposed to-”

“Oh no! Not at all! It is just that you are right, I am a poet. Job-wise, I mean,” taking notice of the way in which he started to attack the edge of his shirt sleeve.

“It’s cool.”

“Hm?”

“Your job.”

“Ah, it’s just throwing words on a page and hoping they make sense-”

“If that’s what it is then you’re gifted. Hoping is already an art. Hardly anyone does that anymore,” yourself included. Finally, you were more at ease; whether it was with yourself or with the situation at hand, you could not be bothered to decide.

“Thank you… are you in the arts?”

“Maybe some people would consider what I do a sort of art, but at the end of the day it’s far, far from it. Surgeon. Cosmetic.”

“So the science side of beauty?”

“Science and human opinion collided. Thankfully, there’s plenty of nature here for me to rest my eyes,” you gestured around you, suggesting the quietude of the cottage, and absence of any community in the immediate vicinity. The man nodded in understanding, choosing not to comment further.

“I… I do not think I have introduced myself yet. Park Seonghwa. Though, Seonghwa is absolutely fine seeing as we are friends by circumstance.

“Well, fantastic to meet you, Seonghwa. L/N Y/N. I hope we have great times ahead of us.”

“This time is all ours.”

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

As Seonghwa watched you redo the fence gate, he could not help but wonder if you really were a surgeon or not. Perhaps he was being a little prejudiced, but the image he had held in his mind of doctors and nurses was vastly different to how you carried yourself. Starting from how lacking in enthusiasm your descriptions of what you did were - without an ounce of pride, you simply listed off a couple of facts about your workplace like address, services and your responsibilities, and then returned to pondering housework and searching for tools. Seonghwa had assumed that any cosmetic surgeon working in a private clinic that was located in one of the most coveted and famous neighbourhoods of the capital would have a lot more of a well-meaning snootiness, or at the very least an eagerness to share their experiences. After all, the years of study and training had to be a mark of lifelong dedication, no?

You were anything but delicate with your hands as they aligned wood against wood. However, these same hands were steady, each movement calculated, deliberate, precise. There was not a single bit of power wasted in how you realigned the gate to not sink at the hinges. Tools arranged on a miniature mat did remind Seonghwa of what he had seen in medical dramas - neat operating chambers, every piece of equipment counted and arranged in a very specific order. So far, your actions and habits had been the most telling, making him choose to believe you. It was highly probable that you were exactly like him, hiding from yourself, from your immediate responsibilities - the weight on your shoulders having gotten increasingly overwhelming. It was not as if he had been fully open, heart on sleeve, with you and you were not returning the honesty; both of you had chosen to remain observers, walking in a circle as though there was an unspoken showdown, suspense in which both of you were waiting for something to go wrong. He did not wish to reveal his weaknesses, and neither did you.

In no time at all, you were done with the gate, marking the success by standing up straight and wiping your hands with a towel you nicked from one of the closets that Seonghwa had never yet dared to open. Catching his eye, you smiled and gave a cheerful thumbs up, one which he instinctively returned from his viewing spot by the front door. You picked up the equipment, roughly shoved it into a bag, and upon a quick adjustment of your jeans swiftly made your way back into the house. As you were kicking off your shoes, using your feet to position them in a reasonable spot that was out of the direct way into the house, Seonghwa spotted a little stain on your sweater. It could have been easily avoided with a rolling of the sleeves, however given your determination, it felt intentional. He bit his lower lip, musing the meaning behind your numerous deliberate actions over the last few days.

It was easy enough to notice that out of the two of you, Seonghwa was far more neat and pedantic about maintaining said ‘clean’ environment, while you were all for a freer living situation, not bothering to readjust the bathroom towels, or straighten the chair after pushing it back. Without a shadow of a doubt, you were very much in control of what you were doing - it was obvious. Sometimes, the young poet was sure that you were reminding yourself to not be organised, and only at critical times, such as the maintenance works on the gate, did training and composure characteristic of a highly skilled medical professional shine through. Without any explicit mission or goal, you appeared to be running from order, an act previously unimaginable to Seonghwa, but one he could understand, having been doing what was essentially the opposite. He resisted further moving your shoes when you walked into the living room, and bit back a comment about how you set the tools off to the side on the floor, instead continuing to watch you float to the kitchen to wash your hands. You were refreshed, a little sun in the departure of the cold season, your pink cheeks and grin that was threatening to take over all of your features returning a bashful youthfulness to you - something that he could not spot in the slightest upon first meeting. He did not know you yet, but he could sense that this was much more like the real you than the exhausted shell of a human who was suspicious of everything and everyone.

Seonghwa ran a hand through his hair before crossing his arms and leaning against the arc that separated the kitchen and living room, studying your approach to the window that he had combatted some days ago. You were in your element, fluid, determined. As much as you probably would have hated to hear him say, you were very much a surgeon before an operation, plan in the eyes and stable hands raised in front of you as you assessed your metaphorical patient. Was this a cosmetic procedure? Or a lot more invasive? Terminology he had picked up from perusals of the news and media plagued Seonghwa’s mind as he watched you carefully unlock the window, click your tongue and get to picking at the rotten frame, a replacement sitting patiently under your feet. How and where from - you were not too inclined to reveal all secrets of the cottage, but he could gather that there was some underlying rhythm or internal network of miscellaneous tools and ‘thingamajigs’ that all harmonised to create the cosy domestic paradise he had come to enjoy in his undetermined stay.

It was enthralling how, out of the two of you, you seemed to be more in harmony with the place. Well, perhaps not so strange, considering you were the one who had practically grown up in these walls. And much like Seonghwa could only guess about the inner workings of the house, the same came to you. Without any particular desire to be welcoming or amiable, you were focused on tending to any impending ruin rather than entertaining a stranger. This, however, made the poet all the more intrigued. You had to be running from something, maybe something similar to his own demons. Maybe something much darker. The nature of your work was a double-edged sword, after all. What were you seeing, or decisively ignoring by making this grand escape to the end of the world?

“Right, this should last a while. Seems the winter was pretty harsh this year, so I’ll have to check the rest of the windows too. You know what, maybe the attic as well,” you explained as you stood up straight, wiping your hands with the cloth you had retrieved from the toolkit.

“There is an attic?”

“Uh, yeah. You can get to it from my room.”

“You mean the guest room that you raided?”

“Hardly a guest room when there are no guests here, don’t you think?” you raised an eyebrow, sauntering past him, clearly searching for a way to set your words in stone with a pointed physical gesture.

“Mm, you’re right,” the last thing Seonghwa wanted was trouble on an already stormy horizon.

“Ah… Seonghwa?” you tentatively uttered his name, as if still testing how it sounded.

“That’s right.”

“What were you planning on doing?”

“Huh?”

“Right now.”

“...Probably returning to the office-”

“-ah, so you are going to hole yourself up. Got you,” without giving as much as a second to process or retaliate, you continued, “could you figure out food? If you don’t mind, that is. When I was getting the kit I saw something I wanted to check out. Shouldn’t be long, though.”

“I’ll see what I can put together.”

For what had to be the first time, Seonghwa noted the hint of a genuine smile ghosting over your lips. As you responded with a quick ‘thank you’ and left the cottage once more, already on another mission, he could not help but pause and tilt his head in confusion.

“Well wasn’t that awfully domestic…” The terrifying part was that he was not entirely opposed to the gesture.

Newfound vigour spread over his body and ignited a gentle flame in his heart. With purpose, he moved across from the living room back to the kitchen, beginning his search and preparations. This could also be a chance to get to know you better - your likes and dislikes, any quirks and habits. In turn, he had an opportunity to tell you wordlessly about himself. Brushing loose hair out of his face as he leaned over to grab a cutting board, he exhaled, amused. Care. Expression of care. Soothing waves of comfort and affection in the form of acting to provide some form of relief for another. This was something he had entirely forgotten in the blur of his day to day, and abandoned the possibility of returning to the notion by making an unplanned escape, only to find the lost memory right here, in this cottage. Doing, without wanting something in return except harmless conversation.

Time went by swiftly when it passed with purpose. Mind left unoccupied by hauntings of rhyme and rhythm thanks to a pleasant sense of urgency, Seonghwa could concentrate on making something out of whatever he had found in the cupboards and fridge. Back in the city, particularly towards the last few months before his sudden departure, he rarely cooked, be it due to lack of time or of energy. Instead he relied on restaurants where he had to survive loud company, or takeaway orders which, eventually, had all come to taste the same. Solitude had woken him up, and your appearance was another jolt to the system. Curious, how the mind worked.

The afternoon crawled towards the evening with certainty, and as the horizon turned to a murky grey with the hints of sunset, you returned, tired, but triumphant. Quietly, as though you were old friends who had exhausted all conversation, you made final preparations and dined. The occasional compliment escaped you, much to Seonghwa’s joy, but other than that, he was left to spin stories about you and leave it all up to overly elaborate guesswork. Asking about the shed did not do much, either. Brushing everything off as though the fixes had been but a mere ‘walk in the park’ was your well-measured defence. They could be, compared to whatever you did back in the city. Eventually, Seonghwa mustered the courage to attempt to satiate his curiosity, and left a question hanging in the air.

“Could you… tell me more about yourself?”

“That’s quite broad. What do you want to know?”

“Mm… cutting straight to the chase, huh.”

“I’m not one to enjoy wasting time,” you emphasised, setting down your fork on a cleared plate and leaning back in your chair, clearly in anticipation of an unpleasant interrogation. Seonghwa had to tread with care, but could not help the stirring of his inquisitive nature.

“Right, I figured. Barely arrived and the cottage is already pristine,”

“Hardly. Much work still left to do.”

“Well, give yourself at least some credit-”

“-So, the question?” you interrupted, putting your elbows on the table and tilting your head. No optimism or kindness in your eyes as you regarded Seonghwa. Just what were you thinking he was going to say?

“Ah, yes. Uh… how do I say this… considering we are both in, hm-”

“In the middle of nowhere, you can say that. I won’t take it personally,” you nodded urging him to get to the point.

“Thanks. So, since we are here, I have been thinking if our reasons for being here are in any way similar. Or, if not, just how different,” when you did not respond, or even acknowledge his thoughts, he persisted, “that’s about it… I mean, if you want to talk about it, that is.”

“Not really-”

“Oh! Okay, I- sorry,”

“No, you’re fine. Just because I don’t really want to doesn’t mean I won’t. It’s all part of getting to know a person, isn’t it?” turning to the side, you stared at the freshly redone window. It was holding up well. Beautifully, even. Seonghwa hated to keep making the comparisons, but he could not rid himself of the image of how you could be like professionally. Perhaps this was because this was the only concrete thing he had found out about you, but you were, in his eyes, every bit a representation of the medical field. Just as he assumed you were going to bestow upon him more discoveries, you shot him a side glance, “besides, it’s not like you are an open book either. For all I know you might be on the run from the police.”

“What?” he exclaimed a little too loudly to consider calm.

“I’m just kidding. Or am I?” you quickly raised your eyebrows, clearly finding amusement in Seonghwa’s discomfort, “Anyways… what brings me here… well, I am on a break. I’d like to think it is a well-deserved one.”

“Annual leave?”

“I guess, though, in medicine… is there ever such a thing? We’re not exactly corporate are we.”

Seonghwa finished the last of his meal and took a quick sip of his tea. While you were not looking directly at him, he could feel your scrutiny nonetheless. Suddenly, he felt the need to redo his hair, check his face in the mirror, adjust his clothes - anything to feel more presentable, even though it would not make much of a difference. Cold, but not hostile. Thinking back to how he had greeted you, he cringed. Was this the impression he had inadvertently given? Maybe. Very likely, actually, considering that for the first while he wanted nothing to do with another individual in the house. And now what was he expecting, an immediate shift into being best friends or at least allies? Biting the inside of his cheek, he mumbled:

“Might be foolish on my part, but I suppose I thought clinics would work differently.”

“Oh they do, that’s correct. But since money has to be made, we have to do a bit more negotiation to have a nice, unbroken holiday.”

“Two weeks?”

“See, that’s what employers want. More like four to six. Paid. I did my time in that place and I would say me being away would benefit all of society.”

“You’re making it sound like torture,” with a bitter laugh, you accepted his joke.

“How much would you like me to tell you about what I do? Until you agree?” your tone was flat, unnerving.

The wind was, once again, picking up outside, and whatever patchy thin wisps of cloud had been hovering around the area already disappeared, to be replaced by thick storm bringers, looming, menacing. An all-consuming darkness was rolling across the horizon and right towards the cottage, and Seonghwa could only hope that you really did know what you were doing when it came to mending. Out of habit, he adjusted the shorter strands that fell over his face, and took another sneaky glance at your features. Drumming out some unknown rhythm on the table, your fingers danced across the tablecloth. You were daring him to agree. And who would he be if he did not accept the challenge? Most certainly not an artist.

“I… I suppose you can tell me anything.”

“Heart to heart with a stranger?”

“Sure. If you are okay with that.”

“Then tell me this, Seonghwa,” you turned towards him again, only this time, you did look angered, “are you here because you are an eccentric, or because celebrity life got too much?”

“So you do know me,”

“While I was outside I remembered seeing your face on top searches or something. You sure know how to build up a following.”

“I call that a fluke.”

“Collaborating with a famous singer to write songs for their album is a fluke?”

“We have a mutual friend. Mutual friend reached out to me, said ‘hey you write poetry, how about you help out’ and so I did- hey, wait, why am I defending something normal-”

“I don’t know, but something is making you antsy, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, it’s probably the fact that you are attacking me out of the blue.”

“I am just asking a question.”

“Sounds like you are judging me,”

“Aren’t you judging me?”

“Aren’t we both judging each other?”

“True.”

With a huff, you crossed your arms and looked at your empty plate. Seonghwa followed suit, agitated. Neither of you had particularly good points, but nonetheless managed to bring to light issues that you and him were denying. Without a single word, both Seonghwa and yourself were going through the skeletons that were in the closets of your minds. He cleared his throat.

“It’s the latter. You hit the nail on the head.”

“I see.”

“People might pretend to know one thing or another about lyrics, but no one ever cares to read past that. I’ve had maybe one, two people ask me about my poetry, and none about my post graduate work.”

“Post graduate?”

“Yes.”

“Linguistics? Literature?”

“Something like that.”

A pause. The first few rain droplets hit the roof of the cottage and splattered against the windows facing the shore. It had to be another downpour coming. The clock continued its dedicated beat, and you were an immovable statue, as if you were storing away all he had told you about himself. Though he had not offered a resume to you, of course he wouldn’t, it was probably easy enough for you to put one experience with another, and paint his whole life.

“A scholar,” Seonghwa sharply exhaled, wondering how you had come to this conclusion.

“Trying to be. Probably more accurate to say that I am a poetry nerd who wants to become an academically accredited poetry nerd.”

“Hey, you’re passionate. That’s commendable,” your eyes softened, reminding Seonghwa of how people regarded something fragile. All because of hope? The same hope and inspiration which he had lost and was trying to discover again?

“I should be saying that to you. I mean medical school, and then launching into active practice right after is no easy feat.”

“That… is true.”

“But something’s off?”

“Bingo.”

“And you are running from it.”

“Hm… probably. Actually, you know what let’s call things like they are. That’s right.”

“And this thing is…?” he trailed off, encouraging you. You stared at the view outside the window, shapes now barely distinguishable as the droplets turned into bucketfuls and the streaks across the glass transformed into an unbroken blur. As your gaze settled back on the man sitting across from you, he saw a resemblance between the weather and your expression, and could not look away out of fear that he could miss the ever-changing emotions, musings, revelations that etched themselves on your face, only to disappear in a split second.

“You know…answer me this. I think you are the perfect person to ask.”

“Ask away.”

“What is ‘beauty’?”

“Beauty.”

“Yes. Beauty. What is it?”

“To me, or-”

“Whatever way you want to answer. What is it?”

“A feeling.”

You tilted your head and squinted in response to him. Truth be told, Seonghwa surprised even himself by the speed of his outburst. Feeling. He could not define beauty, and he did not believe that he was in a position to ever do so, but based on the callings of his heart, based on the changes of nature, of how words flowed from pen to paper or how they felt on the tongue and on the lips, he could sense beauty, and he was sure of it.

“Interesting. An artistic answer, I’ll give you that.”

“Were you looking for something else?”

“Something more clinical, potentially. But I like how you put it better. It’s more alive.”

“Are you running from beauty?”

“More like, I don’t know what it is anymore. And so my feet led me to the place where I think it existed. Or as you say, the feeling existed.”

“But… beauty is everywhere, no?” He knew he was being hypocritical, having cursed his own environment - both animate and inanimate, time and time again, but the mantra of any dreamer was the only thing that crossed his mind in this moment.

“Not in a cosmetic surgeon’s office, it’s not. Everyone either walks in there thinking it doesn’t exist, or walks out thinking that way. Aesthetic beauty, visual beauty is such a lie that I sometimes wonder if I see at all. Don’t get me wrong, I love nothing more than to make someone feel like they really are in their own skin, and countless times I have seen people gaining their happiness and their whole lives back after a visit to our clinic... but... beauty. Beauty itself is so, so strange.”

Your voice wavered. Any previously existing hard exterior was but an illusion, and Seonghwa could see the faint glow of a young spirit who wanted to do better for the world, but was beaten down, deciding that it had enough for a long time. In the effort to save it, you came here. To find your so-called muse, your safe space.

“I want to hear more… about this. If you don’t mind.”

“About people putting themselves down?” you sighed, ready to stand up and take your leave.

“No, no! Goodness, no. More about beauty. And what you think of it. And why do you think you ‘lost’ it, in a sense?”

“I’m starting to think we really are on the same boat in the same storm…” you mumbled, glancing at the time, and then rocking in the chair to finally lift yourself up, “... then I say we need more tea.”

“Consider it done.”

Some shuffling, dishwashing, and side glances later, both of you were settled on the edges of the sofa, preferring to find a reason to not stare at one another rather than adopt a position akin to that at a therapist’s office. Neither of you wanted to pretend you held answers to the mind’s mysteries, and neither of you wanted to come off as some complex character. Instead, you slowly but surely began to lay all your cards down on the table as the barley tea cooled in your cups. Seonghwa silently nodded as you elaborated on your frustration with the perfectly in line plates, the crisp and straightened towels, and the spotless counters. Unsettling, inexplicable, but the sensations you experienced when you stared at the lack of chaos were more than real.

“It’s the uniformity that puts me off.”

“So… things being in order, organised, in their places… annoys you?”

“Well… I cannot say it annoys me, because it doesn’t… this goes away after a while. But for the first little bit of time I will probably freak out whenever I see things that look a little too clean.”

“Got it. I shouldn’t clean up messes. See? You have something you find beautiful,” Seonghwa pointed out, a soft smile gracing his lips. As the conversation took on a more abstract, philosophical tone and your dispositions ceased to be so formal, he felt himself relaxing more and more by the second, and decisively taking the lead in conversation.

“Hm. A little chaos couldn’t hurt anyone. But I am sorry though, it must have been unnerving, considering that you are doing the opposite,” you responded, a genuinely apologetic look on your face. So you did notice. You were quick. Or simply very observant. Seonghwa shook his head to try and dismiss the little positive attention, but to no avail, “no really, it is nice to see you feeling at home here. I mean this.”

“This really is your place, isn’t it?” he narrowed his eyes, appearing rather feline as he tilted his head, hair flattening on the back of the sofa.

“It holds a lot of memories.”

“Tell me, did you come here to look for memories, or to change your present?”

“A bit of both. So, like I mentioned. Beauty. It’s sort of been a sore topic for me since I was a kid. Be it to fit a standard visually, or academically, or whatever else. Success was beauty, beauty was success. But there comes a time where, when you hear about beauty a few too many times, it starts to lose meaning,” you stopped for a moment to gather your thoughts and listen to the howling of the wind outside. With a click of the tongue, you continued, “You know how when you repeat a word again and again, it starts to sound and feel weird?”

“Yes.”

“Same with anything. If there is no variation, if there is no real value behind a given repetition, beauty is just some random ‘thing’ that cannot be achieved.”

“Value behind repetition?��

“Yeah. We breathe right?”

“Right.”

“Heart beats, right?”

“Right…” Seonghwa momentarily shut his eyes, focusing on the sensations you were describing, feeling a little more alive.

“Those are all valuable repetitions. And even then, we feel them so differently. But… what is something ‘beautiful’? It could be like you said, a sense. But saying ‘beauty’ this, or ‘beauty’ that… the concept ends up being void of meaning to me.”

“Hm… could it be that… in that context - the context of your job, the context of your day to day, how beauty is presented to you... is something you disagree with?”

“Ah! That, yes, exactly-” setting your cup down on the coffee table, you clapped your hands, happy with the encapsulation.

It felt easier than it should have been to establish something artists chase after and die for. A diagnosis uttered by a ruthless analyst marking the withering of beauty in another’s life. With the presence of a dulled, uninspired eye came the ability to see past mere feeling, and evaluate the essence of what had been plaguing you, and apparently, Seonghwa as well. He was in muted shock, both delighted and horrified by the conclusion. Loss of beauty because of the world in which he lived - how could a poet survive, if not by translating their works to terror? In the blink of an eye, the discourse was abandoned, and Seonghwa found himself floating in his own mind, the dark ocean waves crawling through his ear canals - a deafening roar marking the coming of his nightmares. Ever since he had become interested in poetry, he was fond of what he could experience with his five senses, and then added a sprinkle of inferences with a mystical sixth. Flowing from line to line he felt, and admired what surrounded him in syllables until the world began to darken, and his wrist and brain transformed to lead. In the absence of what he thought was beautiful, was he truly surrounded by something utterly vile? If extrapolating from your conclusions, it could very well be the case.

“...-hwa, Seonghwa-” startled, his eyes darted side to side and then settled on you. He did not realise he was clenching his cup with a white-fisted rage and, embarrassed, set it down beside yours on the table, “what had you so pensive?”

Your worry was charming, the young poet could not deny. How your lips, slightly parted, were waiting on what to say. How even though you were clearly fighting your own battles, you immediately pushed them away. No wonder you were tired. And no wonder Seonghwa felt a resemblance to you. Feeling. And feeling too much. Even when you were clearly burned out from doing so, you were ready to do it again, and again, until you were nothing but a trembling stalk of grass on the cliffside, swaying with current affairs and mundane happenings everyone had to abide by. Going with the flow was something neither of you could settle for, and that was what ended up bringing you together.

“When we think beauty is gone, does it mean there is not even a likeness to it, or does it mean we are not looking hard enough?”

“Mm… good question,” you traced abstract shapes on the pillow you took into your lap, maybe for comfort, maybe to have at least an illusion of a barrier between you and him. Seonghwa kept quiet, picking up the tea and masking his concern, “Since we both ran as soon as we’ve had enough, I think the former. An optimist would probably say the latter but based on what I have seen… I find it damn hard to believe in a happily ever after.”

“Did something happen?”

“Hm… did it?” you echoed, gaze fixed on the floorboards.

“Cleary. I am all ears.”

“You are doing too much.”

“This is the least I can do,” judging by the way you regarded him, being heard was a rare occasion for you, and sent a strange ache into Seonghwa’s heart. How many of your stories were left untold?

“Where do I even start… let’s just say this holiday was not fully on my own volition.”

“That rebellious, huh?”

“That’s what happens when you convince someone to leave the clinic, I fear.”

“You told someone to leave?” perplexed and fascinated, Seonghwa turned to fully face you.

“I mean… when you have a sixteen year old girl sitting there in front of you telling you she has one thing after another to fix and got a giftcard for eyelid surgery from her family… that’s the best option, in my opinion.”

“W-what?!”

“Happens more often than you’d think,” you dismissed his shock with a melancholic coldness, “we try our best to find compromises, best plans, bring happiness into a patient’s life, but when you can clearly see they are being pressured or are at risk of a plethora of other things both physical and mental… I draw the line.”

“You just have your morals set, and want what you feel is best.”

“And that is bad for business. Maybe I’m missing the plot. Maybe I should actually let people carve themselves up however they wish.”

Resigned, you stood up and walked towards the window, each step heavier than the previous one. Seonghwa observed your motions, seeing in you a tired sun that could barely lug itself across the heavens. Wrapped up in smoky grey, your shine slumbered, and you regarded the dull landscape with a matching passivity. For all you cared, at least in this moment in time, the stormy weather could last an eternity. An angered muse on the verge of giving up; an ancient legend on the verge of extinction; a sacrifice in the midst of the bloodbath that was the strive for perfection. A lost voice. You were not the first, and most certainly not the last to suffer this cruel fate and its many variations. In fact, if Seonghwa were to look in the mirror, he knew he would discover in his inky pupils the same resolution. If he were to look into a million faces, they too, would bear the traces of antithesis to childhood dreams. Disillusionment - the bane of existence, and the band to unite it.

He wished he could memorise this scene with every intricate detail remaining intact. The way the light flickered across your face as raindrops strengthened their barrage was downright haunting, and reminiscent of a television’s unsettling static that could make a room glow white. You delicately hugged yourself, lost in thought. Voice barely above a whisper escaped you, a string of apologies as you appeared to allow yourself to feel regret over being your true self around someone who was barely an acquaintance.

“I’m sorry… I… I talked a lot didn’t I? Complete nonsense too. I mean, what the hell is the point of taking something untouchable apart, as if we could ever understand it?” you bit your lower lip. Seonghwa imagined the sea foam decorating the shore, the ebb and flow of the erratic waves while he studied the patterns in your hair. The odd wave, the styling of stubborn locks all amounting to acceptance of its unruliness. Was that not beautiful?

A tender blossom in the earliest spring, wavering and inching its way upwards, filled with hope. A budding, pale green leaf, only just unfurling, tentatively feeling the first breeze, trembling with anxious delight. Seonghwa remained still as he let the progression of scenes dash past him while he gazed at you. Shyly smiling to himself, he greeted his own sleepy heart. It stirred, intrigued by the unpredictable series of events and serendipitous meeting, recalling words that had turned foreign to him not too long ago. While there were millions of characters, thousands of lines and an infinite number of ideas, the root remained a timid secret, one Seonghwa did not wish to explore quite yet. In the absence of beauty, or the stalling of its perception, remembering beauty was more than enough.

“You’re doing well.”

“Hm? You mean, uh, the window?” confused, you pointed at the frame, earning a chuckle from the wistful poet.

“That too, of course, but I meant in general. You are doing well,” before you could speak, he interrupted your doubt, “you are not failing, you are planning ahead. There is only so much we can do, and sometimes, pausing is the only right decision.”

Seonghwa hoped that by saying this out loud, to you, he could take his own advice. But it was never easy to listen to oneself, when he knew of all the noise that stuck to his brain, knew of the taunts and the mazes. It was more simple to wish that the verbal sword could cut through someone else’s worries, and in turn, shine a light on his own and let them evaporate. You grinned; you could have guessed that this was one of his mantras that he tried to learn how to believe in, or there was a sliver of a chance that you agreed. It was beautiful to wait.

구름을 은빛으로 물들이는 눈물 처럼 (like tears that colour the clouds silver)

바다와 하늘을 잇는 수많은 실이 있다 (there are many threads connecting the sea and the sky)

태양이 보이고 당신의 눈에 반사된다 (the sun is visible and reflects in your eyes)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

An oversharer, a wildfire, taken and enchanted by a glimpse of the silver mystical lining. In every storm there was a fair share of this metaphorical metal - hints of hope that anyone stranded could hold onto. To your dismay and horror, you found solace in a stranger… or could you even call Seonghwa by that title anymore? Having poured more from your life’s cup than you had done at catch ups with your city friends, you were terrified of the amiability you possessed, and the open-armed rush of confidence you had experienced when engaged in deep conversation was quickly replaced by fear. What if you were digging your grave? What if you had signed yourself up for demise? It was so unlike you to share so much… and yet it felt so comfortable. You were alive for once, and the cottage was beginning to warm up to you again, voices of more than one echoing off its walls. But how could you know that Seonghwa had good intentions? You could not remember much of what you had seen online, except some tiny excerpts about the title track on which he had worked, but other than that - nothing. You had over-exaggerated your knowledge of his ways and his work as a silly flex of superiority, but… the more you thought about it, the more guilty you felt. You were a liar. A fiend. Seeking company, but writhing like a snake.

Ever since that first heart to heart, you remained distant, despite Seonghwa’s consistent efforts to get to know you better and better. He was not pushy, kept his jokes lighthearted, but you saw every attempt to learn more about you and your stories as a threat. You were in the same house, but it was as though the walls were closing in just on you. With a violent tug, you forced the towel off the hanger and let it pool on the floor, fleece resembling the perfect sands on faraway islands that you had seen advertised an astonishing number of times, but chose to believe in it being some business-crafted utopia. You could not bear picking the towel up from the ground. No matter how many times you would try to hang it, it would not look conventionally pretty. You tried, you really tried to arrange things how Seonghwa arranged them, be it out of respect or to conform, but your hands would produce something akin to a tremble, and at the last moment, the final product - destruction, was before your eyes. Slowly, you sank to the floor, feeling cold tile. Struggling slightly, you crammed yourself against the wall, and pushed the door a little to leave nothing more than a tiny creak. One last razor cut of light to be a guiding thread back to hollow function.

Leaning against the wall, you found yourself trying to escape your own thoughts, but the more you stared into the darkness, the more futile this race was. Inevitably, you were your own limit. At times, it was a good thing - you could go as far as you could. But other times… it meant falling and falling deep down until you were in the state you were currently in. Hands shaking just enough to send a wave of panic crashing into you, eyelids heavy from questionable and ever-changing sleep. It felt strange, having someone new know of your concerns and information somewhat beyond your day to day. Unlike regular ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’, you had inadvertently let Seonghwa see the root of your worries, and it was astonishingly hard to bear. In the dark looming corners of the bathroom, you could see your reflection. The crumpled towel taunted you, and in a spur of rage, you kicked it, immediately curling back up, arms hugging your legs. What was so hard about sharing your mind? Was it because he looked like he understood? Or was it because you were afraid that he actually did understand, and now you were at his mercy?

Vulnerability - a muse for artists, a disease for those favouring logic and wishing to move through life as an invincible figure. You were in a position where people trusted you, or rather, had to trust you if they wanted a job well done. True, you were not quite senior enough in your career to carry out the more complex procedures, but you had done your fair share of scalpel holding to curse the anxious tremor of your hands at this present moment. The fear was becoming unbearable, and it was all because of some silly conversation about what made things beautiful, and what beauty was. Ridiculous. The words blended with the heavy rainfall outside, and continued to return like the tide, higher and higher each time. It had been quite a number of days since the seemingly simple and friendly talk, and yet it gnawed at you. You wanted out, no, you needed out of this mess. Out of your own head. Old Man would have undoubtedly laughed at you, called you a feral wild and untamed beast, incapable of letting a little sunshine in your life - something of a nickname that you had acquired in the last years of his life, when you were already deep in the river of souls in the capital. But he was not here to reassure you, not here to crack a joke at the right time or to offer you protection. If there was any way you were going to survive your sabbatical, you had to hold tight and keep to yourself for the remainder of the weeks. You were going to pretend you knew his motives, and at any opportunity would tell yourself that you were staring at evil’s beautiful eyes-

Beautiful. No. You shook your head in disapproval. Eyes. Just. Regular. Eyes. In the dim evening lamplight, when you two would silently share the living room, both of you preoccupied with your own version of dawdling, they held little fireflies. Reflections of warm gold and a stunning white on a near onyx sky. Just eyes that you could not read, windows through which you did not want to look in search of a soul. Some part of you hoped that this entrancing vision would remain with you, and you would never have to see him under nauseating fluorescent lights; the scene was a professional instinct, but if there was something which you approached with more aggression than even your own paranoid self-preservation, it was to detach your present, and your continuous. Seonghwa was Seonghwa, and did not need some nobody like you to pretend to know how he should look. You exhaled, a shiver running over your form as the chill from the floor became more noticeable. A poem popped up in your mind, or rather, the few lines that Seonghwa had quoted to you the other night. Something or other about flowers, how they bloomed and wilted. While you could not grasp the exact words, your heart kept the poem safe and whole, with such diligence that it hurt. It was another one of his tries to get you to inch out of your shell. You shut your tired eyes, only to see how the shadows fell across his face as he had turned to you, lips remaining parted when he trailed off, glimmering orbs regarding you so sincerely and gently that you wanted to howl in agony. With a rub of your palm, stopping at your mouth, you wished to wipe the memory physically - your mind was too unwilling to do so. No, Seonghwa had to be some tragic, cruel joke the universe was playing on you. He simultaneously was indescribable and yet so, so simple, but if you were to be tasked to put him into words, you would sooner learn how to fly than to be capable of achieving such a feat. On the tip of your tongue were so many phrases and solutions to mysteries but none clear enough to be whispered into the early dawn. Seonghwa was who he was, and that was what scared you. You could not let him get to you like this.

Reluctantly, only due to the cold starting to become unbearable, you pushed yourself off the floor, and were once again faced with the task of picking up the pitiful puddle of fabric. With an apparent scowl, you bent forward, lifting the item and throwing it over the hook, determining that this just had to do. No one was going to throw a fit over this - and if Seonghwa was, well, you would just be happy enough to have decided to try and maintain distance. The more evidence or actions to support your desires the better. Cautiously you slid out of the bathroom and made your way down the corridor, avoiding creaky floorboards. Seonghwa was probably still asleep, and you were supposed to be. The early dawn was creeping through the lazily drawn curtains, and painting the floor in a hazy blue and grey. Hints of sunshine, tentative, shy, could be spotted on the very edge of the horizon. Maybe, just maybe, the weather would start looking a little more like spring. One step, another, and you were nearly at the dining table, front door ahead of you. Technically, if you so wished, you could spend the day in solitude; a visit to the nearby village was long overdue and it would almost guarantee an entire day outside of the cottage and away from the man who had taken residence in your brain as if out of spite. In addition, you could run some errands, and that definitely needed an early start. Your mind began to craft an itinerary, happy to abandon worries one by one. The market, the bakery, an obligatory visit to the post office to greet Old Man's and grandpa's friend… much to do. So much to do, in fact, that you only narrowly missed a ghostly figure appearing and stopping right in front of you, and had to rely on its sleepy reflexes to prevent you from colliding head on. You yelped as hands grasped your upper arms, and in an effort to escape you stumbled back.

“Hey, careful-”

That honey-sweet, deep voice forced you to glance at the so-called ghost. Perplexed, you saw none other than Seonghwa, who had been on his way out of the cottage office, stopped by the crossing of your somnolent paths. Dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks, it was evident that he had been awake for at least as long as you, if not more. Like a deer caught in the headlights, you could only stare.

“You… you alright? Sorry if I scared you… it’s just… you know…”

“Oh no, I’m fine just… didn’t think you were awake, is all…” you mumbled, eyes starting to dart in all directions.

“Yeah, I get that. I didn’t sleep too well so I decided to get an early start to the day… same for you?”

“Sort of,” you were anxious under his burning observation. The shapeless, oversized hoodie that hung over your figure was your only salvation. Subconsciously, one of your hands reached for the opposing upper arm, forming something akin to a barrier between you and Seonghwa. Your legs protested, and you remained rooted to the same spot, only capable of a barely audible mutter: “I was thinking of heading out today. To the village. Will be out for a while.”

“Village? I have not been there yet. May I come with you?” eager, Seonghwa asked, smiling softly.

“Then how did you keep everything stocked up?”

“I’m organised. And visited that one super store that is on the way.”

“That’s even farther than the village?”

“Like I said. On the way.”

“Resourceful,” you knew you were stalling giving an answer to his request, but Seonghwa persisted.

“So… may I come with you?”

With no rain or violent dancing of the ocean waves to save the awkward quietude, you were in a situation no different to the one you were in a mere few minutes ago. Bathed in darkness, wisps of thoughts about the young poet permeating through restless meditation. He styled his hair differently today, you noted - most of it was brushed back, with a few elegant strands remaining over his face, approximately reaching the length of his nose. No wonder the media had clinged onto him; Seonghwa had undeniable appeal, and that on top of what was a unique form of artistry in the world of popular and quick entertainment, he was a dream for any agent, should he have found the limelight exciting. But clearly, he did not wish to risk going blind, and here he was, the muse and the poet in one form, trying to find peace.

“If I will be a nuisance, then it is okay I can-”

“Why not?” your swift interjection pushed Seonghwa into a long pause.

“Yeah. Why not, indeed. Thank you. Then, hm… may I quickly grab a couple of things? You were planning on leaving now, right?” You nodded, and watched him rush upstairs, revived.

The response, a little boyish, rough and carefree, brought a hint of a grin to your face. Simple pleasures in life were hard to find, and you had persuaded yourself to not acknowledge them, but you could not deny just how endearing it was to see Seonghwa glowing from the inside because of a couple of words and a trip to do some chores as if it was to be an adventure. You spun on your heels and ambled towards the front door. After throwing the hood over your head, you tugged on a puffer coat which you had rediscovered in one of the wardrobes - it had been a hand-me-down from Old Man when you had none of your clothes which were more suitable for rural life left after a strong push from your parents to forget your days on the shoreline. The coat had been one of the many secrets you shared with Old Man, and had been a small but certain happiness. Smelling like rain storms and sea salt, it was comforting, and still much too big for you. But it felt like home.

“Right, so, what exactly are we doing?” Seonghwa’s voice rang out across the room as he approached, having added a wool trench coat and pale scarf of an indistinguishable colour to his ensemble. You chuckled, stepping into your boots and gesturing for him to do the same.

“I was thinking we could hit the shops. Get some fresh produce if it’s been brought in already. That’s essentially the main goal. Oh, if you have anything digital to do, I know a place.”

“Really?”

“You have your phone in your pocket, right?” you pointed at his right hand which was stuffed into the mass of his coat. Seonghwa nodded.

“A standard representative of our generation, aren’t I?”

“I’d do the same if I had something urgent going on,” a flash of pained regret did not go unnoticed by you. Biting his lower lip, he suppressed whatever association he had made.

“Thank you.”

“Shall we?”

Seonghwa shifted his footing to reach around you, and turned the door handle. The early morning yawned out a pleasant chill. Pale green leaves of the shrubbery surrounding the house trembled with excitement, and the gate stood proud, awaiting its next command. Your hand hovered above the wood for a couple of seconds. You turned your head towards the poet.

“It might take us an hour or more to get there, are you fine with that?”

“More than fine. I guessed it wouldn’t be a five minute convenience store trip.”

“Alright then.”

As you embarked on your trek to the village, you decided that the landscape had finally started to take on more springlike hues. Previously barren trees which were bent by years of gales and hurricanes were now dotted with adorable buds of white, pink and green, while the grass that survived the winter was giving way to thriving youth. The Earth was turning, waking up and stretching in its celestial bed, starting to peek out from under its star-patterned blanket. You tugged on the hood and stuffed your hands into the pockets of Old Man’s coat, content with your split-second plan-making. While it was not ideal to have Seonghwa as your quest buddy, you could not exactly see him with the hoodie blocking out your peripherals. Only the crunching of gravel under a second pair of shoes marked his presence.

The scene was faintly nostalgic, but you could not put a finger on the reason why. As you wordlessly followed the winding road and veered off onto a trail that cut to the village, you simply accepted the comfort. The cherry blossom season must be coming here soon, and then the sun would surely roll out of its bed and the seas would be tranquil. You made a mental note to try to walk past the more residential outskirts to see if the gardens of the brave few still had the fragile flowers - the only marking of this representation of spring in the near vicinity. Gravel gave way to a sparser smattering of pebbles, and soon enough only rocks pressed deep into dirt from years of steps and bicycles were left for you to scrutinise. Occasionally, you caught a glimpse of Seonghwa’s shoes when he took a slightly longer stride - expensive, without a doubt. But even in a landscape that served as the antithesis to cosmopolitan luxury, you had to admit that Seonghwa wore them well. Gingerly, you peeked out from the side of your hood, eyes darting to a random point up ahead as soon as your walking partner’s head began to turn. Your assumption was right - he was every bit the character of a dark and dramatic novel; dressed in all black, halo of pale light gracing his locks. You hated how easy it was to question your morals in his favour, or rather in favour of your wanting to be more carefree and open around him. What other stories would he tell? What soft prose would dance on his lips and tantalise you?

You gasped, hands clenched into fists, pockets tightening as you pressed against the fabric. A surprisingly cold gust of wind hit your face, and you were too slow to react. The hood flew back, allowing your hair to be tousled by the elements. You should stop getting so lost in your thoughts - you reprimanded yourself, and began to reach upwards. Seonghwa slowed down to match your pace, waited, and voicelessly pinched the edge of your hoodie, halting any further movement until you understood his intentions. Too confused by the sudden affection to care, you brushed your fingers through your hair and held it in place, allowing the hood to slide back on without further resistance.

“Thanks,” you huffed, stuck in an automatic bow.

“Don’t worry about it,” Seonghwa continued to walk, unperturbed, “it seems the wind is picking up again.”

“At least it’s not as cold anymore.”

“Good point. Refreshing. Let’s call it that.”

“Mm. Oh, Seonghwa-”

“Yes?” you paused to breathe, much too affected by the response speed Seonghwa had to his name. After telling yourself that this was his usual self rather than particular attention, you resumed.

“I have a beanie. If you want it.”

“Pardon?” you met the young man’s perplexed look, and patted the many pockets of the coat until you found the right one. After unclasping the metal button, you revealed the tip of a wool hat. His grin made the pang of embarrassment worthwhile - dazzling, sunny, so very Seonghwa that your heart hurt a little.

“Wind. Hair. All that. You know. Ahem. You get me,” you stumbled over your words, much to what appeared to be Seonghwa’s delight.

“I do. Thank you. I am okay for now,” he stopped you before you could close the pocket again, “but, if you don’t mind I’ll take the beanie. I have pockets too.”

“It’s supposed to stay in this coat.”

“Why?”

“Tradition.”

“Ah. Understood.”

You regretted your awkward gesture of friendliness, but you had to cancel out his approaches somehow. It would be strange to owe him. Was there such a thing when it came to emotion? Not wanting to dwell on the thought, you made yourself speed up, steps growing heavier against the uneven ground. Seonghwa followed suit, but you could only imagine his face at this moment, probably holding back a laugh, withholding some snarky comment out of sheer pity. That was normally how it was, so when what had to have been at least a couple of minutes passed, you were frustrated. Where was his voice? Could you simply not hear it over the wind? Was he intentionally being quiet?

“Seonghwa?”

“You are speeding along, Y/N, wow-”

“Sorry-”

“I’m just curious,” you slowed back down, allowing Seonghwa to catch up and join you on your side, “why that specific pocket?”

“That’s just how it has been all this time. This coat was passed down to me, and with it came a set of safekeeping and storage rules.”

“Rules?”

“Yep. From what pocket to keep what in, to where to hang it in what season. Couldn’t really do the latter properly but I think the coat held up well enough,” you inspected whatever part of the coat that you could spot from the safety of your hood, and peered to your right when you heard an approving hum.

“Looks like it could survive anything.”

“It probably could, if I’m honest. In my memory alone it survived being thrashed about on a clothing line in what had to have been some crazy strong cyclone and survived being abandoned on the cliffs.”

“How does this even happen?”

“Sometimes I do think Old Man did some things just for laughs, but he always had a fun story to tell and if he had to make some sacrifices for it… maybe it was worth it in the end,” you sighed and finished your philosophising.

“We all set our worths and prices, don’t we?” gradually, your stride turned into an amble, making Seonghwa get ahead. To your surprise, he halted almost immediately, and turned. When he spotted your unease, he furrowed his brows and stepped closer. He was searching for something in your stance, or in your expression - be it a change or a revelation, but clearly whatever you were doing was not enough. In the blink of an eye, he was a lot closer than arm’s reach. Inadvertently, you held your breath.

“What?” the question slipped from you as Seonghwa stretched out his hand, palm upright.

“I think I’ll have the beanie, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds like you are doing me a favour.”

“I am just appreciating an act of kindness,” he gingerly picked the item from your grasp, “and besides, if you are going to be racing how you are now all the way to the village, my ears might freeze.”

You wanted to wipe the dorky smirk from his face, but even then you appreciated his undeniable charm. The ever-changing palette of expressions on his stunning face fascinated you, reminiscent of the metamorphosis of a flame or silver waters. You would hate to use the exact word which you were running from, so you settled to mutely acknowledge Seonghwa as ‘interesting’. Interesting, and all-consuming. You looked at the horizon, his silhouette still dancing in your vision. It was just because he did not question yet another of the many quirks of Old Man that you still honoured. Had to be. You were simply under the influence of a tiny sliver of positive emotion; nothing to worry about.

Soon enough, you were met with the main road - or what could be called a road in a rural no-name settlement, and the ghost-like buildings that marked remnants of local life. As more and more people left the place in the hopes of a better life in a bigger, more modern city, only memories and the past remained, sentenced to erode into the earth with every new season. You could recognise the buildings, of course. The colours faded, and the structures grew weary with time, but they were still standing, just like you. Waving with a tired, invisible hand. You trudged along, cursing under your breath when you saw Old Man’s friend’s house up for sale. In other words, eventually up for demolition. This village was surviving and existing until the countdown to its erasure would be completed, rather than hoping that one day, something or someone would breathe new life into it. Boarded up windows and dull grey fences; withering gardens and exhausted roofs that damned every new rainfall. There was no spring here, nor was there a winter.

“Pretty quiet…” Seonghwa commented, taking in the sorrowful and glum surroundings. You could not offer any counter-argument.

“Indeed it is… Maybe because it is an off season…” you caught your own words and exhaled, bemused, “but when is there ‘a season’ in this place?”

“May? October?”

“Could be the case. But then people prefer to go to the tourist town further south, don’t they?”

“More space for us,” with a shrug, Seonghwa responded. It looked almost as if he was reading the village’s history through the cracks and crumbling stone. Eyes travelling from side to side and sometimes stopping to scrutinise something of interest that you could never spot, he looked like he was trying to find and remember every detail, akin to a pre-op examination.

“The market is down the street.”

“Got it.”

“And then we can stop by the cafe.”

“Can do.”

“You don’t need to?”

“I could, but I don’t have to.”

“Whatever works for you. But I need a nice hot chocolate and the awareness that the world has not exploded yet.”

“Or maybe it did,” Seonghwa added, making you chuckle.

“Or maybe it did. This place certainly has a surreal other-worldly barrenness to it.”

“How appealing.”

“Home sweet home.”

A home you could barely recognise. The deterioration was abhorrent, and truth be told, when you had been on your way to the cottage and managed to catch a ride with a family, you were surprised they had any business in the village. They must have left already. No one in their right mind could survive more than a few days in a place like this, unless this was the lesser of a wide selection of evils.

Seonghwa remained quiet as you stepped into a tiny two-story building that was called ‘the market’, but was just a reminder of what had been in its place before. The stock was good enough, from fresh produce off by the windows to the refrigerated and frozen goods lined up by the walls, and the cashier who was hunched over a crossword puzzle finally showed that there was some life remaining in the village. You picked up a basket which still possessed the logo of the superstore nearby - a permanent souvenir, and with Seonghwa in toe, browsed the shelves. Occasionally Seonghwa would stop you to point at an item, or you would exchange a couple of words to debate the necessity of one thing or other, but progressed through the maze fast enough and ended up at the ancient table converted into a register.

With a vexed huff, the man behind the desk put down his pencil, and began to hammer out the prices on the old cash machine. The buttons creaked in protest, so worn that you could barely see the numbers on their faces. In one swift motion, you produced a canvas bag from another pocket, and signalled to Seonghwa to start packing while you held it open. You tried to avoid brushing your hands against his, and he politely ignored the awkwardness of your movements. Before you could ask for the total, he was already setting a couple of bills down on the counter, shaking his head at you to not argue. You narrowed your eyes, but continued to watch as the cashier counted the money, slammed another few buttons to unlock the register, and produced some change. The door of the shop shook from the wind outside, but he paid it no mind, only caring for the next word that he had to guess for his puzzle. The two of you swiftly departed, Seonghwa striding ahead to stop in front of you and try taking the bag out of your grasp.

“I could have paid, Seonghwa.”

“I could have, too. And I did. What of it?”

“How much do I owe you?”

“We are living together, aren’t we? Consider this to be my household contribution, and this-” using your moment of disorientation he yanked the handles and tightly grabbed the canvas bag, “is just me being nice.”

“You’re making it sound strange.”

“How?” he was jittery, you could tell. The reason was a mystery, but he was awfully chipper compared to even fifteen minutes ago.

“Tell me, are you nervous?” he licked his lips - a habit you had noticed within the first couple of days, and knitted his brows.

“What… what makes you think so?”

“I think I have seen enough of you to catch the gist of how you’re feeling,” you deadpanned, and turned to continue walking towards the cafe, “this village isn’t haunted if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s been ages and as you can see, I’m still alive and kicking.” The joke was not received too well judging by the forlorn tinge to Seonghwa’s disposition, but he did not put up a front or argue. Out of the blue, you heard him grumbling:

“I’m not scared of ghosts…”

“Sure.”

“Hey!”

“What? I believe you!”

“Okay! Fine! Not ghosts but… something like it,” weighing the phrase, Seonghwa wondered how to continue. When you reached the entrance to the cafe you halted, and stood fully facing your partner in existential misery.

“Which is?”

“...Emails.”

“Can’t blame you. Scary buggers. Right, shall we?” you pointed at the door and tried the handle. It gave in easily and, announced by the sound of wind chimes strung up above the door right by the frame, you entered.

If only there was someone to greet you. You tapped the counter a couple of times and reread the message left on a sheet of paper that had been roughly ripped out of a notebook.

“Stepped out, be back later, for internet leave fee in box. We are not getting any warm drinks today, unfortunately. Owner won’t be back in a while.”

“Didn’t they say they will be back later?”

“The definition of later is warped here. It means they’ll be back later to close up shop.”

“Odd.”

“Not when there are no customers for days on end. I mean, there probably are some, but they are more than likely after the internet and not the coffee.”

You dropped the paper and passed by the dozing barista machine towards the table pressed right against a barren, rusted orange or brown coloured wall - unappealing, but it had been this shade for a s long as your memory would allow you to think back, so at least it had the brand of continuity. The table itself was a little more experimental: instead of a traditional approach with legs, the piece of furniture was a thick converted shelf, positioned high enough to be like a bar. On the far end and somewhat masked by the lack of lighting stood a rickety old monitor from a bygone era, with equally ancient wires protruding out of it and escaping into amateurishly drilled holes in the wall. The keyboard: a black-coloured classic with keys thicker than a finger, was tucked under the monitor, along with a matching mouse. After pulling out the bar stool in front of the makeshift computer station but not sitting down, you lifted a foot to rest on one of the many horizontal metal bars that linked the legs together, and scanned the fees which were written with a shaking hand on a piece of paper, stuck on the wall probably while you were still a kid.

“Huh, the prices are higher than I remember.”

“Inflation,” Seonghwa offered. He had set down the groceries on the shelf-table, and stood beside you to watch the screen come to life after a couple of attempts to click the power button.

“Seems the economy reaches these parts of the country too. Is fifteen minutes going to be okay?”

“More than-” Seonghwa began to reach into his coat again, only to be stopped by you.

“Let me take this at least,” you stuffed a couple of bills into the small box that was right next to the computer and detracted your attention back to the almost-complete loading screen.

Finally, the machine went out of its slumber. You looked for a browser engine, chuckling when you saw an outdated logo marking no change from what had to be the last decade, and proceeded to search for the news. After a couple of minutes of navigating from page to page, you concluded that society had not done anything particularly remarkable, nor atrocious. A reassuring kind of ‘boring’, which was more than you could hope for. You stepped away from the stool, gesturing for Seonghwa to take a seat. He hesitated, unwilling to spare as much as a glance to the email login screen.

“Didn’t you say you-”

“Is it strange to say that I am scared?”

“Of?”

“I’m not even sure, to be honest,” he took off the beanie and ran a hand through his hair. Seonghwa was restless, and while he did defeat himself and sit in the chair, a daze took control of him before he could as much as click.

“Are there some things that you hope not to see?”

“Maybe… or… how do I even explain this?”

“How it is. Saying anything is already a start.”

“So you know how- well, of course you know- I appeared on television, and did some other interviews?”

“Uh-huh, and congratulations, by the way,” your earnest commendation was met with a nervous twitch of the lips - not quite reaching joy, but Seonghwa was nonetheless touched.

“Thank you. So, hah- just, after that there have been numerous emails, phone calls, even physical mail, asking the same things and trying to shove the same answers in my mouth. My agent was thrilled initially since it is publicity, and kept on forwarding one opportunity after another but… at some point it hit me that the press do not need me,” he finished typing in his details, but could not bear to click ‘log in’.

“Do not need you?”

“No. What they need is an image that they crafted based on their perception of me. It is true that a person forms their first impression in half a second or something like that, but when representatives of prestigious outlets do not know a single thing about my poetry which, mind you, is my main job, one does begin losing hope.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want to see the empty flattery and shallowness, right?”

“Sounds about right.”

You pondered his concern. Everyone deserved sincerity, especially when it came to things that quite literally formed a large part of one’s life. It would not be an overstepping of personal rules to empathise, would it? If there was a person in need, it was another’s duty to help them through difficulties. It was the least you could do. At the same time, you felt like you were falling, and fast, into the grasp of confusing emotions, and the more you studied Seonghwa and thought about his beau- -interesting mind, you wanted to delve into it more. You wished to understand his curves and edges, read the miraculous flame which even in times of difficulty was never extinguished in his dark irises. You stared, and Seonghwa did not mind it. In fact, if anything, he was enjoying your nearly overwhelming concentration on him. Compared to the last few days when you would actively isolate yourself, this was the most time you had spent in such proximity, and toeing the line of a heart to heart. You despised the fact that you understood Seonghwa a little too well, and that, beyond the surface, you two were much the same. For some strange reason, it hurt you to see him distraught or inconvenienced. In this place which bore the traces of both your stories, be it personal or through relatives, you wanted to maintain a safe haven, if not for yourself then for him. There were always bound to be disappointments, and when both of you would inevitably have to return to your humdrum routines and unfounded chaos, they would only amplify. So why not try to cultivate a little happiness here, in the middle of nowhere? You bit the inside of your cheek as a disturbing, but astonishingly serene resolution bloomed in your musings. To hell with your rules and boundaries. Either way your heart was going to ache, but at least like this you could make the cause of it be a little more… poetic.

“Let’s sort through your inbox together, and then we can have a nice and quiet rest of the day,” you leaned over, and clicked the mouse. The screen illuminated both your faces. You tried to ignore just how close yours was to Seonghwa’s.

He let you take the lead on scanning through the items, only sometimes providing whatever guidance he could offer. As the number decreased, so did his worry, and soon enough, you were exchanging jokes as you deleted or archived more and more emails. Neither of you commented on how your hand which you had set down on the table for a little more balance was pressed against his own, nor how you were practically shoulder to shoulder. Beyond an initial awareness both of you wanted to remain quiet in an effort to preserve this safe space. No rumination, no questions, nothing. Only what felt right. And it just so happened that in the moment when Seonghwa turned to gaze into your eyes, relieved and cheerful, it felt natural to put his hand over yours. And who were you to go against the universe?

“Thank you, Y/N. This was so silly, I really should be able to handle this but… I dare say you are my saviour.”

“Not at all. I just want to help as best as I can,” you felt him softly squeeze your hand. You couldn’t look away.

“It’s the little things. I am very grateful,” you wished you could say something grand or quote something in response, but you were afraid that a medical encyclopaedia would not fit the mood.

“No phone checking today, I think we’ve done enough.”

“Sure, Hwa.”

It was the little things. How his eyes caught the rays of light that slipped into the cafe. How he expressed himself so wholeheartedly and openly. How he wanted to be himself even when so many people were against him. In him you saw an inspiring strength; the spring after a freezing winter. Just like you had helped him with emails, he was unknowingly helping you clean up your struggles and doubts, prodding at neurons and metaphorical cobwebs until problems did not seem quite as monstrous as before. For the first time in a while, you wanted to be okay.

“Home?” The only word that fit the cottage, for you and for him. Seonghwa gleamed in response.

“Home.”

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

“Let’s go to the cliffs.”

“Sounds suspicious, what are you scheming?” you raised an eyebrow, but, nonetheless, closed the book that was neatly positioned on your lap - the aftermath of you two having grown more relaxed around one another, and you venturing into the office and asking for recommendations from Old Man’s library. Seonghwa was more than happy to offer a couple of titles which he could spot hidden on the shelves, and now could discreetly enjoy the sight of you being fully immersed in one of them.

“I just think we could use a good break,” he crossed his arms and nodded to himself. He did not want to reveal all his plans just yet, but it was hard to remain cryptic when anything to do with a location could raise questions.

“Again, suspicious. What are you on about?” Seonghwa watched you look for the old postcard which you had been using as a bookmark, smiling when you finally discovered it had fallen beside you on the sofa.

With each day, Seonghwa was getting a chance to see more and more sides of you, and he would not stop it for the world. He found himself grinning like a fool when you would be even the tiniest bit clumsy, endeared by vulnerability that you did not dare show him before. He lost himself in the sound of your voice as you formulated analogies between art and medicine, explaining concepts in such a way that it felt like poetry. His heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings when, after a day of chores, the two of you would settle down to simply be in each other’s company. As such, with the newfound lightness in his soul, Seonghwa wanted to help you feel at least a fraction similar.

“Mm… I do want to keep this a surprise, but I get how this sounds like a different type of pact, doesn't it?”

“You can say that again.”

“Okay… hm… if I say, with one hundred percent guarantee we will be getting home safe, in one piece and hopefully feel a lot better, will you agree to satisfy my spontaneous caprice?” You pretended to mull over his request, your pointer finger resting on your chin.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes. Fine.”

His megawatt grin nearly blinded you as he approached you in a couple of steps and reached out his hands towards you. You glanced up and down, amused by his excitement. Seonghwa swore that all his organs flipped in his body as you clasped his hands, palm pressed to palm, and let him lift you off the sofa. When you nearly collided with his chest, he steadied you, shaking his head when a thank you fluttered from your lips. It was a shame that he had to let go. Patiently, he waited by the door as you changed into an outfit more appropriate for the weather; while the days have seen a pleasant rise in temperature to balmy spring, the occasional seaside gust was quick to remind of the earliness of the season. The cherry blossoms must have already bloomed further south, Seonghwa mused. But for once, he did not feel rushed to see them or take obligatory photographs, content with the beauty he was living on the coast of nowhere. He adjusted his cream coloured hat and matching sweater, reaching to flatten the under shirt that started to peek from under the knit collar.

Whether it was on purpose or not, he noticed how you had matched him with your outfit - flared jeans matching his jeans-skirt combination, and a determined selection of beige boots. Seonghwa was, by nature, something of a hopeless romantic, but it was moments such as this that made him both flustered and proud of his nature. As you stepped out of the cottage, bathed in a rejuvenating sunlight, he squinted and made a visor out of his hand to look more closely and try his best to remember the scene. Your head was held higher, your steps were more confident, and when you looked back to check if Seonghwa was following you, you had a mischievous glint in your eyes. He sped up, softly tapped your arm and beamed.

“Right, mystery boy, lead the way. Something tells me that you have a very particular location in mind.”

“That, I do. Spotted it some time ago. You probably know it, but I want to share it with you nonetheless.”

“Well, it would be my first time seeing it with you, wouldn't it?” Your mouth pressed into a fine line before you burst into a giggle after having considered your words for a fraction longer, “Goodness, sorry-”

“I like that,” Seonghwa smirked, enjoying the subtle flirtation.

“Pardon?”

“First time for everything. Quite the celebration, is it not?” When you did not answer, par a joking eye roll, he pointed to the right, elaborating his planned route, in the direction opposite to the village and right by the sea. After a couple of beats of silence, you turned to him.

“Celebration? Seems like you are thinking of something specific.”

“Mm… maybe.”

“Oh… is it your birthday? Oh no I have nothing to-” your face fell.

“No! No, I'm touched that you care this much though, darling,” half in jest, half testing the waters, Seonghwa let the pet name slip. Though it appeared to have been wasted nerves worrying about your reaction, as you did not bat an eye. He looked ahead, “it's in two days.”

“So you aren't much of a birthday enjoyer? Judging by how you are here… and not in the city.”

“There are different ways to celebrate. And, if you don't mind. This is how I would love to celebrate mine.”

You looked magical in the golden rays. With half the sky a hazy white, the other promising a gloomy grey storm, you were his good and evil, his battle.You came to him like nightfall, and made him learn of shimmering sunrises. The speckles of bright light in your irises were downright enchanting, and only grew more captivating as you tilted your head, inadvertently capturing more sunlight. His April wishes, muted prayers for one moment to turn to another, and another after that. He did not dare voice his true perception of you, knowing that the one word to come to his mind was one you did not favour, and as such, stuck to walking onwards, to the cliffs, in anticipation of what he had been hoping to do with you for a considerable amount of time. You did not answer him, instead choosing to study your shoes and continue to follow his footsteps closely. The wind caressed your hair like a loving relative greeting and doting on their favourite child. You hid your hands in your sleeves, fists closing over their edges, in an effort to protect them from getting cold. No attempts have been made to guess what Seonghwa wanted to do, much to his surprise; considering how hostile you two had acted towards each other in the very beginning, this level of trust was akin to the greatest of honours, and reminded him of the unfurling of a flower that had initially been guarded by thick grey leaves, only to reveal a tender yellow white and reddish heart along with a gorgeous adornment of pastel pink petals. Fragile, vulnerable, far from eternal, but because of how temporary their natural perfection was, they were all the more beautiful. Seonghwa looked in the opposite direction from you and scowled, scolding himself. He should not think of the future, at least not just yet. It was all too soon, all too fast, anything could happen and he should not get his hopes up even when his entire being was burning into an enamoured cloud of ash.

The sea glistened, waves showing off magnificent adornments of regal silver and gold, dolled up with white lush fur-like foam. Playfully, they lapped at the shore and urged the two of you to keep going. Rolling hills soon gave way to the cliffs which with every few minutes of your journey grew taller and taller, revealing stunning white chalk faces and decorations of limestone. A number of weeks ago Seonghwa had made it his mission to explore the expanse, thereby finding what had to be the real end of the world. A terrific, breathtaking drop together with violently shaking grassland and treacherous edges, by far the tallest point on the cliffside was nothing short of freeing. With everything he had lived through being forced to stare at his back, and only the sea in front of him, he need not be concerned, at least for a few breaths, with what battles he was yet to face. After a couple of ventures to the cliffs, he found a new perspective, one that had been solidified when he had destiny bring him to you, or you to him. Had there ever been a muse, or was it simply an excuse for him to not try even when he was certain he could not achieve anything? Now, he knew he could fly freely on the wings of his own inspiration and wanted nothing more than for you to feel the same.

As the two of you approached the peak, Seonghwa became a little agitated, concerned with how you were going to react to his proposition which he had planned to utter only once you had arrived. You were quiet, occasionally looking left and right to study the brightening landscape. The steely horizon engulfed the sea, infinite, invincible, and met two pairs of eyes. Two people, who, with time, came to be undefeated. You had not voiced your concerns often, but he had seen them weighing you down, serpents tightening around your throat until you had nothing left to do but to rush out of the cottage under the pretence of ‘needing to check something’, when in fact all you wanted was air. Time and time again he could see how this, and only this place was home to you and was the soothing balm that could heal all wounds. Now as you stood to his right, occupied by your own ponderings, he saw you combine with your surroundings, making one gorgeous painting. You belonged here. Thanks to you, he felt like he did, too. The beginnings of another plan started to take root in his mind as he recalled familial logistics and the cottage, but pushed the matter for a later time; this needed the city and iron resolve. Seonghwa rubbed his hands together and rocked back and forth a couple of times.

“So,” you began, still observing the waves.

“So,” he mirrored.

“What’s this grand scheme of yours for which we needed to hike up here?”

“Not liking the views?”

“Of course I do. I’m just trying to understand.”

“Okay. Then… how about this,” he took a deep breath, stifling a nervous laugh, and with all he had, yelled at the sea, trying to drown out the sound of the Earth. He screamed with his heart, expelling all its ache and giving it room to mend itself with golden thread. He stretched out his arms and shut his eyes, embracing a better tomorrow.

Taken aback but thrilled, you spontaneously began to laugh. Wholly, without any barriers; your genuine full-body laughter overtook you, and you were half-bent, ecstatic from Seonghwa’s sudden chaos. You cackled until tears started to well up in your eyes and you needed to remind yourself to breathe, and only laughed harder once Seonghwa joined you, him just barely retaining balance and not collapsing on the ground. His shout was still ringing in your ears as you lifted your head and through airy chuckling called out to him.

“Is- is this what- you were- thinking of all- all along?”

“Go on, show me what you’ve got-” he challenged, squeezing the words out between wheezing.

“W-what? Like… right now?”

“No better time than now! Go!” He encouraged you, prayed for you to let your darkness go.

There it was. As the wind picked up and the sea roared, you joined them with your own warrior cry, stretching your arms out much the same as Seonghwa had done. You stared at the sky, squinting only to stop your eyes watering from the laughter and the gusts. He gazed at you with adoration and pride. As soon as he heard your scream start to die down, he recovered and made a beeline towards you, repositioning to face the sea, and poked you.

“On the count of three. One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Together you let joy into your lives, cursing all that had harmed you before, and bravely took on the challenge to exist. There was always going to be trouble, there were always going to be disagreements and so-called ugliness in the world around you, but in your vision, even if just for a flash, there was guaranteed to be beauty, if not in the representations of small but certain happiness, then in the self. As Seonghwa and you shouted again and again at the skies, you knew your next inhale would be the freshest.

Lightheaded, you searched for his arm, apologising when your own crashed into it. Rapidly, his hand found yours, and Seonghwa, in a moment of what could possibly be foolish courage, intertwined your fingers together. Your eyes widened, and initially he thought he had made a mistake. But doubt evaporated faster than rain on a scalding hot day; you held on tight, lowered your arms, and swung them back and forth, before launching into another cheerful scream. Your hand in his, the perfect match. He had hesitated the last time, back in the cafe, but now he was sure that it was worth the wait. This was his home. His healing.

돌풍과 절벽에 부딪히는 파도 소리 (Gusts of wind and the sound of waves crashing against cliffs)

새로운 시작을 의미하는 수많은 소리 (The many sounds of a new beginning)

당신의 웃음소리가 가장 크게 들린다 (Your laughter is the loudest)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

You had shooed Seonghwa out of the kitchen as soon as you heard his sleepy, post afternoon nap descent down the stairs. Despite his protests after you had waited until midnight and wished him a happy birthday, which mainly consisted of him worrying over your potential lack of rest and whether anything was necessary, you wanted to try your best. It would have been most certainly easier to follow his advice and treat this day and evening like any other, but that would not have been a representation of you, nor of how you felt towards your friend. Countless times he had given you strength and support that prior to meeting him you could have only imagined. More than that, he never asked for anything in return except your company, and for you to allow yourself to feel happy; such behaviour and way of thinking was rare, so on many occasions you second-guessed or doubted him, but each time you had been proven wrong. Seonghwa was a warm person who left a deep impression on everyone, and most certainly left an everlasting one on you.

As you let meat and seaweed simmer in sesame oil, you laughed at yourself. Had you from a month ago been here with present you, present you would have definitely gotten an earful. Who were you, showing so much kindness to someone who you had not known for a long time? But then again, there were enough people who you had known for a long time who were far from deserving of kindness, and yet you forced yourself to tolerate them anyway. At least in this case, your affection was coming from the heart and not from obligation or some twisted version of filial piety based not on love and respect but on fear and manipulation. Caring for someone was simple when it was the natural thing to do. You twisted your head when you heard more shuffling, and noticed Seonghwa, dressed in loungewear as opposed to the more formal outfit he had chosen to wear on his venture out to the village earlier, speed-sliding across the living room and to his office. You chuckled when he raised his hands in the air and mouthed that ‘he is innocent and does not see anything’. It was easy enough to guess what you were making. Seonghwa could probably guess from the smell alone, but nevertheless he played along and remained patient.

Soon enough, the soup base was in and bubbling away, filling the cottage with mouthwatering fragrance. The home that only you and Seonghwa knew felt complete and was blooming like the gorgeous flora in early April. Threats of a storm had been false alarms and instead a warm sun settled on the magnificent light blue and ultramarine. The occasional white ball of cotton would race across like a tiny woodland rabbit away to wonderland, but nothing could dispel the euphoria that enveloped you. It was simple to imagine the cottage disappearing, but that made every second more precious. For all you knew, in a couple of months the real owners of the property could decide to demolish the priceless history and sell off the land to some magnate for the building of a resort or a private mansion; such an outcome was far too plausible, and you could only clench your teeth and pretend to not be affected. Old Man would have locked himself in this cottage if anyone were to try and destroy it. Now, more than ever, you understood why. The walls had seen decades of history, both of the planet and of the humans who had visited or inhabited the cottage. Tears of sadness and of laughter, bitter love and sweet loss, paradise and purgatory. The cottage, apart from bricks and mortar, was built with memories and the souls of everyone and everything. Wherever you looked, you could recollect something associated with the items in your vision, be it a clock or a creaky floorboard. This, if destroyed, would never be recovered, and would be sacrificed to fading memory. Of course, the human mind was the most powerful when it came to reflecting on the past, but there was only so much it could do when society was as fast paced and as demanding as it was. You did not want to forget, and so wanted to desperately cling to what little you had left of a precious safe haven that had now been fully revived. Wasn't the past always more beautiful when it blended with the present and gained deeper and more vibrant colours?

“Seonghwa! It's ready!”

“Hello I am here-” almost immediately, he rushed out of the office and strode into the kitchen, “did you make seaweed soup? For me?”

“As if you did not guess.”

“Hey, hey, I saw, heard, and said nothing. My goodness, Y/N, I am touched beyond words…”

“It's not too big of a deal, really. I just wanted to make a little something for you and again, wish you a happy birthday,” you attempted to wave him off and stirred the soup once more before turning off the gas and setting the spoon down.

“I hope you don't mind this very forward expression of affection, but may I… hug you?” arms ever so slightly lifted from his sides, Seonghwa waited.

“Woah Seonghwa, so daring,” you teased, “ah come here, birthday boy,” you invited him, heart beating just that little bit faster when he gave you a boxy wide grin and stepped forward to close the space.

Your arms wrapped around his torso, sliding down into a more relaxed position on his waist while his had snaked around you, condoning you from the world. You were careful to not tarnish the impeccable white fabric, but inevitably gave in when you sensed Seonghwa's hand hovering behind your head, as if saying that you could relax into him fully, without any worries. A dazing softness consumed you as your cheek met his shoulder - one last effort to maintain at least a bit of distance between your faces and to hide your quickly blooming blush. He was what you imagined a daydream would be as a person: sweet and comforting, with subtle floral notes and a deep lasting undertone with an indescribable complexity. Honey and the most decadent coffee were the two things that came to mind, but they lacked the original heaviness of the taste and aroma. So heavenly, so surreal, so Seonghwa. Like the setting sun when it hit the waves.

“Thank you,” he whispered into your hair. You suppressed a shiver. Rocking side to side, you stood in the kitchen, neither of you wanting to disturb this bliss.

“Mm, it’s fine.”

“More than fine.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

“Shall we eat?”

“Yes please,” he uttered, but showed no signs of moving. His arms remained where they were; if anything, they were holding onto you with even more determination, as though you were so fragile you had to be protected from even a speck of dust.

“Are we… uhm, we kind of… need to move to get everything set up.”

“Ah, right,” flustered, Seonhwa detangled himself from you, and rushed to open a cupboard, producing a pair of bowls. A hint of red was visible on his cheeks and the tips of his ears; you were not alone in being a tiny bit shy from the obvious reciprocation.

You had learned each other’s patterns, who tended to move in what order, who reached where, who minded what. The two of you moved in perfect synchrony without trying, following newly acquired instinct. How could you ever not adore the cottage and all the events that led up to now? Not all had been sweet, but without the sour and the atrocious, you would not have been able to experience what you were experiencing as you settled down across from Seonghwa. Or rather, in close proximity to him, since almost instantly, he stood up from his seat and gestured for you to rise again only to take your chair and bring it closer to his side. Accepting your adorable fate, you took your bowl and cutlery and repositioned them.

“There. Now I approve.”

“Wait a second!” you searched in your pockets for an item you had discovered in the midst of your cooking frenzy. Seonghwa was patient, albeit confused, and waited until you produced a box of matches and balanced it on your palm, “not a candle, but you can make a wish!”

“My word, this is, hah- I love it.”

“Perfect. Then, here we go!”

You took out a match, and struck it against the side of the box, gasping as it burst into flames - luckily not too intensely or you would be short for time. You started to sing while Seonghwa joined you by mouthing the lyrics and accompanying with rhythmic claps. The fire started to move down the match, the tip of it having already burned out. Saved by the final notes you saw Seonghwa briefly closing his eyes. He reached out his hand and softly rested it on your wrist as he blew out the flame right before it reached your fingers. As suddenly as he had touched you, he let go, not too dissimilar from the dancing red and orange flickers which had just been illuminating the birthday table. For good measure you shook the match and excused yourself to dispose of it after running it under some water. After drying your hands, you straightened out the towel without a second thought. The rest of the meal was quiet aside from a phrase here and there. No longer was there a need to fill the pauses. Companionship was enough. Only when you were almost done did Seonghwa address you, gingerly as though he was scared of breaking the calm.

“Again, thank you so much, this is the best birthday I ever had. I even got to make a wish!” he chuckled.

“I highly doubt it, but I’ll accept your kind words.”

“Humble, so humble,” he paused. When you lowered your spoon to give him your undivided attention, you noticed his miniscule pout.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Ah, nothing. Nothing much.”

“About all the birthday wishes you read, right?” you nudged him.

“Hm, there were some…” he recollected.

“And?” you tried, sensing that he was purposefully leaving some things unsaid.

The question hung in the air, a time bomb. Seonghwa bided the seconds he had to himself before he inevitably had to respond by tasting more of the seaweed soup and nodding in approval. You gave him a brief nod and were about to let the matter go for the sake of a celebratory evening, however it seemed that Seonghwa had other plans. He never could lie, you realised. Or speak in half-truths. He was sincere to a fault, but it was one of the many things you had come to like about him.

“So there is something.”

“Yes.”

‘Say it.”

“I... I don’t know. It might be a little... sad?” he was careful with his words, evidently not wanting to make a big deal out of whatever was plaguing his mind.

“Go on. Say it. It’s okay,’ something told you that you knew what it was going to be anyways. You pursed your lips, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest.

“I’ll... I’ll have to leave. In a couple of days? Yeah... Hm... I- yeah. in a couple of days,” he fumbled his words and could not face you, instead staring at his own reflection in the soup.

It was bound to happen someday. Your time was not eternal, either. If not today, then you would have had to have this conversation at some point either tomorrow, or the day after that... or could you have pushed it until much later? Would have Seonghwa forgiven you if, on the day of your departure, you would have dropped the news that your sabbatical had run out? If not him, then it would have most certainly been you starting the conversation.

“Oh. Okay,” you mumbled, heart and mind in conflict. This was your fault - had he remained a stranger, you would have had an easier time now. How he had suddenly appeared in your life, he would have disappeared, but now? The inevitable parting was like a high risk, invasive operation which no matter what was going to have aftershocks and side effects.

Seonghwa did not look any better. Misty-eyed and regretful, he inadvertently slumped his shoulders and curled into himself, appearing smaller and more feeble. You wished he did not care, so that it would be easier to learn how to hate him, but you could not ignore how the knuckles of the hand with which he was holding the spoon were turning white. Tentatively, you reached out to him and rested a hand on his shoulder, an action that took him somewhat by surprise judging by how quickly his head turned towards you. His dark eyes bore into yours, shimmering with intense emotion, threatening to overspill.

You realised: this was it. The crossroads. You were faced with a choice, and it was up to you to decide what was to be the absolute right. You could hold a pause and then resort to exhibiting an astonishingly unperturbed stance; he had his life and his path to follow, you had yours, so what if you had poured your souls out to each other and he had rekindled something which you thought you had lost forever? Or you could take a risk and potentially condemn yourself to hurting, if not for the rest of your life than at least for a long, long time, after which all you had seen and lived through in these few weeks at the cottage would have been the one memory to stick with you no matter what you were to do. You knew that wherever, be it under fluorescent lights, or while planning a correction surgery or attempting to discourage a patient from following a fad, you would see him. You bit the bullet, and, for what had to be the first time, followed your heart. Because tragedy, too, could be beautiful.

“Let’s make the most of what we have left. And then see what the future holds. We are two people who are very alike. Caught adrift in a storm. That is what you told me when we first started getting to know each other, right?”

Seonghwa's eyes conveyed a delicate balance of tenderness and nervousness. His gaze, though wrestling with melancholy, flickered with a charming intensity that spoke volumes. His free hand that rested on his leg that he had begun to shake out of unchangeable habit betrayed a subtle tremor, a silent testament to the whirlwind in his mind. Fingers danced nervously, tracing invisible patterns or perhaps echoing poetry that floated in his heart. You could only guess what he was grappling with, but, in the end, when you put your hand over his to abate some of his tension, a reciprocation of your determined decision was undeniable. As he stilled, you observed a serene reassurance. A quiet confidence that spoke of an undeniable care for you, of what could happen to the two of you, and of how worth it the risk was in the end. His heart beat in harmony with yours, mutual melodies rang out in time to the day rushing past the cottage. You shared a longing that was born out of the fear of what could be lost if words failed. But were words even necessary, when this bouquet of delicate emotions was so unbelievably easy to read? The truth was unwavering, and it, too, was beautiful.

“How does the storm look like to you?” he whispered, turning his hand palm up to clasp yours. You knew what was on his mind, and he was aware of what you wanted, no, needed to say to defeat a part of yourself that was scared to ever feel.

‘Beautiful. So, so beautiful.”

“Could you tell me more about it?”

“Hmm...” you thought for a moment, before pointing to Seonghwa’s shoulder. He nodded, and in no time, your head was resting on him while your fingers tightly intertwined, “...where should I start?”

“Anywhere.“

“You’re a poet and an academic, for goodness’ sake, I’d like some expert advice,” you retorted, your voice remaining light, bright and playful.

“Hardly the latter.”

“That’s what the future is holding for you, isn’t it?” you felt his cheek brush your crown, and smiled to yourself when you heard a low chuckle.

“I sure hope so. Much better than whatever was happening before.”

“It’s all part of the journey.”

“I see someone’s very optimistic!” Seonghwa’s exclamation was void of any malice. Genuinely cheerful and proud of your metamorphosis from a sardonic and grim misanthrope to a hopeful doctor proud of who they and those they loved were, he considered it to be the greatest gift. Laden with meaning and stemming from unfathomable effort, you allowed yourself to flourish and find reasons to live, rather than reasons to not die.

“Maybe because, while there are certain things we cannot change, I have come to realise that there is something sweet about it. Take leaving the cottage for example. Technically, we could stay. But in the long term, it is only going to result in a far from happy ending. So what does that mean for both you and me? We cannot change the fact that we have to leave. However in this we confirm to ourselves and each other that this is not a dream and that our time here... yeah. Yeah,” you cut yourself off, embarrassed by your own words, earning yourself a tiny shoulder nudge and a squeeze of the hand.

“Yeah, what?” Seonghwa’s curiosity was piqued. Too late. No going back for you. You bit your lower lip and inhaled deeply in an effort to stop yourself from cringing.

“Please forgive me for the insane cheesiness, but-”

“Only the highest quality cheese could come from you, don’t you fret.”

“Seonghwa!”

“What? Accept it. Now, as the people say, ‘spill the tea’.”

“A modern poet, truly.”

“Of course, of course, I try my best.”

“Anyways,” you interjected, returning to your train of thought, “ I just wanted to say that I am happy...”

“With what?” you could catch a note of teasing in his tone, but chose to let it go.

“With... this,” you gestured to him, to yourself and then to the surrounding rooms, “this is by far... the best I have felt. In a long, long time.”

“Oh? Someone made you feel this way before?”

“Shush, you get what I mean,” you glared upwards and twisted to lightly slap Seonghwa on his chest, which turned out to be a mistake in the making since he did not miss the chance to capture you fully. And so you were stuck, semi-suspended and essentially at Seonghwa’s mercy with how he was supporting your balance, blinking in surprise at his coy smirk.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. What are you ready to say?”

“Considering how we keep switching topics, I don’t think I can answer anything.”

“Okay, okay, the storm then. What does it mean?”

“What storm?” you furrowed your brows.

“Y/N we just discussed it-”

“Ah, right. Actually, you know what, everything might be linked,” you tried to shuffle to get a better angle and not feel like you were about to topple at any moment, but Seonghwa was not so eager to stop practically cradling you.

“Hm?”

“I mean, the books you recommended, the things you write, hell, even the cottage and you and I... isn't this all like the weather?”

“Curious observation, but yes, I can see where you are coming from. Do go on,”

“If you let me sit down properly, and maybe... finish your soup?” you pointed your chin at the cooling dish.

“Right, sorry, but hey! You too! I see the-”

“Eat, Hwa, then I promise you I will give you a full rundown of my chaotic analogies.”

You were shocked from how speedily he inhaled the soup and then, with a proud look on his face, flung his arm over the back of your chair and announced that his mission was accomplished. As you chewed on the last of the seaweed and ladled the last spoonful of broth, a tiny voice in your head made you want to return to the cliffs and yell louder than before: this conversation, everything that was happening now was because you had accepted that something was beautiful to you. Or rather, instead of connecting beauty to something concrete, you now were comfortable with beauty being an ever-changing continuum. Thanks to what?

“Okay, I’m done now. So, the storm. We were running from them, weren’t we?”

“Mhm.”

“But now... I don’t know if you think the same but I dare say those storms are not so spooky anymore,” if only you could have taken a picture then and there to keep in your wallet. The precious glimmering joy visible across every feature was contagious, and your doubt was forgotten.

“Not spooky at all,” you could hear the gears moving in his head as he regarded you.

“What?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason,” he sighed and hid his gaze, “...shall we clear the table?”

“Let’s do it.”

He did not miss the chances to brush past you, or to steady himself after reaching across for something by tapping your arm or your waist. Not that you minded, but his amplified affections were dizzying. It was as though he was doing everything in his power to ensure that he would be missed so strongly by you that you would end up snapping and attempting to find him in the big city. That was when it hit you - you did not know where he lived, nor where location-wise he worked, nor his contact details. It had never come up in conversation - neither of you were terribly fond of delving too deep into how life was in the metropolis and had shared what was necessary for the present, and considering that in the weeks you had been here you two were always in close proximity, things like phone numbers or social media details were obsolete. When you finished washing up, dried your hands, and waited for Seonghwa to complete his task of putting the dishes away, you were astonished by your own lack of foresight. You had always been a planner but following your time at the cottage you wanted time to stop.

“Hey may I ask something? Or rather for something?”

“Go on ahead- wow, the sun sure is doing its magic,” you followed Seonghwa’s gaze and stepped after him into the living room.

The window. A little old thing. The frame was holding up impressively well, and the paint had remained pristine even after you had opened the window a couple of times to let the fresh air in. Beyond it, between the shrubs and above the stone wall was a never ending golden steppe, rippling and rolling in heavenly rays. It was rare to have a day as good as this on this part of the coastline. Leaves shimmered like coins, and the clouds took on yellow, orange and lilac hues, waving from up above.

“Truly.”

“Anyways, as you were saying?” he turned, catching some of the sunlight on his regal form.

“Let me borrow the horrendous phrase for a second... ahem, may I get your number?” Much to your delight and amusement, Seonghwa did not bat an eye, and instead dug in his pocket.

“Ahead of you, but thank you for reminding me. Here. I put down my number, my home address, the publisher’s office... and my private social media if you want to connect on there.”

“How-”

“I want to... hm... I didn’t think that, when I come to actually saying what I want to say, that it would be kind of hard,” cryptic, as ever when he was about to shake you to your core with something profound. You took the piece of paper from him, carefully refolding it after checking the written contents and sliding it into the pocket of your cardigan.

“Time for me to inquire. Whatever do you mean?”

“I want to keep this going.”

“Oh?”

“Interesting thing to wish for after we literally lived together, but... I want to see you. Officially see you. What do you say?”

“Ever the gentleman,” his lopsided grin made you wish you could squeeze his cheeks. Perhaps down the line you could have that privilege, “I accept.”

“You do?”

“I too, really want to see you. Often, I hope,” Seonghwa’s vigorous nodding, paired with his undivided attention was like a thousand suns, brilliant and beyond anything you could put into a sentence. He approached you and peered into what had to be your very soul.

“May I spoil a potential gift? And, sort of, the reason why I need to depart?”

“Go on, I am all ears.”

“You know how,” his pointer fingers hooked around yours, and you were subconsciously pulled to him, “my relatives own this cottage, right?”

“Right,” you were aware, and had accepted it. Such was life.

“Well... I may or may not have gotten in contact with them, and am starting a legal process to put the property up for sale.”

“For sale? Excuse me? Are you mad? It will be- no, I cannot let this, no, they will bulldoze this place into the dirt I-” you began to panic, voice rising higher and blood beginning to boil.

“I did not say to whom the property will be sold.”

“Some mogul or billionaire who does real estate for fun.”

“Are you either of the two?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you a mogul or real estate fiend?”

“I? No?”

“The sale is a formality anyways. The cost will be put down as one won, which I’ll just pass to my cousin with a handshake. Your job, should you wish to be the owner of the cottage, is to sign some papers, and attend some meetings.”

“Am I dreaming?”

“This place does sometimes give the surreal sensation of floating in space, but I promise you, you are not. In fact, tomorrow we can go to the cafe again and I can show-”

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you thank you thank you-”

“Glad I can help in some way. This is your cottage, after all-”

“I am on cloud nine... how is this- how did you?” you swung your arms, with Seonghwa’s following.

“Easy. I just mentioned you. That was enough to seal the deal. Old Man talked about you, you know.”

“Oh, I- may I hug you?”

“You do not need to ask me for permission to do that,” you did not need to be told twice.

Your thoughts were racing. This could not be. You shut your eyes until you saw phosphenes. Opened them again. You were still in Seonghwa’s arms, in that sweet-scented paradise, caressed by a tender flame. All emotions that had been slumbering over the years have fully awoken, and were threatening to come to the surface to rejoice in what could only be called the reclaiming of the self. Your history, your identity that was stored in these four walls was now promised to be yours. Was that not to celebrate?

“Seonghwa… it is your birthday and you are giving me the gift of an infinite number of lifetimes...”

“My gift is seeing you so happy,” you inhaled sharply, and peered at his dark chocolate irises.

“Come on, you cannot be serious.”

“I am more serious than you could imagine. And I hope to keep proving it to you. Day by day. Again, if you let me.”

“I don’t know what to say or do right now. I am a tiny bit overwhelmed... this... this is as if I walked into a magical house, met a magician, and he tapped me on the head with a little wand and here we are, wish granted,”

“I knew I was missing something.”

“What?“

“A wand,” you beamed and floated into bliss, focusing on Seonghwa’s heartbeat, endearingly close to your own both physically, and rhythmically. Right here was beautiful, right this moment was beautiful. The promise and plan was beautiful. But one note of misery remained, one that you were determined to vanquish.

“Seonghwa?”

“Yes?”

“I am a little anxious about something...” he hugged you closer, but instead of it being soothing, it made you want to cry despite the euphoria you were experiencing.

“What is it?”

“What if it goes away?”

“What goes?”

“What if beauty disappears when I go back?”

You knew it was a silly question, you knew that it was all in your head and that you sounded like an absolute desperate fool while asking this, but it was sickening, a lump in your throat that you could not swallow. The first light of love and of freedom, so pure and so unconditional, was addictive and sweet. You did not want to consider its falsities or ponder potential disillusionment. You threw away even the inklings of paranoid suspicion that Seonghwa, too, could join the ranks of those who laced their kind words with malice or with judgement, and might have wanted to play with your feelings, both romantic and historic. At least right here, right now, you wanted to believe in there being someone who could love in both the presence and absence of beauty, whatever any given individual desired to define it to be. You wanted to know that he was on your team, and that this place really was a key to real life wish-fulfilment. Seonghwa’s hand slowly glided down your back, disappeared, and slid down again. In this perpetual motion he silently offered some stability.

“You know it won’t.”

“How?”

“Because you are you. Your soul is beautiful. And if you ever think that the world around you is starting to strike you like the cold winter months, remember that, now, I am just one call away. Always.”

“But it- goodness, sorry,” you were choked up and had to pause. Seonghwa did not make you hurry, instead, he brushed away the strand of hair that was about to get in your eye, and looked at you as though you were his future.

“Don’t apologise for feeling, my angel.”

‘Stop, Hwa, you’re going to make me bawl in a moment,” you exclaimed with a groan, trying to laugh your concerns away. Seonghwa chuckled, but kept holding onto you, rocking on his legs, swaying side to side like the eternal, unstoppable clock that governed your entangled lives.

“Oh no, we don’t want that, do we?” his voice vibrated across his chest, and in turn, struck your heart like a dozen healing melodies. ‘We’, it was now ‘we’, rather than everyone being left to scramble for salvation, against everybody else who surrounded them. You repeated the word in your mind once, and again, and again, until it turned into wind chimes twirling in a waltz with a serene breeze.

“I’d like to smile more with you.”

“I’d like that too. I never get tired of smiling with you,” you pushed your upper body away by a fraction to admire Seonghwa more.

“I am afraid, Seonghwa. You make me so happy. I- I am so happy. But so, so afraid that all of this will vanish.”

“Y/N,” his hands clasped around you, relaxing - a gentle salvation from all dark secrets the coming months undoubtedly contained, “Beauty shall never vanish. Because love is beautiful. There were times when I have been shaken even by the weakest of winds, and times when my breathing was unbearably heavy. One single comment or event... anything at all could turn a bright summer day into a biting winter. Storms shall always remain, even if we try to bid them farewell...”

He waited for you to steady your breaths before continuing, and upon your brief nod, pressed his forehead against yours. His hair tickled your skin the tiniest bit, but it only made you more aware of him, more connected to him. More loved and seen.

“Our pasts and our steps through our years brought us towards each other. And... I am... so, so honoured and so happy that a person like me can bring happiness to your life, and can only hope that I can give you as much love. I am stunned by how we do the little things together, how you ask about me, how you, you wonderful angel, give me love for no reason as if it was only natural,” tears welled up in your eyes, only to be caught by Seonghwa’s thumbs and erased before they could form a river, “Maybe my greatest gift is you, and all the little things that make you, you. Because you are here, in my life, and are part of my world, I am learning the feeling of love again. Now,” he noticed your urgency as you were about to interrupt him, and tapped your nose with his own, “Thanks to you, thanks to us, I am finding beauty. I cherish our past, our spectacular present, and pray for our future to exceed eternity.”

“Seonghwa...”

“Spring comes and goes, but I will always ensure that your heart stays warm. If you will let me.”

“If you will let me do the same,” the gap between you grew smaller and smaller, until was a mere memory and you tasted the coffee and honey, the many sunrises and sunsets to come, the sound of the waves and the rustling of the grass on the cliffs.

The cottage, while it was a real place with its many wonders, was more than that. It was a panacea, a safe haven in one’s mind or a world for those whom one loved. The cottage could be anything, could be anyone, could be anywhere.

And that was truly beautiful.

⋆✧.✧⋆

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rayveneyed · 4 months ago

Text

cw: ares!bakugou x aphrodite!reader, fem!reader, mentions of war and violence, bakugou who is so pathetically in love but doesn’t know it

he finds you in a place unlike any other he’s previously found you in — sitting on the ground behind a quaint little market stall near the sea, where purple weeds grow from old brick and the streets are worn and dusty. the sun shines bright here, always has, but illuminates your little corner something special — golden and honeyed, reflecting off the jewellery hanging from your ears and wrists.

this is not the sparkling marble and iridescent gold of mount olympus; this is not the illustrious facades of athens, nor the rich fabrics and skilfully carved stones of abyssinia. you’re selling flowers — clay pots of red roses and white geranium; dandelion bulbs for next spring. they pour over the stall and onto the ground, long, frond-like leaves and jewel-toned petals, encapsulating you in an orb of beauty. it suits the city, with all its charm and narrow streets, but at the same time you eclipse it all. it’s only natural, he supposes — godliness rarely ever goes unseen, and you most godly of all.

his boots are caked in dark mud; his sword clangs loud at his hip, and the crowd parts for him instinctively. those who have any sense turn away from him, scurrying along with their baskets of fruit and loaves of bread, smart enough to avoid soldiers and smarter, still, to avoid those of his nature; those who are perhaps more foolish turn to gape at him as he nears you, taking in the slope of his broad shoulders and his unpleasantly-contorted face. he imagines it almost comical, the juxtaposition between you, but he is no stranger to your treachery, nor your barbs.

you do not regard him when he nears, but he would be a fool to think you haven’t noticed him — as expected, your pretty lips split in a smile when his shadow falls over you.

“aphrodite,” he greets, plain and frowning. “what business have you here?”

it is more respect than he allows most other gods, except perhaps his father and mother — but you are you, born from sea-foam and gore, and he knows your power as intimately as he knows his own. if his power is drawn from combat, from war and blood and guts, yours is much from the same; jealousy, dark and curdling, crimes of passion, blood-coloured rubies and garnets. it is only this that stays his irritation, bubbling instead as something just as fierce and red-hot in his chest.

“here, i am known by one name, and one name only,” you only say, demure. a sharp blade in your right hand, and a thorn-ridden in the other, you make quick work of slicing the hardy stem in half. “they call me _____. it is a good name. what name have you taken in this form, dearest ares?”

he stares at you — eyes the roundness of your shoulder beneath your robes, the embroidery of which is delicate and expertly done. your eyes are half-lidded, cast down to your work, the shadows of your eyelashes curving over your cheeks. it has never been a question of his (or any other, for that regard) as to why you govern all matters of beauty. it is clear as the sun in the sky.

your eyes flicker up from the flower blooming in your hand. he realises that he did not avoid your question quickly enough — his head still stumbles over dearest ares. no matter. you’ve never bristled at his misanthropic silence or brutish remarks — only brushed them off with a knowing smile or distracted sigh, like he was nothing more than an overexcited puppy nipping at your ankles. it should annoy him more than it does, perhaps, but there are more pressing matters to attend to.

“war will find its way here,” he says shortly. looking away from your face and finding his mind clearer, he takes in his surroundings more fully; the cobbled streets, the wooden crates of produce, fresh and shiny. the smell of salt in the air, the heat of the sun. if he had such an appreciation for beauty, for aesthetics, he would perhaps feel worse about the sorry state this place will surely be in once the fighting is over. this is wholly against his nature, though; he cannot deny the chance of a good fight sparks something in his stomach. still, he attempts to dull his blood-thirst when he turns to you once more, and says: “most will die. blood will fill these streets, and fire will burn these stalls. none will inhabit this village for the next hundred years.”

he hadn’t expected tears from you, to be sure, but he still finds himself surprised when you simply respond: “hm.”

the stem is cut in half again. then, methodically, your blade slices away at the thorns.

“does it please you, sweet ares?” you say, then, peering up at him from below those gods-forsaken lashes — and he is frozen once more. “to look here, at that peaceful horizon, at these swarms of mortals, and see war?”

“yes,” he says. honest. you know his nature.

“hm.” after another pause, you raise a hand; beckoning him close with a simple wave that he is all too weak to resist. his knee finds the cobblestone, his other forming a rest for his arm. he is not unaware that this could be regarded as deference. better you than apollo, or hephaestus, or dionysus, or any other.

you lean forward. he bends towards you, too, until less than the width of your stall separates you. would he be a mortal man, this proximity would have already ruined him for all others.

“by the time this village is in ruins,” you say, voice a low whisper, eyes boring so pointedly into his — so close that your breath heats his lips, and the smell of roses clouds his head, “i will be gone, or perhaps i will be among it. and i will find another town just like it, or a city thrice its size, or a village not even half of it. and you will follow me there, as you have followed me for millennia, sweet…?”

“katsuki.”

a toothy grin suddenly eclipses your face — all hints of secrecy or solemnity vanished. his cheeks are hot — he hadn’t even meant to reveal it, the inconsequential name of his current human form — but before he can snap at you, snarl his embarrassment away, you reach up. that same flower you had been carving away at is deftly tucked behind his ear, fragrant and blooming, and he is equal parts enraged and astounded by it. you can see it on his face, too, and laughing, stand to your feet.

“sweet katsuki,” you say, turning away from him, “let us meet here again. bring your war. i will bring mine.”

you disappear around the wall — or perhaps in the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing, or a ray of golden sunlight.

katsuki — ares — is left, with his mud-stained boots and his face contorted somewhere between anger and incredulity, a rose in his spiked hair.

#bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugou x you #bnha x you #katsuki x you #mha x you #anime x reader #anime x you #anime au #bakugou au #bnha au #katsuki au

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sculptorofcrimson · 8 months ago

Text

Yandere! Valdor

Valdor, the most loyal, the greatest of the Custodes, a Primarch in all but name. Who else can obsess more than him, whose every function besides loyalty was beaten out? A/N: Playing “fucked up obsessive twinks” on easy mode here, aren’t I? I’m sorry, SCP-XXXX who requested this, but you told me Valdor was a twink, and evil twinks are the best kind of men, so therefore this is your fault! Full throttle ahead, let us be damned together! ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Relationships: Valdor/Gn!Reader, mentioned Valdor/Emperor Mentions: @kit-williams would you like some food?

Valdor does not love.

The Custodes simply can not love. Their love perished beneath treachery and fire, ten thousand years ago, and they simply cannot piece the remnants that was a heart back together again.

The Emperor took away their ability to love any but Himself, and what else could be left but a hollow void, an immortality without substances, a heart that beats while it lacks its other half?

There was simply nothing left of him to spare when the Emperor had brought down his claws. His love, his joy, his dreams, all gone, wiped away like sand upon the sea. Leaving behind nothing more than a hollow without sustenance, a phantom vestige of a dream crushed long ago, its corpse entombed within perfected flesh and bone and blood.

He loves no one, not even himself. When the Emperor died ten thousand years ago, he lost his way. He lost his tether to life itself. And for ten thousand years he wandered for the corpse of his master. There was a poem once, a poem so long ago about the loyal dog that stood guard before his master’s bones, who licked the once-petting hand once, and laid down to die.

Valdor’s loyalty is no weaker than that dog’s.

He loves no one, not even himself. But he loves the Emperor. He loves Him, so brokenly, so obsessively, so utterly insane in his adoration, the First Custodian would have let Him tear him apart if He wished.

He loved the Emperor.

And that is why he loves you. He thinks you to be his Emperor. If not Him, then at least a shard.

He doesn’t care who you were, he doesn’t care whether you were once a captain, a Chapter Master, a Thunder Warrior even. He thinks you to be his master, back from the dead, one of His shards caught in life and flesh.

He thinks you’re Him. Or, if not Him, at least a fragment of His former glory.

Valdor calls you his Emperor, his shard, his beloved, he ignores any name you had once in favor of calling you his master. A name is only a word, after all, and you are nothing but his Emperor reborn, in his mind. A guardsman, an Astarte, a Thunder Warrior, you are all mortal beneath his eyes. He only smiles that cold, humorless smile of his when you attempt to correct him, when he brushes off your words with the same cold, humorless disinterest.

Valdor thinks you to be his Emperor. And he doesn't care that you were once someone else, you were not always his beloved, you were not the master he imagined, that you are not the master he built from memories and bones.

You were nothing before his master, he reasons, you will be nothing after his master, and you were his Emperor once upon a time. It is doubtful if he can even know love, if he had not projected his own delusions of his Emperor upon another. Valdor failed Him once and only now the fates have judged him fit enough to protect a shard of Him, one that is so frail compared to himself, so unspeakably mortal, his atonement for the master he failed so long ago.

He failed the Emperor once, and watched Him die. He will not do so again.

Protection. You will never walk free again, never without his cold presence by your side, that effortless, confident stride as he accompanies his master. You will never know the taste of sunlight, the easy voice of another conversationalist before their words taper off into uncertainty, and then fear, beneath the jealous glare of your bodyguard. How their sentences trail off, how Valdor looms like some ancient, murderous harpy, his shadow constantly overcasting yours.

He knows nothing of love, of human emotion. But he knows protection. And he knows obsession.

Valdor is not a passionate man. But he is neither a cruel one either. Of course, Valdor will never raise a spear nor blade against his adoration, to strike his master would certainly mean death, but he will slaughter your loved ones without even horror. He will whisper litanies of loyalty on his knees while his Custodes sink in the knives. He will speak ironclad promises and gilded oaths when they label your soldiers traitors and slaughter them upon the snowfields, when they hail for unity, and hear the blade fall.

He seems to like walks in wintery fields. It reminds him of what he lost long ago, when the Emperor took him atop Ararat, and he enacted His first vengeance upon the Thunder Warriors. He sometimes brings you there, to altitudes higher than even what a Space Marine can withstand, and gathers you beneath his cloak, whispering memories that were never truly yours, asking for your orders, asking for your forgiveness, asking if you can remember what it felt like ten thousand years ago.

(Sometimes, you can nearly believe him when he says you’re a shard. It’s flattering, almost, to be under the eye of the captain-general.)

He can kill. There is nothing left of him if he could not. Nothing but the Emperor’s spear, a sharpened tool meant to kill and to serve, and to be cast away when its function is complete. You have nothing to fear from him, of course, he would rather end himself than raise a blade against his master. But he loves no other. He does not know how to love. And that makes him dangerous. You know it when you gaze into his eyes, you are sure you could imagine him covered in the blood of your loved ones, guardian spear flashing as he hacks through them without even the shadow of hesitation. He will take no fear, no regret, no relief, barely even satisfaction in the grim act, and yet that is somehow more profane than joy in slaughter. Not even a single hint of joy, wild and unfettered in the sheer cruelty, not even a single hint of an ambition for why he would lay such altars of blood before his master’s feet, only simply because He wanted it to be so, and simply because he loved Him.

In his eyes, you are his Emperor. But he does not always obey you. He does not kneel as he would’ve knelt before his master. Because he knows, Valdor knows that to protect Him, to serve Him properly, sometimes he must smother Him for His own good. It’s the twisted rationale of a dog who has lost his master, whose death had rocked him so thoroughly he was willing to kill to save Him again.

Valdor kneels, of course. He’ll kneel before you and speak his words of loyalty, he’ll give you his names one by one if you only ask. Valdor has never considered himself eloquent with words, but he’ll listen to you, he’ll even let you command him as the Emperor would have done. Rank be damned, he cares not if his Emperor had been reborn as a guardsman or an Astartes or even a Thunder Warrior.

But he does not hide his obsession. To obsess is the only way he knows to love, after all. He’ll smother his beloved with his protection, with his adoration. He’ll hack his way to be their only protector, their only bulwark before the madness, the only man they can trust to defend them. Gaze upon his Emperor once, he’ll tear them apart. Love the Emperor more than him, and he’ll bury their bones beneath the snowfields.

And be loved by the Emperor more than him….and he’ll betray them as he had betrayed the Thunder Warriors. He’ll sink in golden knives and golden spears in turned backs without even the hint of remorse, Valdor will remind his beloved that it is he who is the servant, it is he who serves to be praised for his duty. Valdor can take you from your family as the Emperor took him from his, he’ll so effortlessly ensure the utter protection of his new Emperor, all for himself.

No one will protect you more than I, my liege.

It is he who should be the favored servant.

No one can love you more than I, my Emperor.

He’ll croon those litanies of loyalty to you. He’ll whisper those promises of protection, of ambition, he’ll promise you an eternity while standing atop the frozen ashes of your loved ones. He’ll promise you a throne if you don’t cry, if you’ll love him as his master did. He’ll bring you a crown of gold, he’ll strangle the living storm for you, if only you promise to let him protect you, if you promise if you’ll be his Emperor.

You died once. I will not let you do so again, my Emperor.

And his obsession would never be checked, and much less ended by the true power behind the Imperium.

You are his Emperor. In that mind He broke so thoroughly long ago, you are the Emperor, reborn. Heavy is the head that bears the laurel, bloodied is the hand that holds this mad dog’s leash.

It is Valdor who should be the favored servant.

No one will protect you more than I, my liege.

He will protect you.

He will protect you, obsess over you, guard you with the hollow that is a heart. He’ll bring you a throne, a crown, an army, an eternity, if only you promise, if only you’ll be his Emperor.

The Emperor died ten thousand years ago. And in turn, he casted you in His corpse.

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hoe4hotchner · 1 month ago

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Bound by the sea | [A.H]

Pairing: Pirate!Hotch x fem!Reader

CW: Is this maybe enemies to lovers??? Perhaps, I don't know, because Hotch isn’t really an enemy as much as he just kidnapped you. Kidnapping, non-consensual captivity, emotional distress, hints of violence, violence, manipulation, power dynamics, light danger, robbery, plundering, alcohol consumption, mild aggression, emotional tension, hints of romance, weapons. Loneliness, blood. Hotch is a brutal pirate when he steals from people, Y/N used twice, I mention rum a lot, and there’s a moment in the latter half of the story where I really wanted Hotch to say, "Minions, tonight we steal the moon!"—if you can spot it, you're a legend. No sex, but I hint at the possibility of rape twice if you're not careful as a pirate—not mentioned directly, you have to read between the lines. Maybe there’s a wedding, who knows? Pirate talk—is that even a warning

WC: 15.5k

Summary: Hotch is a pirate, he kidnaps you, you adapt to the life and fall in love with him.

A/N: I'm sorry this is so long, but I got carried away and couldn't stop. Enjoy!

Based on this moodboard

The night was thick with the scent of saltwater and the hum of the ocean beneath you, a blanket of inky darkness stretching over the horizon. Waves rocked the ship gently, a deceptive lull to the chaos you’d been thrown into. You sat in the dimly lit cabin, your wrists bound together with rope rougher than what was necessary, and the memory of how you’d gotten here was still a vivid blur.

One moment, you had been safe in your bed on your father's estate - untouchable, or so you thought. And the next, you were dragged away from the safety of your home by men who smelled a little too much of rum and sea air, with no explanation other than your value as a hostage.

Your captor - Captain Aaron Hotchner - was the man behind it all. He had led the raid on your father’s estate, taking you as a prize, a bargaining chip to use against the very people you called family. You had heard of Captain Hotchner before - feared and revered across the seas, known for his cruelty and cunning. But nothing had prepared you for the man himself.

The door to the cabin creaked open, and your heart raced as the figure of Captain Hotchner stepped inside, his silhouette imposing against the lantern's flickering light. He was tall, dressed in his dark, weather-worn captain's coat, his eyes gleaming with intensity and amusement as they landed on you.

"Good evening," he said, his voice smooth and unsettlingly calm. "I trust you’re settling in well."

You glared at him, feeling the fire of anger in your chest rise. “You kidnapped me,” you spat, trying to tug at your bindings though it was no use. "How do you expect me to settle in when you’ve stolen me from my home?"

Hotch smiled - an infuriating, almost charming smile that didn't belong on the face of a pirate. He stepped closer, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor until he was standing in front of you, towering over you with a confidence that made your skin prickle.

"Kidnapped, stolen - such harsh words," he mused, crossing his arms casually. "I prefer to think of it as... relocation. You’re safe here, aren’t you?"

Safe? The very idea made you laugh bitterly. “You’re a pirate. I’m your prisoner. How could I possibly be safe?”

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as if considering your words. "You wound me," he said with mock offense. "I’ve taken you from the dangers of the land - away from a world of treachery and deception. Your father has enemies, you know. He’s made more than a few people unhappy. Here, under my care, no harm will come to you."

You stared at him, incredulous. He truly believed what he was saying - like he had done you a favor by dragging you away in the dead of night.

“And what do you want in return?” you demanded, your voice sharp. “My father’s ransom?”

Hotch’s smile widened, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He took another step forward, kneeling before you so he was at your eye level. You tried not to shrink back, but there was something undeniably intimidating about him - something dark and unyielding.

“Your father’s wealth, his power... perhaps,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “But you, my dear, are far more valuable than any gold or ransom.”

Your breath hitched at his words, and you stared at him, trying to decipher his intentions. The way he spoke, the way his eyes held yours - it was unnerving. There was a dangerous charm to him, a magnetic pull that made your heart race for reasons you couldn’t understand.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered, unable to hide the tremor in your voice.

Captain Hotchner leaned in closer, so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. “You will,” he murmured, his voice was dark and teasing as if he held all the cards and you were merely a pawn in his game of chess. “In time, you’ll see that there's a reason for everything I do, that being here, with me, is far better than anything your former life could offer.”

You shook your head, your chest tight with anger and fear. “You’re mad,” you said with a laugh, your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Am I?” he asked, his smile never faltering. “Or am I the only person being truly truthful with you, are you just too used to your comfortable, sheltered life to see that there’s more to the world than you’ve been told?”

You wanted to argue, to tell him that he was wrong, that there was nothing good about being held captive by a pirate who acted as charming as he was dangerous. But the way his gaze lingered on you, the way his fingers brushed against your arm, sent a shiver down your spine. There was something intoxicating about him, something that made your skin tingle under his touch, even though every rational part of you knew you should be terrified, that you should fight.

“You’ll come around,” he said softly, his voice a promise laced with darkness. “You’ll see that I’m not your enemy, no matter what you’ve been taught to believe.”

You shook your head again, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened at his proximity. “I’ll never trust you.”

Captain Hotchner chuckled softly, his hand coming up to tilt your chin so you had no choice but to look into his eyes. “We’ll see about that,” he whispered, his tone soft yet menacing. “For now, I suggest you get some rest. You’ll need your strength in the days to come.”

And with that, he stood, giving you one last, lingering look before turning to leave the cabin. The door creaked shut behind him, and you were left alone once more, your heart racing and your mind swirling with confusion and anger.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

The quiet after his departure felt heavier than the moments before. Your mind was a storm of conflicting emotions - fear, anger, and something else, something unsettling that lingered in your chest. Aaron Hotchner was no ordinary pirate. He was calm and controlled - far more composed than the brash, ruthless men you had imagined when thinking of the pirates in the stories your father used to tell you about. And that made him infinitely more dangerous.

You tried to settle into the small cot in the corner of the cabin, though the ropes binding your wrists made it difficult. Sleep seemed impossible, with thoughts of escape and Captain Hotchner's strange charm keeping you on edge. You needed a plan - anything to break free from the hold he seemed to have, not just over your body but your mind as well.

Hours passed, or perhaps it was minutes - you had lost all sense of time. The creaking of the ship, the distant voices of the crew, and the gentle rocking of the waves became a maddening rhythm that you couldn’t escape. Every sound reminded you of where you were, trapped aboard a pirate ship in the middle of the ocean with no way out.

Just as your frustration reached its peak, the door creaked open again. You shot up, heart pounding, expecting to see Hotch again. Instead, it was one of his crewmembers, a gruff man with a scar running down his cheek. He held a tray with food and water, setting it down on the small wooden table in the corner without a word. His eyes lingered on you for a moment - an unsettling, assessing look - but he said nothing and left just as quickly as he had come.

You stared at the tray. The food was simple - bread, cheese, and some sort of dried meat - but your stomach growled in protest at the sight. Still, you hesitated, unsure if eating meant giving in to your captors somehow, letting them win this small battle. But the gnawing hunger eventually overpowered your pride, and you carefully tore a piece of bread, your eyes flicking nervously toward the door as if the captain would appear again.

Hours seemed to pass like this—alone with your thoughts, pacing the small cabin. The door remained closed, and every creak of the ship made you jump. You knew Captain Hotchner was playing some kind of game with you, keeping you waiting, on edge. It was a test of endurance, and you were determined not to break.

But when the door finally opened again, your heart still leapt into your throat. This time, it was him.

Captain Hotchner strode into the room with the same quiet authority as before. He had discarded his heavy coat, revealing a simple white shirt, the top buttons undone and sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, but it did nothing to soften the intensity of his presence. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it as his eyes swept over you.

“You didn’t eat much,” he observed, his voice casual but with that underlying edge.

“I’m not hungry,” you lied, crossing your arms over your chest defensively to the best of your ability.

Captain Hotchner's lips twitched in a smile that was more knowing than amused. He pushed off from the door and crossed the small room in a few strides, standing close enough that you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. There was something predatory in the way he moved.

“You’re strong-willed,” he said softly, his voice was almost admiring. “I expected no less from someone like you.”

Your heart raced at his proximity, but you refused to back down. “Someone like me?” you repeated, your voice shaking slightly despite your efforts to remain steady. “What do you mean by that?”

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. You flinched, fearing the worst, but didn’t pull away, determined not to show weakness.

“Someone raised in luxury,” he murmured, his hand lingering as he spoke. “Used to having things your way. Butlers and maids waiting on your beg and call. It’s fascinating to watch how you adapt, how you try to hold on to that sense of control even when it’s been taken from you.”

His words were like a challenge, one you couldn’t help but rise to.

“I won’t adapt,” you snapped at him, your voice sharper now. “I won’t fall into whatever twisted game you’re playing.”

He chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. He withdrew his hand but remained close, his eyes never leaving yours. “Oh, I think you will,” he said, his tone was light but firm as if he had no doubt. “In time, you’ll see that this life - this ship and my crew - is not so different from the world you knew. There are rules, there’s power, and there are choices you'll have to make along the way.”

“Choices?” you scoffed, incredulous. “You think I have a choice in any of this?”

Captain Hotchner leaned in closer, so close that you could feel his breath against your cheek. “There’s always a choice,” he whispered, his voice low with a tint of danger to it. “You can choose to fight me, resist, and make this more difficult for yourself. Or... you can choose to see things my way.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you couldn’t find words. The weight of his gaze, the intensity of his presence - it was overwhelming. And yet, beneath the fear and anger, there was something else. Something you didn’t want to admit to yourself.

“I’ll never see things your way,” you managed, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Captain Hotchner's smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll see about that, now won't we?” he said softly, his fingers brushing your cheek before he pulled away entirely. He straightened, his expression once again unreadable.

“We’ll be docking soon,” he said, his tone shifting back to something more businesslike. “I suggest you prepare yourself.”

“Docking? Where are you taking me?” you demanded, panic rising again.

He didn’t answer immediately. He turned toward the door but paused just before opening it, glancing back at you with that same infuriating smile. “You’ll see soon enough.”

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

You stared at the door long after it closed, his parting words echoing in your mind like a dark promise. "You'll see soon enough." What did that even mean? Your thoughts churned with anxiety, but behind the fear, there was a wave of simmering anger - anger at Hotch for taking you, for speaking to you like he had all the control, and anger at yourself for the strange pull you felt whenever he was near.

With a frustrated sigh, you tugged at the ropes around your wrists. They were tightly knotted, the rough fibers digging and burning into your skin, but you knew that getting out of them wasn’t going to be easy. Your eyes darted around the small cabin, searching for anything that could help. There was a chair, a desk, and a small and dull knife on the tray of food. If you could just get to it, maybe you’d have a chance.

But the thought of escape wasn’t as comforting as it should have been. What would happen after? You were on a ship in the middle of the sea, surrounded by men who followed Captain Hotchner without question. Even if you managed to free yourself, where would you go?

The door creaked open again before you could formulate a plan. You instinctively straightened, tension rippling through your body, but it wasn’t the captain this time. One of his crewmembers - this time a man with a crooked smile and a rough beard - entered the room, carrying what looked like a set of clothes.

“The captain said you'd be needing this,” he said, tossing the bundle onto the bed without preamble.

You eyed the clothes suspiciously, then looked back at the man. “What for?”

The man grinned, his teeth yellowed and uneven. “For when we dock, missy. Can’t have you wandering around in that fancy dress. Might draw too much attention, y'know?”

“And where exactly are we docking?” you asked, though you doubted you’d get a straight answer.

The man just chuckled. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said, echoing Captain Hotchner's earlier words. Without another word, he moved toward you, and before you could react, he reached down and began untying the ropes around your wrists.

You flinched instinctively, unsure of his intentions, but his hands worked deftly, loosening the bindings until they fell away. The relief was immediate, the dull ache in your arms easing as you rubbed your sore wrists, shooting the man a wary glance.

He stood up, giving you a crooked smile. “Don’t think about runnin’,” he warned, though there was no malice in his voice. “There’s nowhere to go but the sea. The captain will be feedin' ya to the sharks if you do.”

With that, he turned and left, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

You glanced down at the clothes - a simple tunic and trousers, nothing like the finely embroidered dress you’d been wearing when you were taken. The material was coarse but practical, the kind of thing someone working on a ship might wear. You supposed they wanted you to blend in, to look like one of them. The thought made your stomach twist, but you realized you didn’t have much choice. Captain Hotchner was right about one thing - you could fight and make this harder for yourself, or you could play along, at least until you figured out a way to turn the tables.

With a sigh, you slipped off your dress and changed into the clothes, the rough fabric scratching against your skin. You had barely finished adjusting the trousers when you heard footsteps again, and before you could react, the door swung open.

This time, it was in fact, Captain Hotchner.

He stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in the change of attire with a faint smile. “Much better,” he said, his voice carrying that same quiet authority. “You’ll find it easier to move around like that.”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice or an opportunity to move around before, did I?” you shot back, crossing your arms defensively.

His smile deepened, though it was more like a smirk. “No, you didn’t.” He stepped further into the cabin, closing the door behind him, and the tension in the room thickened immediately. His presence was overwhelming, as it always was, but now there was something more - something almost... possessive in the way he looked at you.

“I’m not your prisoner,” you said, trying to sound strong, though your voice wavered slightly.

Captain Hotchner's eyes darkened, his smile fading as he took another step toward you. “Aren’t you?” he asked, his voice was low, almost a whisper, although you could sense a hint of amusement in his tone. “You’re on my ship and in my world now. You’ll find that things here don’t work the way they do in yours.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you took a small step back, your heart racing. “And what exactly do you want from me?” you demanded, your voice firmer this time. “What’s your plan, Captain?”

Captain Hotchner tilted his head, studying you for a long moment before answering. “I want you to see things my way,” he said simply. “To understand that what happens here - what we do - it’s all for survival. For power. You’re no different from us. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

You shook your head, incredulous. “You kidnapped me! That’s not survival, that’s-”

“Necessary,” He interrupted, his tone was cold and final. “Everything I do is necessary.”

Your jaw clenched in frustration. He wasn’t just a pirate - he was something more dangerous. Someone who believed he was in the right, no matter how twisted his actions were. Someone who everyone feared in some way or the other. And that made him nearly impossible to reason with.

Before you could retort, the captain stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and despite yourself, your breath hitched.

“You’ll come to understand in time,” he murmured, his eyes locked onto yours. “They all did. You’re not my prisoner. You’re part of something much bigger now.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you wanted to push him away, to fight back, but something about his voice, his presence - it made you hesitate.

“I don’t want to be part of this,” you whispered, though the conviction in your voice had wavered.

Captain Hotchner's hand lingered near your face, his fingers ghosting over your cheek for just a moment longer before he pulled back. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said softly, turning toward the door. “You already are.”

You stood frozen, staring at the door long after it closed behind him, your mind racing with a storm of conflicting emotions. The gentle brush of his fingers against your skin lingered, as if the ghost of his touch was still there, seeping into your thoughts. Part of you wanted to scream, to lash out at the unfairness of your situation, at him - for being so impossibly frustrating, so self-assured in his warped view of things. But another part, a quieter part, couldn’t shake the unsettling pull you felt toward him, despite everything.

You hated that part.

With a deep breath, you sat down on the bed, your hands gripping the edge of the rough wooden frame, knuckles turning white at the sheer force of your grip. You couldn't let him get into your head. He may have you physically trapped, but you weren’t going to let him manipulate you. You had to find a way out, even if that meant playing along for now.

As time passed, the ship swayed gently beneath you, the sounds of waves crashing against the hull and the muffled voices of the crew filling the silence of the cabin. Your mind wandered, thoughts drifting back to Captain Hotchner. The man was infuriatingly complex - dangerous and controlling, yet oddly gentle in his actions toward you. He had the power to command an entire crew of ruthless pirates, the power to kill, but something about the way he spoke to you, how he lingered, suggested he wasn’t just a ruthless villain like everyone made him out to be.

But he was still your captor.

A soft knock interrupted your thoughts. You tensed, expecting to see Hotch again, but instead, the door creaked open, revealing a younger crewmember. His clothes were worn, his hair tangled, and his face had a nervous energy about it. He stepped inside cautiously, holding a tray of food.

“Captain’s orders,” he said quietly, placing the tray on the table near the bed with the other barely touched tray of food. “He said you should eat.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes narrowing as you glanced at the tray. Bread, cheese, and what looked like some sort of stew this time. Simple but more than you expected from pirates. The boy shifted awkwardly under your gaze, looking down at his boots.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” he asked, offering a nervous smile.

You shook your head, still suspicious. “Why do you follow him?” you asked abruptly, catching him off guard. “Captain Hotchner. Why do you all listen to him?”

The boy blinked, surprised by your question. He hesitated before answering, his voice quiet. “Captain Hotchner… he’s not like other pirates i've met. He takes care of us. He protects us. A lot of us wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.” He glanced around the cabin, almost as if making sure Hotch wasn’t listening. “He has his reasons for everything. You may not see it now, but the captain… he’s not as bad as you might think.”

You bit your lip, his words stirring something inside you. Was it loyalty that kept them all in line? Or fear?

Before you could respond, the boy gave you a small nod and turned to leave. “Just… eat something, alright? You’re gonna need your strength.”

Once the door clicked shut, you stared at the tray for a long moment, your stomach growling despite the tension that gripped you. You finally relented, picking up the bread and taking a small bite. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to clear your head, giving you some much-needed focus.

As you ate, your thoughts circled back to the captain. You couldn’t let him win. If the crew saw him as a protector, as someone to be followed, there had to be a way to use that to your advantage. Maybe you could earn their trust too. Maybe you could find a crack in his armor, something that would give you leverage.

But first, you had to play along. You had to be smart.

Later, as the ship rocked gently and the sounds of the crew faded into the evening, you laid down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Captain Hotchner's words echoed in your mind, a constant reminder of the battle ahead.

“You’re part of this now.”

Maybe you were. But that didn’t mean you had to accept it.

With that thought, you drifted off into an uneasy sleep, knowing that tomorrow, you’d have to face the captain again - and somehow, find a way to turn the tides in your favor.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

The next morning, you woke to the faint glow of sunlight filtering through the small cabin window. The sound of footsteps and muted conversations echoed from above deck, reminding you once again of where you were, it had in fact not just been a nightmare that you were trapped on a pirate ship. The reality of it weighed heavily on your chest, but you swallowed the anxiety, forcing yourself to rise and steady your mind.

You couldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you broken.

The door creaked open before you could prepare yourself and Captain Hotchner stepped inside, as if summoned by your thoughts, his presence commanding the room. He didn’t say anything at first, simply letting his eyes sweep over you as if assessing. His dark hair was tousled slightly, the sea breeze having its way - you could only imagine the wind having blown through it as he steered the ship - but he still looked as composed as ever.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, his voice rich and calm, as though he hadn’t abducted you and was holding you captive onboard his ship.

You refused to give him the satisfaction of answering him. Instead, you crossed your arms and leveled him with a steady glare, one you hoped conveyed more strength than you felt.

Captain Hotchner's lips quirked slightly, that infuriating smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Still defiant, I see."

He stepped closer, but instead of looming over you, he walked past, his fingers brushing along the edge of the table as he observed the mostly empty plate from last night’s meal.

"You ate," he noted, almost as if pleased. "Good. I need you strong."

"For what?" you snapped, tired of his vague answers. "What’s your plan? To keep me locked in this cabin forever while you and your crew plunder villages and kill innocent people? Or is there something worse waiting for me? Cause if so, you might as well kill me now."

He turned then, his expression was unreadable as his eyes bore into yours. "You’ll see soon enough."

His nonchalance infuriated you. It wasn’t just that he had taken you - it was the way he acted as if you were already part of his world, as if you would eventually bend to him.

"You’re a monster," you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

To your surprise, Captain Hotchner didn’t seem angered by the accusation. Instead, he tilted his head, watching you closely, his expression softening just slightly.

"Maybe I am," he said after a pause, his voice was quiet. "But that doesn’t change anything. You belong here now."

You clenched your fists, your pulse quickening at his words. "I don’t belong to anyone," you shot back, your voice shaking with both rage and defiance.

Hotch’s eyes darkened, but his expression remained calm. "You’ll change your mind soon enough, just you wait and see."

With that, he stepped closer, his figure once again towering over you. His presence was suffocating, and yet, there was something in his gaze that drew you in, a strange pull that you hated to acknowledge.

"I can see the fire in you," the captain murmured, his voice lower now, as if he was telling you a secret, it was almost tender. "It’s what makes you interesting. But if you think you can escape or fight me off, you’ll find yourself sorely mistaken. I'm sure Scully already told you about the sharks."

Your breath caught in your throat as his words sank in. He wasn’t threatening you - not in the traditional way and certainly not in the way you’d expect from a pirate. No, this was different. It was as if he truly believed that you would eventually choose to stay, that you’d give in willingly.

"You’re wrong," you whispered, your voice was barely audible.

Captain Hotchner's eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face, a gesture that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Perhaps," he murmured, his thumb grazing your cheek lightly before he pulled away. "But time will tell."

"And I'm always right," He muttered under his breath. And with that, he turned and left the cabin, leaving you alone once more, your heart racing and your mind spinning. What could all of this mean?

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

The days passed slowly aboard the ship. The crew seemed to give you space, not daring to question their captain's decision to keep you. But you noticed the way they looked at you when they thought you weren’t paying attention - they were curious, perhaps even wary of you. You were the captain’s captive, after all, and no one dared question the captain.

Captain Hotchner visited you often in the cabin, sometimes bringing you meals to ensure you ate something, other times simply sitting in the cabin, watching you in silence. He never pushed you, never forced you into anything - not like you'd heard tales of what pirates usually did to their captives - but his presence was a constant reminder of your imprisonment. He was always calm and always composed around you, as if he was waiting for something - for you to break, perhaps.

But you refused. You wouldn’t let him win.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an orange glow across the cabin, you heard a knock at the door. It wasn’t the captain this time this time. Instead, it was the young boy from a couple of days ago.

"The captain wants to see you," he said, his voice shaky.

You stood, your heart pounding. You hadn’t been out of the cabin all day, and the idea of facing Hotch in front of the rest of the crew made your stomach twist with anxiety. But you couldn’t stay hidden forever.

The boy led you above deck, where the cool sea breeze hit your face, a contrast to the stuffy air in your cabin. The ship was alive with movement - sails being adjusted, ropes being pulled, boards being mopped, and the creaking of the wood beneath your feet. And there, at the helm, stood Captain Hotchner, his hands resting on the wheel as he gazed out at the open sea.

When he noticed you, he smiled - calm, assured, and maddeningly in control.

"Come," he called, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves. "There’s something I want you to see."

Despite your reluctance, you stepped closer, your eyes narrowing as you tried to figure out what he was planning. The captain didn’t speak right away. Instead, he nodded toward the horizon, where a small island was visible in the distance.

"That’s our destination," he said quietly. "A place where no one will find you."

Your breath caught in your throat as the full weight of his words settled over you. This wasn’t just about keeping you captive. This was about taking you away, far from anything familiar. Far from escape.

"You’re mad if you think I'm staying there," you whispered, shaking your head. "I’ll never—"

"Yes, you will," he interrupted, his voice steady but firm. "Because whether you like it or not, this is your life now. And besides, the elements will take care of you sooner rather than later if you try to escape." He shrugged at the last part.

You stared at him, your heart pounding as a mixture of fear and anger welled up inside you. You wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to yell. But even as you opened your mouth to argue, you realized something terrifying, no words wanted to come out.

A part of you didn’t want to leave.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

The journey to the island felt endless, the tension between you and the captain hung like a storm cloud. Every day, you were met with the same dark horizon, the endless expanse of ocean offering no solace. But the island grew larger with each passing moment, and with that came a haunting promise of your new reality.

When you finally arrived, the crew worked swiftly to anchor the ship just offshore, lowering a small rowboat into the water. Captain Hotchner approached you in the cabin, his expression unreadable as he gestured toward the door.

“It’s time.”

You swallowed, your pulse quickening as you stood. There was no escaping this. If you didn't move your own legs, he would have someone move them for you. You were far from anything familiar, and the chances of finding help on this isolated island were slimer than you prefered. Still, you couldn't show your fear - not to him, not to his crew.

The rowboat swayed slightly as you stepped into it, and the captain followed, settling in beside you as a few men from the crew lowered you down into the water. Two of his men rowed in silence, their eyes downcast, avoiding your gaze as if they knew something you didn’t. Captain Hotchner sat across from you, his arms resting on his knees, his eyes watching you carefully. His calm demeanor only heightened your anxiety, as if he had already anticipated your every move.

The boat glided smoothly toward the shore, rocking softly with the waves, and when it touched the sand, the captain was the first to stand, offering you his hand. You hesitated, the stubborn part of you wanting to refuse, but the logical side winning, not wanting to fall into the water. You took his hand, letting him help you out of the boat.

As your feet sank into the soft sand, you took in the sight of the island. It wasn’t large - just enough to support a dense forest and a stretch of beach. The sound of waves crashing against the shore was the only noise, apart from the distant calls of seabirds. It was eerily quiet, an isolated paradise... or a prison.

Captain Hotchner walked ahead, leading you up the beach toward the treeline. "Come," he called over his shoulder, not waiting for you to catch up. You followed reluctantly, the sand giving way to a narrow path that led through the trees.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you stepped into the shade of the forest, the thick canopy blocking out most of the sunlight. The path wound deeper into the island, and after what felt like an eternity, you finally emerged into a small clearing.

In the center of the clearing stood a humble cabin, tucked away in the foliage like a hidden secret. It was rustic, with weathered wood and a thatched roof, but it was clear it had been maintained.

“You’ll stay here,” the captain said, his voice calm as if he were simply giving a tour. “It’s safe, isolated. No one will find you, not even my men.”

You stared at him, disbelief and anger swirling within you. “You’re serious?!” you spat. “You plan to keep me here like some kind of... animal in a zoo?”

He met your gaze, his expression steady. “You’re not an animal,” he said quietly, his tone almost soothing. “You’re protected. No one will harm you here.” You couldn't think of anyone who would harm you, but him.

The absurdity of his words made you laugh bitterly. “Protected? You took me, and now you’re isolating me on a deserted island. How is that protection? If anything I will go insane.”

Captain Hotchner didn’t flinch at your accusation. Instead, he stepped closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Because I won’t let anyone take you from me,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You belong to me now.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, and you took an instinctive step back. The rational part of you screamed that this was insane, that you needed to find a way out, but there was something in his gaze - something dark and possessive - that made your heart race for reasons you couldn’t fully understand.

He watched you for a moment longer before turning toward the cabin. He pushed open the door, revealing a simple interior: a bed, a small table, and a few shelves stocked with supplies and books. It was far from luxurious, but it was clear he had prepared this place specifically for you.

“I’ll leave you to settle in,” Captain Hotchner said, his voice softer now. “But don’t think about trying to escape. You won’t get far.”

Before you could respond, he turned and walked back down the path, leaving you standing in the doorway of the cabin alone with your racing thoughts.

You stepped inside, glancing around the small space, your mind reeling. It was all too much to process. You were on a deserted island, trapped by a man who believed you belonged to him. And yet, despite the fear and anger simmering inside you, there was a small part of you that wondered what would happen if you stayed. If you stopped fighting.

That thought terrified you.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

Days passed, and you fell into an uneasy routine. Captain Hotchner would visit the cabin daily, bringing supplies, checking in on you, always watching you with that same intense gaze. His presence felt suffocating. He seemed to be waiting for something, waiting for you to stop resisting him.

And the worst part was, you felt yourself weakening. The isolation, the quiet of the island, and the strange charm Hotch carried as he arrived - it all started to wear on you. You hated him for what he’d done, but there was no denying the magnetic pull he had over you. The way he looked at you, the way he spoke - it was impossible to ignore, and you were starting to feel it too.

One evening, as the sun began to set, the captain arrived at the cabin once more. This time, however, he didn’t bring supplies. Instead, he sat down at the small table, gesturing for you to join him.

Reluctantly, you sat across from him, your arms crossed as you eyed him warily.

“You’re adjusting,” he noted.

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” you replied, your tone sharper than you intended.

Captain Hotchner's lips quirked slightly. “True. But I can see it in you - in your eyes, you’re beginning to accept this.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. “I’ll never accept this,” you said quietly, though the conviction in your voice wavered.

Captain Hotchner leaned forward, his eyes locking onto yours. “You will,” he said softly. “And when you do, you’ll realize that this is where you were always meant to be.”

You stared at him, your pulse quickening as the weight of his words settled over you. There was something terrifying in the way he spoke, as if he truly believed that this was your fate.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

Days turned into weeks on the island, the crash of waves and the endless whisper of wind through the trees becoming your only companions as Captain Hotchner started visiting less frequently. The small, confined space of the cabin that had once felt like a prison now felt like a strange kind of refuge. The fight inside you, that spark of rebellion, had dulled over time, replaced by a heavy sense of resignation as you'd given into your loneliness. You had started to long for his visits.

You knew, logically, that this wasn’t right - nothing about this was right. And yet, the more time you spent on the island, the more his words echoed in your mind. “You belong here now.” It was ridiculous, but there was a part of you that started to believe it. You had no way of knowing how long you would remain here, and the idea of constantly fighting him seemed... exhausting. So, bit by bit, you stopped resisting.

When Hotch visited, you stopped turning your back to him. You no longer flinched when he stood close, and your anger no longer flared when he spoke to you in that infuriatingly calm, slick voice. You even started responding to him, not with defiance, but with quiet conversation, as if the simple exchange of words could anchor you to some semblance of normalcy.

One evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon and painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, Captain Hotchner arrived at the cabin. He lingered at the doorway, watching you for a moment, before stepping inside.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your hands folded in your lap. You had stopped fighting your reality. It didn’t mean you had fully accepted it, but it was easier than constantly resisting.

He took a few steps closer, his gaze never leaving you. “I think it’s time,” he said softly.

You blinked, looking up at him. “Time for what?”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “To return to the ship.”

A strange mix of emotions surged through you - fear, uncertainty, but also... relief. The island had felt like a prison, but in truth, it had also been a place of isolation, you felt lonely. Going back to the ship meant returning to the world, in a way, even if it was under the captain's constant control.

“I thought you were going to leave me here forever,” you said quietly, unable to hide the wariness in your voice.

His lips curled into a small smile. “I told you before. You’re not a prisoner. You’re with me, I just needed you to realize.”

His words should have sent a chill down your spine, but instead, they settled over you like a blanket of inevitability. You stood, smoothing your hands over your garments, and nodded once. “Alright.”

Captain Hotchner seemed pleased with your response. Without another word, he turned and led the way out of the cabin, down the path toward the beach where his men waited with the small rowboat. You followed behind him, your heart pounding in your chest as the sound of the waves grew louder.

When you reached the shore, the captain turned to face you, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of resistance. But you had none left to offer. You stepped into the rowboat with him, the familiar sway beneath your feet sending a strange sense of déjà vu through your body, although the rocking motion made you feel nauseous after not spending time on the water for so long.

As the crew rowed you back toward the ship, you couldn’t help but look at Hotch. There was something about him, something dark and powerful, but also compelling. He had taken everything from you - your freedom, your choices - and yet, he made it seem as though he had given you everything, a place, a purpose.

When the rowboat reached the side of the ship, Hotch climbed up first, offering you his hand as you hesitated on the edge of the boat. You glanced up at him, his eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite place. For a brief moment, you thought about refusing, about fighting again. But the fight had long since faded. So, you took his hand.

The ship felt both familiar and foreign as you stepped aboard. The crew glanced at you, their expressions carefully neutral, but you could sense their curiosity. They had all watched your arrival, your defiance, and now... they saw your surrender. You wondered if they pitied you, or if they admired your resilience for lasting this long. Either way, it didn’t matter anymore.

Captain Hotchner's hand lingered on your arm as he led you toward the cabin you had first been brought to all those weeks ago. “You’ll stay in here again,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “It’s certainly more comfortable than the island.”

You didn’t argue. You simply nodded, stepping into the cabin once more. The space hadn’t changed - it was still simple, still confining - but it felt different now. You felt different now.

As you sat down on the edge of the bed, the captain stood in the doorway, watching you with that same intense gaze. “You’ve made the right choice,” he said softly.

You met his eyes, feeling a strange mix of emotions churn inside you - fear, anger, but also... something else. Something you couldn’t name.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you whispered, though the words lacked the bitterness they once carried.

His lips twitched into a smile. “You always had a choice,” he murmured, turning to leave. But before he stepped out, he glanced back at you one last time. “You’ll understand that soon enough.”

With that, the door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the cabin once again. This time, however, it felt different. This time, the weight of the situation pressed down on you, but instead of fighting it... you let it settle over you like the setting sun on the horizon.

Because in your heart, you knew that no matter how much you resisted, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise - you were already his.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

The moon hung low in the night sky, casting a silvery glow across the deck of the ship. The ocean was calm, the gentle lapping of waves against the hull creating a soothing rhythm that filled the air. You stood at the helm, your heart racing with a mixture of excitement and anxiety as Captain Hotchner approached, his silhouette framed by the stars. He had asked you to meet him there as soon as the rest of the crew went to sleep. It was his turn to take the night shift tonight.

“Tonight, we’re going to learn how to navigate by the stars,” he said, his voice smooth and confident, yet somehow soothing in the stillness of the night.

“Navigate?” you echoed, looking up at him. The deep blue color of the sea shimmered under the moonlight, and the vast expanse of stars overhead made your head spin - but in a good way.

He stepped closer, his presence both comforting and commanding. “Yes, it’s essential out here. Come here.”

You took a hesitant step toward him, drawn by the warmth of his body. Your body stiffened as he wrapped his arm around you - but soon relaxed. He crouched down to your level as he pointed upward, his finger tracing the outline of a constellation. “This is the North Star. It’s your guide,” he explained, his voice low as if he were sharing a secret meant only for you.

You squinted up at the stars, trying to find the North Star among the vastness. “How do you know which one it is?” you asked, your curiosity getting the better of your hesitation.

“It’s the brightest star in that direction,” he replied, you could feel the heat radiating from him. “Follow me.”

Captain Hotchner moved with a fluid grace, guiding you as he pointed out more constellations, the big dipper, Cassiopeia, and so on, his finger dancing through the air. You found yourself captivated, not just by the stars but by the way he spoke with passion, his voice steady and filled with knowledge.

“Each star tells a story,” he continued, gesturing toward a cluster that resembled a ship’s sails. “These stars will help you determine your course.”

As he spoke, you couldn’t help but admire him - his hair tousled from the slumber he had just awoken from, the way his eyes glinted with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. You felt a strange mix of admiration and something deeper, a connection that seemed to spark in the space between you.

“Now, grab the helm,” he instructed, pulling you from your thoughts.

With a deep breath, you stepped up to the wheel, placing your hands on the cool wood. Captain Hotchner stood behind you, close enough that you could feel his breath on the back of your neck. “Keep her steady,” he said, his voice low and reassuring.

You concentrated, focusing on the gentle movements of the waves and the stars above, trying to align everything as he had shown you. The ship swayed softly beneath your hands as the pull from the waves made you steer slightly off course, although you quickly aligned her back up. The sound of the water lapping against the sides created a tranquil atmosphere.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of approval. The praise made you feel good. “Now, look at the compass. That will help you find your direction.”

As you navigated, you felt his presence envelop you, a heady mix of mentorship and intimacy that left you breathless. His hand brushed against your arm as he leaned over to adjust your grip, and you felt a warmth radiate through you, the boundaries of your situation blurring with every shared moment.

“Feel the wind,” he instructed, his voice a soft command that pulled your attention back to the task at hand. “It can also tell you which way to go.”

You turned your head slightly, the scent of the ocean mingling with his musky cologne and faint hint of rum, intoxicating and overwhelming. The ship felt alive beneath you, the moonlit water stretching endlessly before you.

As you learned to navigate, Captain Hotchner explained the importance of trusting your instincts. “Out here, it’s not just about what you see; it’s about what you feel,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“There’s a rhythm to the sea,” he replied, the warmth of his breath brushing against your ear. “You have to learn to listen.”

He guided your hands on the wheel, showing you how to respond to the subtle shifts in the wind and water. As the minutes stretched into hours, and the morning sun started to rise, the connection between you deepened, and you found yourself leaning into his touch, feeling a strange sense of safety despite the uncertainty of how you had gotten there.

“Now, plot a course for Scully when he wakes up to take over,” he instructed, pointing to the next destination on the map. The sunlight illuminated the parchment, and you felt drawn to it, wanting to understand the paths you would take.

With his finger, Captain Hotchner traced a line across the map, explaining how to navigate from one point to another. His proximity, the warmth of his body brushing against yours, made it hard to focus on anything other than the way he commanded the space around you.

“Why do you keep teaching me all this?” you asked suddenly, unable to contain your curiosity.

He paused, glancing at you with a serious expression. “Because I see potential in you,” he said, his voice earnest. “You’re stronger than you think.”

You met his gaze, feeling a strange flutter in your chest. “And what if I don’t want to be here?”

His expression softened, but there was an underlying resolve in his eyes. “That we’ll figure it out once we're back at the mainland. You don’t have to stay if you truly don’t want to.”

His words resonated deep within you, the weight of them heavy with meaning. You realized then that despite everything, despite his earlier words and mysterious ways, he wanted you to find your path, even if it meant leaving him behind.

As the darkness evaporated completely, you found solace in the rhythm of the waves and the warmth of his presence beside you. The stars that had twinkled overhead now gave room for the clouds, each one a silent witness to your growing connection - a bond forged in the depths of the sea and the mysteries of the night.

And in that moment, you accepted your fate, not with resignation, but with a tentative hope that perhaps, in navigating these uncharted waters together, you would find a way to reclaim a piece of yourself.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

As the moon began its ascend, the horizon slowly darkening with the first hints of night, casting a soft glow over the ship. The calm waters were a deceptive facade, and you sensed a change in the air. The closer you got to your destination, the more you noticed the captain's demeanor shift.

He stood at the helm, eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon, a tension palpable in his stance. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was brewing beneath the surface, a storm of emotions that had nothing to do with the weather.

“Hotch?” you called, stepping closer to him. “Is everything okay?”

He turned his head slightly, his brow furrowing. “Just keep an eye out for land,” he said, his voice clipped. The warmth that had lingered between you during the navigation lesson had vanished, replaced by a cold seriousness that sent a shiver down your spine.

As you stood beside him, the anticipation of what lay ahead settled heavily in your stomach. It was your first plundering, and the thrill mixed with fear was almost intoxicating. Yet, you could see the turmoil in Captain Hotchner's eyes, a flicker of concern that made you question everything you thought you knew about him.

“Are you sure you want me there?” you asked hesitantly, biting your lip. “I mean, it’s going to be…”

“Brutal,” he finished, the word hanging in the air like a heavy fog. He turned fully to face you, the intensity in his gaze both captivating and unnerving. “I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

Your heart sank at his words, feeling a mix of frustration and disappointment. “I can handle it. I’ve been through tough situations before,” you insisted, trying to muster some semblance of confidence.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t like anything you’ve faced before. It’s one thing to learn navigation; it’s another to watch lives being taken.”

“I need to know what I’m getting into,” you pressed, stepping closer, your voice low. “You can’t keep me sheltered forever. How do you expect me to make a choice?”

The captain's eyes softened momentarily, but the tension returned as he glanced back at the horizon. “You think you want to see this, but trust me, once you do, you can’t unsee it. You can never return to the calm life you used to live.” His voice was low, filled with a sincerity that tugged at your heart.

As the ship glided over the water, you watched the way his shoulders tightened and his hands clenched around the wheel. It was clear he was torn between wanting to protect you and letting you tag along, knowing that you deserved to make your own choices.

“Isn’t that the life we’ve chosen? To be part of this?” you asked, trying to pierce through the protective wall he had erected around himself. “To experience everything, the good and the bad?”

He turned to you then, his eyes boring into yours, a storm of conflicting emotions swirling within them. “I can’t just leave you behind, not when you mean something to me. But I can’t stand the thought of you being hurt either.”

His words hung in the air, and you felt a warmth flush through you, surprising and thrilling all at once. “You don’t have to worry about me,” you said, determination hardening your voice. “I can prove myself.”

Captain Hotchner regarded you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Fine. But you stay close to me. No matter what happens, you follow my lead and don't stray off course.”

Relief washed over you, and you felt a surge of determination. “I will,” you promised, knowing that this was your chance to show him that you were more than just a pretty face.

The outlines of land began to emerge on the horizon. Captain Hotchner's posture shifted, his focus sharpening as he prepared the crew for what lay ahead. You could feel the palpable tension in the air as excitement mixed with apprehension among the crew members.

“Gather round!” He commanded, his voice ringing out, firm and authoritative. “We’re nearing our target. Keep your wits about you. No matter what happens, remember our plan.”

You stood at his side, your heart pounding in your chest as you took in the sight of the distant shoreline. The anticipation of the unknown filled you with adrenaline, and you felt your resolve strengthening.

As the ship approached the shore, you caught glimpses of the settlement - a small harbor bustling with activity, unaware of the storm that was about to descend upon it. The excitement among the crew grew, shouts of encouragement and camaraderie ringing out in the crisp air. Yet, you noticed Captain Hotchner's expression darkening, his jaw set tight as he stared at the land ahead.

“Captain?” you asked quietly, concern creeping into your voice. “Are you okay?”

He glanced at you, the weight of his worry evident. “Just remember what I said,” he replied, the edge of urgency creeping back into his tone. “Stick close. Do not get separated from me.”

With a nod, you swallowed your fear, determination solidifying your resolve. You were ready to face whatever came next, and as the ship anchored near the shore, you felt the thrill of the unknown course through you. Captain Hotchner may have been concerned - concerned enough to give you a dagger without proper training, but you were ready to prove your strength - not just to him, but to yourself.

As the crew prepared to disembark, Captain Hotchner's gaze locked onto yours, a silent communication passing between you.

With the adrenaline coursing through your veins and the captain by your side, you stepped toward the unknown.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

The ship’s hull creaked gently against the waves as you and the crew gathered at the edge, readying to disembark. A mix of anticipation and anxiety filled the air, creating a charged atmosphere among the men. Captain Hotchner stood at the forefront, his expression sharp and serious as he glanced back at you, ensuring you were close at hand. The tension hung heavy in the salty breeze.

“Remember what I said,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “Follow my lead, and stay out of trouble.”

You nodded, determination surging within you. You had made it this far; there was no turning back now. The sound of swords being unsheathed and the chatter of excitement reverberated through the crew, setting your heart racing.

As the boat hit the dock, the crew leapt off, landing with a soft thud on the cobblestone. You followed closely behind the captain, who took the lead with an ease that was both reassuring and intimidating. The bustling settlement before you was alive with the sounds of daily life - merchants hawking their goods, fishermen repairing nets, and children playing in the streets. It was unaware of the looming darkness of what was about to unfold.

“Stay close,” Captain Hotchner repeated, his eyes scanning the scene like a hawk. You could see the tension in his posture, the way his hand twitched near the hilt of his sword, ready for anything.

As you moved deeper into the settlement, the crew fanned out, each member slipping into the chaos of the marketplace, eyes sharp for potential plunder. Hotch led you to a narrow alleyway, away from prying eyes. “We’ll take them by surprise,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder at you. “You’ll want to stay behind me.”

Your pulse raced as you nodded, adrenaline flooding your veins. You watched as he signaled to the crew, and the air shifted, becoming thick with anticipation.

In an instant, a loud crash erupted from the other end of the alley, the sound of swords clashing and shouts echoing off the walls. Your heart raced as Captain Hotchner surged forward, pulling you with him. The scene exploded into chaos; you caught glimpses of the crew engaging with startled townsfolk, swords drawn and commands shouted, the atmosphere charged with urgency.

“Now!” The captain barked, and without thinking, you followed, your feet moving of their own accord as you rushed into the fray, adrenaline flooding your senses.

You were surprised by the immediate chaos - people were scrambling, their screams mingling with the sound of clashing steel. Captain Hotchner fought with a precise brutality, each movement calculated and fluid, his strength commanding the attention of everyone around him. You tried to keep up, your heart racing as you glanced around, taking in the frantic scene.

“Stay behind me!” He shouted again, slicing through an attacker with deft precision, his eyes fierce as they met yours for a brief moment, no reaction to the blood pouring from the wound as he retracted his sword and watched the man fall to the ground.

You complied, but a part of you ached to contribute more, to prove yourself. You wished you had a sword. You moved to the side, narrowly avoiding a flurry of limbs and chaos. In the distance, you saw a merchant attempting to flee, clutching a leather bag filled with valuables. Instinct - that you didn't know where came from - kicked in, and you made a snap decision.

With a quick glance at Captain Hotchner, who was engaged in a fierce struggle, you dashed toward the merchant, your heart pounding. You lunged for the bag, grabbing it just as he turned, shock and fear etched across his face.

“Stop!” he yelled, but your instincts propelled you forward, the thrill of the moment consuming you. You turned to run, adrenaline pushing you faster than you ever thought possible.

But before you could escape, a hand gripped your arm, pulling you back. You gasped, recognizing Hotch’s voice as he growled, “What are you doing?”

The world around you seemed to freeze for a heartbeat, your heart racing as you stared into his stormy eyes. “I - I thought I could help,” you stammered, breathless from both fear and exhilaration.

“Help?” he snapped, shaking his head in frustration. “You need to be careful! You can’t just run off like that! He could've had a revolver.”

His grip softened slightly, and in that moment, you could see the worry etched across his features. “I didn’t want you getting hurt,” he said, quieter now, urgency still lacing his tone.

Before you could respond, the sounds of battle erupted around you, the tide of chaos swaying back and forth as the crew pressed forward. Captain Hotchner glanced back at the fray, assessing the situation, his focus sharpening. “Stay close to me,” he commanded again, and you nodded, heart racing as you fell back into step beside him. "This time I mean it!"

As you moved through the streets, it became clear that the plundering was brutal. Crew members shouted orders and taunts, and the weight of the violence around you pressed down like a heavy fog. You witnessed townsfolk being restrained, their protests muffled, and the fear in their eyes struck a chord deep within you as you watched the crew take a little more than material things.

Captain Hotchner's gaze flicked back to you frequently, assessing your reaction to the chaos. You could see the conflict in his expression, the internal battle raging beneath the surface. He fought fiercely, but you sensed he was also trying to shield you from the worst of it.

“Remember, this is survival,” he reminded you, his voice steady but low. “They won’t think twice about defending themselves.”

As the crew moved forward, your heart sank at the sight of a young boy cowering in the corner, clutching a wooden toy. Something snapped within you, the innocence of the scene starkly juxtaposed against the brutality around it.

“Hotch, we can’t-” you began, but he shook his head, his expression hardening.

“It’s too late,” he said, urgency building. “We have to keep moving.”

You watched helplessly as the crew continued to gather their loot, your heart aching at the destruction of lives and homes. Fires burning and blood pooling. This wasn’t the adventure you had imagined; it was a nightmare, a side of pirate life you hadn’t been prepared for.

As the battle raged on, you felt the weight of your decisions crushing down on you. You thought you wanted to prove yourself, but now all you wanted was to escape the chaos. You turned back to Hotch, desperation creeping into your voice. “We need to stop this.”

He glanced at you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “We can’t stop now. If we leave without what we came for, they’ll be ready for us next time. We’re pirates; this is how it works.”

The truth of his words struck hard, and you nodded, heart heavy with the burden of your choices. You stayed by his side, but as the plundering continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the darkness of this life was creeping into your soul.

With each passing moment, you saw the line between right and wrong blurring, and you realized you were far deeper into this life than you ever expected. As the chaos continued around you, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

The air on the ship was electric with excitement and chaos as the crew celebrated their successful plundering. Laughter and shouts echoed off the wooden planks, the scent of salt and rum mingling in the air as bottles were uncorked and food was hastily laid out. The harmony among the crew members was palpable, their spirits lifted by the thrill of the day’s chaos and victory.

You stood at the edge of the deck, the festivity swirling around you like a storm. As you watched the crew dance and drink, a knot of unease settled in your stomach. Despite the cheers and laughter, the images of the plundering lingered in your mind - the fear in the eyes of the townsfolk, the innocence of the boy you’d tried to protect. The celebration felt hollow, a facade to mask the darker reality of piracy.

“Y/N!” one of the crew called out, waving a half-empty bottle of rum in your direction. “Come join us! You’ve earned it!”

You forced a smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. Just as you were about to decline, Captain Hotchner's voice sliced through the noise, sharp and commanding. “Y/N, come to my cabin.”

Your heart sank as you turned to face him. His expression was serious, an intensity in his eyes that made your stomach flip. The crew’s laughter faded into the background as he stepped closer, his demeanor shifting from the charming pirate you had begun to know to the authoritative captain you had initially encountered.

“Now!” he commanded, voice low but firm, “we need to talk.”

Before you could respond, he took your arm and led you away from the raucous celebration, the sounds of the crew fading into a distant hum. You followed him to his cabin, the door creaking ominously as he pushed it open. The space was dimly lit, a flickering lantern casting shadows on the wooden walls, and it felt suddenly suffocating.

As the door shut behind you, the captain turned to face you, crossing his arms over his chest. “What were you thinking out there?” His voice was calm, but the intensity in his gaze told you he was anything but relaxed.

“I was trying to help!” you protested, the words spilling out before you could think better of them. “I couldn’t just stand by while that merchant was getting away. I wanted to do something!”

Captain Hotchner's expression softened for a brief moment, but it quickly hardened again. “Help? You put yourself in danger. Do you have any idea how reckless that was?” His voice rose slightly, frustration seeping through.

You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of his words hit you like a cold wave. The truth was, you hadn’t thought it through. The adrenaline of the moment had blinded you to the risks. “I just - I thought I could make a difference,” you admitted, your voice quieter now.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily as he turned away to stare out the small porthole. “This isn’t a game. This life is brutal, and I won’t have you caught in the crossfire. You’re not ready for what we do out there. Maybe you should just stay back on the ship next time?” He raised a brow, waiting for your response

The disappointment in his voice stung more than you expected. “I can handle myself,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned back to you, his expression conflicted. “You think so? You think you can just jump in and help without understanding the consequences?”

A silence fell between you, thick and uncomfortable. You felt the weight of your actions pressing down on you, the fear and chaos of the day crashing over you like a wave. “I’m trying to learn,” you finally said, looking him in the eye, you felt ashamed, only wanting to prove yourself to him. “But I want to be a part of this crew, Hotch. I want to prove myself to you.”

Captain Hotchner studied you for a long moment. “It’s not just about proving yourself. It’s about survival, both for you and for the crew. If you’re not careful, you could get yourself killed.”

You felt a spark of defiance. “I can take care of myself. I just want you to trust me!”

His gaze softened slightly, and for a moment, the pirate captain seemed to fade away, revealing the man you’d begun to connect with. “Trust is earned, not given,” he replied, his voice more gentle now. “And you have to be patient. It takes time to understand this life and the choices we make.”

You nodded, your heart aching with the weight of his words. “I know that now. I just… I wanted to help you.”

He stepped closer, his demeanor shifting as he reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I appreciate your spirit. But you need to learn to pick your battles. Next time, trust me to lead. I know what I'm doing.”

You met his gaze, feeling a rush of emotions swirling between you - fear, admiration, and something deeper. “I will,” you promised, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

With a sigh, he stepped back, the tension easing slightly. “Good. Now, let’s go rejoin the crew. They’ll be wondering where we’ve gone.”

As he turned to leave, you felt a flicker of warmth in your chest. Maybe this life wasn’t as bleak as it seemed, not if you had the captain to guide you. You followed him back to the deck, the sounds of celebration filling the air once more, a mix of laughter and music that felt almost comforting now.

As you stepped back into the chaos, the crew erupted in cheers, raising their bottles in salute as you and Hotch made your way to the makeshift feast. The stress of the scolding faded into the background, and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of friendship wash over you as you mingled with the rest of the crew.

You took your place among the pirates, the day’s events still heavy in your mind but lightened by the shared joy around you. As the rum flowed and stories were exchanged, you caught Captain Hotchner watching you from a distance, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

You realized that amidst the chaos of piracy, perhaps you had found a place where you could belong, even if the road ahead was fraught with uncertainty. You raised your own mug of rum, joining the crew in their cheers, and for the first time since you’d boarded the ship, you felt a flicker of hope amidst the darkness.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

Weeks passed since your first plundering, each day blending into the next as you settled into life aboard the ship. Under Captain Hotcher's careful guidance, you began to learn the ropes - both literally and figuratively. Navigating the ship, understanding the intricacies of sailing, and grasping the art of plundering were no longer foreign concepts; they were becoming second nature to you.

The crew’s initial skepticism had faded and was replaced by grudging respect as they witnessed your transformation. You no longer flinched at the sight of a dagger or the sound of chaos that followed a successful raid. Instead, you embraced the thrill, your heart racing in sync with the beat of the crew’s revelry.

During plundering missions, you stood shoulder to shoulder with Hotch, no longer a mere bystander but an active participant. You learned to wield a cutlass with a surprising degree of skill, and your instincts sharpened with every encounter. Captain Hotchner would often watch you with a mixture of pride and admiration as you navigated the chaos, striking fear into the hearts of those who crossed your path.

On one particularly moonlit night, the ship sailed toward a small coastal village rumored to hold a wealth of riches. The anticipation hung in the air like a charged current, electrifying every member of the crew. As the ship anchored just offshore, you gathered with the crew.

“Tonight, we show them the true meaning of fear,” the captain declared, his voice commanding. The crew cheered in response, and you felt a thrill course through your veins at his words. You were no longer just the captain's captive; you were becoming a pirate in your own right.

As the rowboats slid through the calm water, the darkness enveloped you, broken only by the glimmering stars above. You sat across from Hotch, the familiar tension between you sparking like static. The rhythmic sound of the oars hitting the water steadied your heartbeat as you prepared yourself for what was to come.

The village came into view, its thatched roofs and flickering lanterns casting a warm glow that seemed to mock the impending chaos. “Remember,” he whispered, leaning closer so only you could hear, “we strike fast, we strike hard. Don’t hesitate. You kill or be killed.”

“I won’t,” you replied, determination burning in your chest. You could feel the cutlass at your side, a reminder of how far you’d come from the tiny dagger.

Once ashore, the crew scattered into the shadows, each member moving with practiced precision. Captain Hotchner led the way, and you followed closely, adrenaline coursing through your veins. As you approached the first house, the faint sound of laughter and music drifted out from within, oblivious to the storm about to be unleashed.

With a nod from Hotch, you surged forward, bursting through the door with the crew at your back. The revelry inside came to a screeching halt, eyes widening in fear as the sight of armed pirates invaded their celebration.

“Get what you can! Make it quick!” Captain Hotchner barked, his voice echoing through the room. The crew sprang into action, chaos erupting as they ransacked the place. You moved with purpose, your heart racing, snatching up valuables and shoving them into your bag with surprising efficiency.

The fear on the villagers' faces no longer haunted you; instead, it fueled a fire within. You could see the respect in the eyes of your crew as you maneuvered through the chaos, your instincts guiding you as you followed the captain's lead.

As the plundering continued, you found yourself confronting a group of villagers who attempted to fight back. They were desperate, eyes wild with fear and determination. For a fleeting moment, doubt crept into your mind was this what you truly wanted?

But then you caught sight of Hotch, his fierce presence commanding the room as he skillfully dispatched any who dared to challenge him. The thought of failing him ignited a fierce determination in your heart.

With a battle cry, you lunged forward, the cutlass slicing through the air as you took down one of the villagers. The rush of adrenaline surged through you - he was your first - a heady mixture of fear and exhilaration. As the fight unfolded, you fought with a newfound ferocity, striking alongside the crew, your name echoing through the streets.

When the raid came to a close, the crew gathered back at the ship, laden with treasures and stories of glory. You stood among them, panting from the exertion, a wide grin plastered across your face.

Hotch approached you, his expression a mix of pride and approval. “You handled yourself well tonight,” he said, a glimmer of admiration shining in his eyes.

“Thanks, Captain,” you replied, your heart swelling at his praise. “I couldn’t have done it without your training.”

He smirked, the familiar glint of mischief in his gaze. “You’re becoming quite the pirate, I must say. The crew is starting to fear you as much as they do me. Perhaps I should grant you a little more authority around here.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling up from within. “Maybe we should take over the seas together then.”

Captain Hotchner's gaze turned serious, and he stepped closer. “You know this life isn’t without its dangers, right? There’s a fine line between fear and respect.”

“I understand,” you replied, the weight of his words settling in your heart. “But I want to be a part of it, Hotch. I want to stand by your side.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, the pirate façade slipped away, revealing the man you were beginning to care for deeply. “Then stay sharp. You’ve proven yourself tonight, but there’s always more to learn.”

As the crew celebrated behind you, the warmth of his gaze lingered, igniting a spark of something more. You realized that in this world of chaos and piracy, you had found a place not only among the crew but also in Hotch’s heart.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

As the ship sailed back towards mainland, the air was thick with anticipation. You stood at the bow, the salty breeze whipping through your hair as you watched the shoreline come into view. Each passing day had brought you closer to the crew and, unexpectedly, to Hotch. There was an undeniable chemistry between you, a tension that hung in the air like a heavy fog. You were not planning on returning to your old life, although opportunity finally presented itself.

You often caught him stealing glances in your direction, his expression a mix of admiration and something deeper - something unspoken - he feared what your choice would be. But you were both reluctant to acknowledge it, caught in the tangled web of your new lives as pirates. Each shared laugh and stolen moment made your heart race, but neither of you dared to voice what simmered beneath the surface.

As the ship docked in the bustling port town, excitement crackled in the air. Merchants called out to passersby, and children chased each other along the docks, laughter ringing like music. But amidst the joyful chaos, something else caught your eye. You spotted wanted posters plastered on the walls, fluttering slightly in the breeze.

Your heart sank as you approached one of them, your breath hitching in your throat. The top half featured a striking image of Hotch, the sharp lines of his jaw and the fierce determination in his eyes captured perfectly. The poster detailed his crimes - a notorious pirate captain feared and respected on the seas. But it was the second poster, the one hanging just below it, that sent shockwaves through you.

The drawing depicted you, an artistic rendering that portrayed your fierce spirit and defiance. The bold letters below read, “WANTED: The Queen of pirates. Infamous for her ruthlessness and trickery. Reward: 500 gold pieces.”

“Pirate Queen?” you whispered, your heart racing. Disbelief washed over you. Was this really what people thought of you. You wondered what your dad would think if he knew. You were a part of this world now - dangerous and exhilarating - your old life was miles away and there was no point in trying to return to it now.

Captain Hotchner joined you, his gaze drawn to the posters. He chuckled softly, an amused glint in his eyes. “Looks like you’ve made quite the name for yourself.”

“Yeah, well… I didn’t ask for it,” you said, a half-smile creeping onto your lips. “I just wanted to me and be by your side.”

The moment hung in the air between you, thick with unspoken feelings. The captain turned to face you fully, his expression serious. “And you’ve proven yourself more than capable. You’re as feared as I am now, and that’s no small feat.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words making your heart race. “Do you think I’m ready for this life, Captain?”

“More than ready,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “You’ve shown incredible strength and adaptability. But it’s not just about being a pirate; it’s about what comes next.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, curiosity piqued.

He hesitated, his brows furrowing slightly. “You have to be careful. With this notoriety comes danger. People will come after you, and not just for the bounty. They’ll want to take what’s yours.” You knew what he was refering to, but didn't mentioned it further.

“I can handle myself, Hotch,” you insisted, a fire igniting within you. “I’ve learned from the best.”

His lips curved into a small smile, but his eyes betrayed a hint of concern. “I know you can. But there are still things that can hurt you - more than just blades and guns.”

As the crowd around you swelled, a wave of excitement and apprehension surged through you. “What if they don’t want me back? What if they only see the bounty?” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the commotion.

Captain Hotchner's expression softened, and he stepped closer, his presence radiating warmth. “You’re not just a pirate to me. You’re - ” He paused, searching your eyes as if weighing his words carefully. “You’re more than that. You’ve earned your place among us. You belong here.”

Before you could respond, a loud cheer erupted from the crew, drawing both your attention and your momentary connection to a close. They were celebrating the plunder, reveling in the spoils of victory. Captain Hotchner rolled his eyes at them, plundering the mainland was not part of the plan.

As you returned to the ship, your thoughts kept drifting back to Hotch. The way he looked at you, the intensity of his gaze, made your heart race. You knew he felt something for you, too. What would happen when the thrill of the chase subsided? What would it mean to fall in love with a pirate captain?

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, you caught Hotch’s eye across the deck. He raised his glass toward you, a silent acknowledgment that felt heavy with meaning. You raised your own glass in return, a flicker of hope igniting within you.

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

With each passing day, you found your place among the crew, earning their respect and admiration as you carved out your identity as a pirate. Yet, no matter how fierce you became, Hotch’s teasing nickname for you remained: the Pirate Queen.

“You know,” he’d say, leaning against the railing, a smirk on his lips, “I think you should start addressing me as your royal captain from now on. You can’t just go around being the Pirate Queen without showing proper respect to your pirate king.”

You rolled your eyes, playfully swatting at him. “King? Is that what you think you are? Hardly seems fitting for a man who wears so much leather and jewellery and has a sword by his side wherever he goes.”

“Oh, I’ll show you just how kingly I can be,” he’d respond, laughter dancing in his deep voice, before effortlessly dodging your playful attempts to hit him.

The banter had become a comforting routine, one that brought you closer to him even as it reminded you of the reality of your situation. But as the days turned into weeks, the lighthearted teasing took on a new depth. You began to wonder if the title of “Pirate Queen” might hold more weight than just a playful jab.

One night, as the crew settled around a fire on the beach after a successful raid, you watched the captain from across the flames. He was animatedly recounting tales of his past exploits - most of them before any of the men in his current crew knew him - his charisma drawing everyone in. Your heart swelled with affection as you admired him - the way he commanded attention, the strength he exuded, and the genuine care he showed for his crew.

It was then that you caught his eye. His gaze held yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and in that moment, the atmosphere shifted. The laughter around you faded into a dull hum, and the crackling fire was the only sound that echoed in the silence between you.

“Hey, Pirate Queen,” he called out, breaking the spell, his tone teasing but laced with sincerity. “You’re not going to let me do all the talking, are you? A good queen needs to share her wisdom, after all.”

You stood, brushing sand off your clothes as you moved closer to the fire. “Well, my wisdom is to never trust a captain who thinks he’s a king.”

The captain chuckled, a warm, rich sound that made your stomach flutter. “Maybe you should consider trusting him a little more, then.”

The banter continued, but the playful tone shifted slightly, and you could sense a change in the air. A few days later, as you stood at the helm, navigating the ship under the stars, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming. Hotch joined you, his presence steadying, and for a moment, you simply enjoyed the quiet of the night.

“I know I joke about you being the Pirate Queen,” he began, leaning against the railing beside you, the moonlight reflecting off the water and illuminating his sharp features. “But it’s not just a title to me.”

Your heart raced at his seriousness, and you turned to meet his gaze. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, and the weight of his words hung in the air. “You’ve become more than just a crewmate. You’ve proven yourself time and time again, and you’ve earned the respect of everyone on this ship. But you’ve also shown me a side of you that’s fierce, courageous, and unapologetically yourself.”

You felt your cheeks heat, and you looked away, overwhelmed. “Hotch…”

“I’m serious,” he continued, his tone earnest. “You’re more than just a pirate. You’re my partner, and I want you to be my Pirate Queen - officially. I’m not asking for a title, but for you to stand by my side, not just as a member of the crew, but as someone I care about.”

Your breath caught in your throat, surprise mingling with joy. “You really mean that?”

He stepped closer, the space between you charged with unspoken feelings. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. You’re not just another pirate to me, and I don’t want you to ever feel that way.”

“I’ve never felt like just another pirate,” you admitted, your heart racing as his words settled over you. “But being your Pirate Queen? That’s a lot to take in.”

“Take your time,” he said softly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

As the ship rocked gently beneath you, you felt the weight of the world slip away. You were no longer just a kidnapped girl - no longer just a pirate seeking adventure. You were becoming something more, something powerful, and the man beside you made you feel like you could conquer anything.

Hotch’s hand brushed against yours, a tentative gesture filled with promise.

“Then I guess I’ll have to live up to that title,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “Just remember, I won’t be an easy queen to rule.”

Captain Hotchner chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue across the ship as the crew bustled about in excited anticipation. After weeks of plundering and celebrating, the time had finally come to solidify your bond with Captain Hotchner in a way that was both thrilling and unconventional - a pirate wedding. The ship had never seen such a spectacle, and the crew was eager to make it memorable.

Brightly colored flags fluttered from the mast, and makeshift decorations adorned the deck. Lanterns were hung with care, and the air was filled with the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread, mingling with the salty breeze. The crew had spent the morning preparing, and the excitement was palpable as they exchanged stories and laughter of Captain Hotchner and the Pirate Queen, anticipating the upcoming ceremony.

As you stood at the helm, taking in the scene, a flutter of nerves danced in your stomach. It felt surreal to be preparing for a wedding on the open sea, surrounded by pirates. But more than that, it was the thought of becoming Captain Hotchner's wife - of finally acknowledging the love that had blossomed amidst the chaos and adventure - that set your heart racing.

“Are you ready, my Pirate Queen?” Hotch’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you turned to see him standing behind you, clad in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his signature leather jacket hanging open to reveal a glimpse of his toned physique. He looked dashing, a sharp difference to the rugged lifestyle of a pirate, yet he still exuded that dangerous charm that had drawn you to him in the first place.

You smiled, trying to contain the flurry of emotions swirling inside you. “I am, but I can’t help feeling a bit nervous.”

“Don’t be,” he said, stepping closer. “We’re surrounded by our crew, and they wouldn’t want anything more than to see us happy. Plus, if things go awry, we can always plunder the wedding gifts and elope somewhere.” He winked.

You chuckled, grateful for his ability to lighten the mood. “You always know how to make me laugh, Captain.”

As the hour drew near, the crew gathered on deck, their faces lit with excitement. A makeshift altar had been constructed from driftwood and adorned with flowers collected from distant shores. Scully, stood at the front, a grin splitting his face as he prepared to officiate the ceremony.

“Gather ‘round, ye scallywags!” Scully called, his voice booming over the sounds of the waves. “Today, we celebrate the union of Captain Hotchner and his Pirate Queen! It be a rare occasion for a pirate to tie the knot, so let’s make it a day to remember!”

The crew erupted into cheers and laughter, and you took a deep breath, glancing at Hotch. His expression was serious, but there was a glimmer of joy in his eyes.

“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, through storms and calm seas, to share in all plunders and treasures?” Scully asked, his tone both lighthearted and sincere.

“I do,” Hotch said, his voice steady and resolute, and you felt your heart swell with affection.

“And do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to face the fiercest foes together and cherish the spoils of life?” Scully now turned to you, and the crew leaned in, eager to hear your response.

“I do,” you replied, your voice ringing clear as you gazed into Captain Hotchner's eyes.

As Scully continued with the ceremony, you exchanged vows that were filled with promises of loyalty and adventure. You spoke of standing together through every tempest and sharing both the spoils of victory and the burdens of defeat.

When it came time to exchange rings, Hotch reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, weathered band. It wasn’t the traditional diamond, but it was perfect - crafted from the same metal as the ship itself, signifying your bond with the sea and each other.

With a gentle touch, he slid the ring onto your finger, his eyes never leaving yours. “With this ring, I promise to cherish you, to protect you, and to always navigate the stormy seas together.”

You smiled through misty eyes as you placed a matching band on his finger. “With this ring, I promise to stand by you, to share in your adventures, and to always be your Pirate Queen.” You winked at him as you mentioned the nickname

“By the power vested in me by the seas and the crew of this ship, I now pronounce you Captain and Captain Pirate Queen! Ye may kiss your bride!”

The crew erupted into cheers and whistles as Captain Hotchner stepped forward, his hands cradling your face. The kiss was soft but filled with force and passion as he pressed his lips to yours, sealing your vows in front of your motley crew.

When you finally pulled away, laughter and applause surrounded you. You were married - partners in crime, in life, and now, officially in love.

As the celebration kicked into high gear, with songs sung and rum shared, you felt a sense of belonging envelop you like the warm sun setting on the horizon. You were not just a pirate; you were Captain Hotchner’s Pirate Queen, and together, you were ready to face whatever adventures the sea would throw your way.

As the night wore on and the stars twinkled overhead, you danced together on the deck, the laughter of your crew echoing around you. With Hotch holding you close, you knew that this was just the beginning of a lifetime of plundering and love - together, forever bound by the sea.

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