#almost paradise playlist

[withleeknow]

moonstruck.

pairing: minho x f!reader genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff, angst if you squint; they're in love <3, mentions of menstruation, there's a bit about orpheus and eurydice so you're not familiar you might want to look it up beforehand idk, not as edited as i'd like. not a lot of warnings here tbh it's just pretty mild and mellow saur 🤷‍♀️ (also i don't exactly love this but i hope you'll still tolerate it anyway lol) word count: 4.7k playlist 🎧: moonstruck - enhypen // this is how you fall in love - jeremy zucker ft. chelsea cutler // pansy - taemin // tightrope - zayn

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / masterlist / ko-fi

Minho is the kind of love that you thought only existed in movies and fairytales. Make-belief, too good to be true, out of reach.

When he rests his head on your shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep like he’s been doing for the past hour or so, you give into the urge to stare at him in wonder. An angel on earth, if there ever was one.

His long eyelashes that you could only dream to have, the slope of his nose, his pink pouty lips, his impeccably sharp jawline, and even his fluffy hair that’s ticking your cheek as you look at him as if you don’t get to see him like this every day. But that kind of beauty is something that demands to be showcased in the world’s most exquisite museum and admired by anyone who comes across it.

Minho is beautiful in every sense of the word.

And you adore him. You do. You love him with every single beat of your pathetic little heart and then some.

Surely, you must’ve saved a nation in one of your past lives to deserve someone as ethereal as him.

Turning your face to the side, you press a kiss against his forehead. The touch makes him stir awake, eyelids fluttering open as he groggily looks around and stretches out his limbs, in the limited space that he has anyway. His sleepy voice asks you, “Are we there yet?”

“Not yet. I think they said we still have about forty minutes before we land. Do you want to go back to sleep?”

Minho shakes his head, covering his mouth when a yawn forces its way out. He straightens his back to his full height sitting down, then slumps against the seat a little bit. He rests his cheek against the top of your head while his hands find one of your own to hold in his lap.

He rubs the skin of your fourth finger for a moment before he eventually stills, lightly snoring again while you look out the window, gazing at oddly shaped clouds and blues and the reflection of the sun on the waters below.

–

After you’ve checked into the hotel, freshened up and readied yourselves to explore the scenery, Minho takes you down to the beach. It’s a little chilly, spring hasn’t yet settled into summer. Even with a light jacket on, you still shiver every time the wind rushes by like it’s playing with the waters. But it’s nice – the sea breeze in your hair and the sunlight on your face, your lover by your side, his fingers intertwined with yours as you walk along the shore together. The blue of the sea almost blending in with the sky where they meet somewhere out there on the horizon. Seagulls flying overhead, families enjoying their relaxing vacation, children playing in the sand way down the shoreline where all you can make out are blurry silhouettes dancing about.

It’s paradise on earth. It’s an escape that you desperately needed. Exhilarated doesn’t even begin to describe how you felt when he told you that he’d booked a Jeju trip for your anniversary.

He’s always been the perfect partner. Always knows just the right thing to do for you whenever you need a pick-me-up. He may not seem like it, but Minho is beyond caring and considerate. He’s a man of few words but he certainly makes up for it with his actions.

“Hey,” he says, pointing somewhere ahead of you. “Remember what happened there?”

“Hmm?” Your eyes try to follow the direction of his finger, until they find a spot where two people are sitting, watching the water in front of them, content smiles passed between lips as they talk animatedly. “Didn’t you confess to me there?”

He smiles as the memory resurfaces in his mind. “Did you know I almost chickened out?”

You two started out as friends way before you got together.

Three years ago, just a few months after you’d both graduated from college, Minho asked you to go to Jeju island with him. You thought it was a little strange – though not that strange since you had been on trips with him before, but it was always in a group setting with all of your other friends. Never just the two of you.

Nonetheless, you agreed. You wanted to get out of the city anyway. You needed a change of scenery to clear your head and to recharge. Everything was starting to become too much for you - being 22 and in limbo. You felt like you kept falling behind no matter what you did. Everyone was moving forward and you were running in place no matter how hard you tried to get out of that slump.

Everyone around you was outgrowing you and your little life, and all you could do was pretend you were fine.

It was one of the lowest you’d ever felt, and you suppose that was why you said yes to Minho’s invitation. A vacation didn’t seem like it would help much, but it certainly couldn’t hurt.

A few days away, with nothing but the sun and the sea to help you get out of your own head.

A tropical paradise and Minho. It wasn’t the end of the world. There were worse things you could think of.

That, and the fact that there had always been something between you and him. Not crazy sexual tension or anything, but just enough of a noticeable spark. An inkling of something that neither of you ever acted upon.

“Did you?” you ask. “Didn’t you plan the whole trip back then to confess?”

“What? No. Why would I willingly do that when you could’ve rejected me? Then I would’ve been stuck in a hotel with you and on the plane ride back.”

You squint at him. “Then why did you take me on that trip?”

Minho shrugs. “Friendship trip to cheer you up.”

Years with him and he still makes you feel as warm as he did the first time you kissed. You gaze at him with what must be the world’s most lovestruck look plastered on your face. You reach up to press your lips to the corner of his mouth, then watch as a blush spreads across his cheeks.

“You did confess though,” you argue.

“Well, yeah, but that wasn’t planned,” he tells you. “You just... We were sitting right there,” he tips his chin toward the same spot again, “and you had my jacket on because you were cold. You were watching the sunset and you looked so pretty. I couldn’t help it. Almost chickened out though.”

You stop walking, and this makes him stop too. Minho glances at you with his head slightly tilted, wearing a puzzled expression.

“You never told me that,” you say.

“You never asked.”

Pouting, you tug him toward you until he’s close enough for you to wrap your arms around his neck. Minho is good, so incredibly good for you that sometimes you can’t possibly fathom how you even deserve him. He never meant to get anything out of it; he just saw that you were struggling and wanted to make it better for you.

Maybe you didn’t do a very good job at pretending, not if Minho could see right through you.

Before him, you had a fear of heights. Not the literal kind, but rather the kind of heights that often accompanies big leaps, big changes. A fear of falling, maybe that would be more accurate. Falling and failing and hitting rock bottom with no way to climb back up. A fear that you would always be stuck with this life forever, trapped in an existence you never asked for. A fear that no effort to escape your reality would be enough, and you’ll always be trailing ten steps behind even if you try twenty times as hard.

You pull him down so you could properly kiss him, your lips slotting together perfectly like he was made for you, like he’s the only person you’re ever meant to kiss in this lifetime. You can taste his smile, minty and happy as he moves against your mouth, his arms sliding around your waist to hold you to his body by the small of your back.

“If I had known,” Minho pulls away slightly, mumbling against your lips, “telling you that would get me brownie points, I would’ve told you ages ago.”

You roll your eyes with affection.

“So all this time,“ he says, “you thought I asked you on that trip just to get into your pants?”

“You did get into my pants on that trip!”

“Let me remind you that I only wanted to do something nice for you. You were the one who almost jumped my bones right then and there after I said I liked you.”

You slap his chest as he throws his head back in a hearty laugh. Minho takes your hand in his once more as he drags you along, savoring the cool sea breeze and the golden daylight dancing on glittering waters before the sun bids you goodbye.

Minho is the kind of love that makes you want to curl up into a ball and ugly cry for an hour straight.

In a good way, of course. In the best way possible.

So that’s what you do, on a fine Tuesday afternoon, sitting on a couch surrounded by three cats as you wait for him to come home, perfectly sheltered from the harsh sun outside.

He returns eventually, toward the end of your crying session. When he sees the pile of tissues on the coffee table, soaked with your tears and snot, his heart nearly falls out of his ass.

Minho drops everything, rushing to you like you’re on the verge of spontaneous human combustion because clearly, this is a normal reaction to have when you come home to a girlfriend who’s been sobbing in the dark for god knows how long.

That, and the fact that said girlfriend doesn’t cry very often. Not by herself and certainly not in front of others.

Doesn’t mean that you’re immune to the occasional bouts of tears whenever shark week closes in, though.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Another rush of tears breaks as you look at him. You wipe your eyes and your nose with the tissue you’re currently holding, before throwing it on the table to join the pile you’ve accumulated.

You launch yourself forward, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. The sudden force takes him aback, makes him gasp a little.

He freezes as you cling to him like a desperate koala, before his hands slowly land on your back, rubbing slowly, hesitantly, as though he’s afraid he’s hurting you.

“What’s wrong, baby? Why are you crying?”

“PMS,“ you hiccup your answer out, to which Minho only responds with a relieved Ah, his hands now moving more assuredly on your body.

“Anything hurt? Sore?”

“No. Just… missed you today. Love you a lot.”

There’s something saccharine in his gaze when he pulls back and regards you with his big doe eyes, softened and endeared, yet there’s still a twinkle of mischief peeking through the sugary glaze.

He moves to make himself comfortable next to you on the couch but still makes sure to keep a hand on you so you don’t grow impatient.

Once he’s effectively squished between you and the armrest of the sofa, he says, “You missed me so much that you started crying? You could’ve texted me, or called. I would’ve come home sooner, crybaby.”

“I didn’t cry because I missed you. I cried because I love you.”

He pretends to think for a moment. “I honestly can’t tell if I should be offended or not.”

You jab a finger at his ribs.

Sure, the mere thought of Minho brings tears to your eyes sometimes. It’s not really a secret anymore.

There’s something about him, just him, how wonderful he is and how all of the stars in the sky must have aligned themselves to make you and him happen. He’s the love of your entire life, there’s never been any doubt about it. Your other half, perfect for you.

You’ve never felt this way about anyone before, and you’re positive that you will never feel this way about anyone ever again. Your love for him runs so deep, so powerful that it overwhelms you at times, drowns you in nothing but affection for him and only him. A love that spreads like wildfire through your calm and sacred forest.

It’s cliché beyond words, that one day you would be having these thoughts about someone. You used to watch this kind of sentiment romanticized in movies, used to cringe and laugh at sappy lines in books and TV shows though there was always a part of you that longed for that kind of love.

You didn’t talk about it often, not even with the people closest to you. You always found it a little embarrassing to admit that you wanted love. To love and to be loved. There was something so utterly vulnerable in the act of yearning and isn’t it such a scary thing? To be vulnerable? You never saw the appeal in showing someone the deepest, darkest parts of you.

What if they leave? What if you bare yourself to someone and they deem you not worth staying for? How would you come back from that kind of rejection?

You suppose it always held you back - the fear of being open that goes hand in hand with the fear of being left behind. Maybe you have more fears than you’d like to admit.

Then came Minho.

No, that doesn’t sound right.

He didn’t come crashing into your life like a tidal wave and unraveled your every belief.

He was always there by your side, a calming presence that you could lean on when things got tough. A friend, a solid foundation. He’s the relief after every monsoon, the first day of sun after a long and harsh winter.

He saw you for who you were, all the messiest parts of you, and loved you anyway. In spite of your mess? Because of your mess.

He taught you that love isn’t always extravagant gestures and grand declarations that Shakespeare would applaud.

Love is acceptance. Love is staying with you on your gloomiest days and holding your hand through your dreariest moments. Love is lingering glances by the doorway before he goes to work because you’re half asleep but you’re still trying to reach for him even in your dreams.

It’s sharing joys and burdens alike. Reminders to eat and gentle wake-up calls. A photo of you in his wallet, a silly picture of him as your phone’s wallpaper. Giggling with him after he tells a joke not because of the punchline itself, but because his manic chortle is even funnier.

Love is Minho cradling your face in one hand and holding onto your shaking fingers with the other, his steady gaze holding yours, and his voice whispering gently in the darkest of nights, “Your storm is my storm.”

At the end of the day, love is pretty simple. Love is him.

“Do you ever think about Orpheus and Eurydice?”

Minho laughs, the sound vibrating where you lay your head, his hand still absentmindedly rubbing the skin of your waist over your shirt. “No, I don’t think about Orpheus and Eurydice.”

You figured as much.

Your fingers trace invisible patterns on his chest as you hum your acknowledgment. Then you ask, “If it was me, if you were Orpheus, would you look back?”

His hands pause their ministrations, a little taken aback by the question you suppose. Your brain tends to pingpong between the most random things sometimes.

“You know,“ he says with an even voice, though the corner of his mouth still curls upward in amusement. “Other people just ask the worm thing.”

“The worm thing is boring. And we both know you wouldn’t love me if I was a worm.”

“You wouldn’t love me if I was a worm either.”

“That’s true. I don’t like worms,” you agree, chuckling while your boyfriend scoffs. “Answer the question, would you look back?”

There’s no right answer because you’re not expecting a correct response. It’s a hypothesis that can never be tested because you aren’t a nymph and Minho isn’t a bard with the ability to sway all life with his music. It’s a silly thought but it’s one that you’re curious about nonetheless, just to hear what he would say. Why not?

You’ve read many interpretations of the tragedy. In some, Orpheus hears Eurydice stumble and turns to catch her fall. In others, he can’t hear her at all. The story will forever be among your favorites, one of the things that never fails to turn you inside out no matter how many times you mull over it.

Minho is quiet for a moment. You think he’s about to shoot back with a witty retort that he always has up his sleeves, probably something about how he would find a loophole and trick his way out of the deal, or that he would personally fistfight Hades to get you out of the underworld. This wouldn’t surprise you at all.

Instead, he says, “Yes, I would look back.”

But regardless of how you choose to view the myth, the ending does not change. Orpheus always turns around.

He turns around because he loves her.

Minho’s fingers slip under your shirt to brush your bare skin, angling his head sideways so he could kiss your forehead. 

Maybe he’s just saying it for the sake of being romantic, for the sake of saying what seems to be the right thing. It’s an answer that you can never give substance to, but you believe him with all your heart.

You believe him. You do.

“If it’s you, I would look back.”

Minho is the kind of love that eclipses the sun and dims the light of the moon. The kind of love that drowns out all the noise and makes everything a little more bearable. Not just the most horrible things – your fears and struggles alike – but even the smallest, most mundane things.

If there’s one thing that you absolutely hate, it’s the smell of nail polish. You hate the way it lingers in the air even after the bottle has been capped, hate how the smell of toluene stains your fingertips even after washing your hands several times with scented soap.

Though, the only time you try to tolerate it is when Minho convinces you to stay in and pamper each other. Pizzas that he picks up for dinner and tiramisu ice cream for dessert. Face masks and fancy candles that you save for special occasions. SoonDoongDori napping on various surfaces in your living room, an old vinyl playing from the record player he got you for your first birthday you shared together after you started dating.

You each take turns doing the other’s nails on the carpeted floor. It’s become somewhat of a tradition that you indulge in every month, where you would spend cozy Friday evenings indoors just because neither of you can be assed to indulge in a “proper“ date night. Being hermits together sounds infinitely more appealing to you than any other alternative.

“I’m not done,” you say, snatching Minho’s hand back after he pulls it away to admire your work. You blow on his fingers to make sure that the layer of black polish you applied earlier is dry, then you’re reaching for a bottle of beige polish sitting amongst the ones scattered on the floor. You take a tiny brush from the nail kit - one that’s rarely ever touched because neither of you knows how to do nail art - and dip it into the sand-colored polish.

“What are you doing?“ he asks, watching as you trace some squiggly lines on his middle finger, the lighter color settling nicely on top of the black even if he has no idea what you’re trying to draw. “What is that?”

“Soonie,” you say simply. “When you flip people off, you can show them Soonie.”

You don’t need to look at him to know that his attention is fixed on you even though he doesn’t give you a response. You feel his gaze on the side of your face, soft and warm and never leaving for even a second. He doesn’t say anything while you work though, maybe he doesn’t want to mess up your concentration while you’re so engrossed in what you’re doing. He only chuckles at your answer, then nothing afterward.

You don’t mind the lack of conversation. It helps you focus better on what you’re doing because you’re no artist by any means. You can’t draw to save your life, let alone master something as intricate as nail art, but this is therapeutic. It’s perfect to help you unwind after a long week - doodling your beloved cat on your boyfriend’s nails while Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls sets the ambience. You’ll get the ice cream when you’re done with your impromptu project, along with a little headache from inhaling too much of the polish scent perhaps, but isn’t that a small price to pay?

You take your sweet time with the teeny tiny details, like Soonie’s delicate whiskers and the darker strips of fur on his face. He still turns out a little wonky, a little lopsided here and there but it’s not like you expected it to turn out like a Picasso.

The real Soonie seems to sense a disturbance in the force when he wakes up from his nap and saunters toward you curiously. You pick him up and sit him in your lap so he doesn’t come too close to the fresh polish on Minho’s nails. “Look,” you say with a proud smile, pointing toward the small cat doodle. “That’s you.”

He studies it for a moment, focused on your portrayal of him but then he’s quick to decide that he’s not interested anymore before wiggling away from your lap to go join Doongie on the couch. You chuckle lightly, watching him as he walks off, wondering if this is what it will feel like when your future children enter their teenage years.

When you turn back to Minho, he’s still staring at you, a dazed look in his eyes as he blinks slowly, his hand resting limply on his thigh.

“What?” you ask. “Do you not like–”

“Marry me.”

The rest of your question dies in your throat, wilting away like cherry blossoms when summer nears. He doesn’t break eye contact, still that dreamy gaze when he peers at you. Nothing has ever changed in the way that he looks at you.

For a moment, you’re too stunned to speak. You think anyone would be when their boyfriend drops a proposal out of nowhere while you’re doing each other’s nails in your comfiest sweatpants.

Everything that you’ve been afraid of comes bubbling to the surface, every doubt, every fear, even every fleeting insecurity. They manifest as a ringing in your ears, a buzzing in your head that makes it hard to think about anything at all.

But then he shuffles closer, closer and closer until his warm breath fans your cheek, his nose nudging your cheekbone gently. It’s similar to what Doongie does sometimes when you’re lounging in bed and he just wants some love.

When Minho takes your hand and laces your fingers together in his lap, everything stills. The rumbling comes to a halt, the distant thunder fading slowly into the background of your mind palace until it’s reduced to mere white noise. “Marry me,“ he says again, and his voice is so tender that you ache. Tender and sweet and so full of wonderful adoration. If you ever have to describe what love sounds like, you would say it’s him and his voice, right here and right in this exact moment.

“A little dramatic to propose just because I drew your cat.”

He chuckles, presses a kiss to your cheek before he ducks down to deliver another kiss on the side of your neck. Then he pulls back, just enough to get a clear view of you and your now glassy eyes.

“Bottom drawer in our bedroom,” he tells you. You can’t lie; you have half a mind to leave him here and go check. “I bought the ring two months ago, but I knew I wanted to marry you two years before that. I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to do it but I realized the perfect moment doesn’t exist, because every minute I spend with you is perfect. I love you so much. It’s not because you drew me my cat, by the way. I think I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you.

“I love your weird brain and your blanket-hogging ass. I love that you’re crazy enough to listen to a song literally over a thousand times without getting bored. I even love you when you set ten alarms in the morning and still manage to sleep through all of them. I know you hate your smile but it’s my favorite smile in the world. Did you know my favorite color is the color of your eyes? The best part of my day is when I get to come home to you and the kids waiting for me. I want all of you forever. I promise I’ll love you twice as much on days that you don’t love yourself. When we’re old and gray and we look like raisins, I’ll let you go first so you won’t have to spend a single day alone. I’ll–” He stops when you let out a teary giggle, no bite in his voice at all when he says, “Please don’t laugh at me during my big romantic speech.” 

It only makes you laugh harder, though it’s just as emotional. If you focus on the other part of his sentence, you’ll only crumble into a million pieces right here.  “How very romantic of you to include the visual of us as raisins in your speech.”

Minho rolls his eyes – fondly, of course. When he pretends to squirm away from you, you tug him back by the collar of his shirt to plant an apologetic kiss on his lips which he eagerly accepts.

“Please continue,” you say, smiling against his mouth. “Tell me all the ways that you’ll love me.”

“You ruined it. I retract my proposal,” he grumbles, but his arms betray his words when they tighten around your frame, holding you close to him to steal another kiss. Then another, and another, until your faces are wet with tears and you realize that you’re both crying.

“I’m sorry,” you say through sniffles and tears. “Please keep going.”

“Make it up to me first.”

“How?”

“Marry me,” he repeats a final time. “I’ll give you a better speech on our wedding day.”

Years and years from now, when you’re old and gray and look like raisins – as he so poetically put it – you’ll remember this moment down to every miniscule detail. How the cats’ peace is disturbed by your tearful giggles and the strange look they give you before wandering out of the room, in favor of somewhere without two crying idiots. How the record starts skipping but neither of you can be bothered to do anything about the obnoxious sound. How the material of his shirt feels when you bunch the fabric in your hands because you need to kiss him, need him to be as close as humanly possible.

You’ll remember the sob that he hiccups when you tell him through choked up whispers, “Yes, I’ll marry you,” and how his lips feel when they tremble against your skin. You’ll remember the way he holds onto you like a lifeline, because he’s always been your salvation for as long as you’ve known him. You’ll remember what happens after, later that night when he finally slips the ring onto your finger. The words he whispers into the crook of your neck, “You mean the world to me,” and the emotions in his voice when you both realize this is the start of the rest of forever.

You’ll remember everything, all of it, every clumsy touch and every graceless kiss. Ugly crying on the floor and yet, it’s more perfect than anything you can ever dream of.

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 13.07.2024]

[cowpokemythology]

immortal he, return to me.

playlist pairing: ghost!jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader word count: 8.8k description: the sea swallowed your heart the day it took your husband to a watery grave, two lives cruelly ripped away by the stranger's greedy hands. but, you should've known, he was too stubborn to stay away for long. tags: angst, smut (18+), lots of grief, mentions of canon-typical violence, gore?, spoilers for fire & blood/s3, lots of talk of death and the supernatural, inconsistent and unclear ghost lore because it's just vibes. a/n: this is my first fic, please bear with me. ALSO first time writing smut, sorry if it's cringe as hell. also, sorry it took me ten million years, life kept me busy. from here on out, i will not tease with false promises of release dates lmao. the quote in the beginning is from paradise lost by milton.

“our state cannot be severed, we are one, one flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself." 

The beaches of Dragonstone crawled with winter’s mist and your Jacaerys was dead.

He had promised you a safe return. 

You’d stopped him before he’d left that morning. Pleading, a hand clasping one of his own. The way his calluses, worn from swordplay and dragon riding than any real work, brushed against your skin is still imprinted into your memory. You do not know why your mind clung to this empty detail. Perhaps, you knew even then, that this would be the last time you’d see your husband. 

Your touch had been gentle, easy for him to break through if he wished to brush past. He’d stopped for you, though. When his honeyed eyes had met yours, they were softened. 

“My love…” He’d murmured, a low lilt. The way he moves back into your orbit almost makes you believe that there’s an invisible tether, endlessly tugging you back into each other.

He raises your hand to his plush lips, brushing them across the ridges of your knuckles. His other slides around your waist, melding to the small of your back and drawing you close. The familiar smell of cedar and dragon smoke envelops you, something so uniquely Jacaerys that he never could wash away. The warm lines of your bodies pressed against each other. Your chemise is a flimsy barrier between the heat of him, the blood of the dragon. You’d always privately thought that if anyone could simply feel how warm he was, that any barb of bastardry would be swallowed. You could still feel it through his thick doublet.

Your heart hurts with his affection, worry carved into every crevice of your face. If you could, you would tug him back into bed. If he was entwined with you, beneath the safety of your furs, he would face no danger. You would keep your sweet boy with constellations of freckles and raw umber eyes and he, in turn, would keep you.

You were too old, now, to hide like children.

He sees this, of course he does. He speaks before you can put voice to the multitudes of protests on the tip of your tongue.

“I must go.” He tells you, the words whispered against the back of your hand. You see the resignation in his expression, the trepidation. But a fire burns there too. One that has been raging since he’d returned from the North to a keep bereft of Lucerys’ laughter. 

He’s been hungry for this, to fight, to avenge his brother, to win back what his mother had had stolen, to prove himself to those who sneer at his parentage. He’s been reeling against the council for months to put him to use. That much, you can understand. You cannot rebuke his going, however you can’t help but lament over the peril of it all. 

“I know…” You reply in a resigned breath, your eyes memorizing everything about his form.

He hums in response. His hand releases yours in favor of cupping your cheek, you can feel his warmth branding your skin. You lean into the touch as if you’re freezing. He gently drops his head to slant his mouth over yours, not yet a kiss.

“I will return to you, you must know that. I do not think even the Stranger himself could keep me from you.” Jacaerys whispers against your lips. It was a promise of the cosmic kind, but uttered with the naivety and assuredness of youth. You were both hardly twenty, you had lives stretched out for leagues in front of you. It did not seem plausible, then, for such strong lights to be extinguished. 

“Do not tempt him.” You murmur in response, a furrow in your brow. You’ve never been pious, but this day was as good as any to be superstitious.

The puff of breath that leaves him is amused and then he’s kissing you. 

His mouth is pillowed against yours. You respond to it eagerly, eyes fluttering shut as you melt into him. Soft hands curl into his padded doublet, pressing yourself so close it seems you’re trying to meld your body to his. And maybe you were. If you could, you’d thought you’d make a home for yourself in his ribs and stay there for all eternity. His hands flex slightly around your waist, a pleased noise leaving his throat.

You try to pour your prayers to him through your lips, to imbue him with safety. He kisses you as he always does; sweet, gentle, and all-consuming. There is a withheld passion in him that sets you aflame. He makes your body buzz and your blood sing.

The kiss does not last nearly long enough. Dark ochre eyes flutter open to meet yours, his lashes like those of a doe’s. Jacaerys has always been heart-achingly beautiful. Every bit of him, perfectly sculpted by the loving hands of unforgiving gods. You wondered if they’d regretted it, if they’d melded his cupid’s bow and carved out sharp shoulder blades and decided that this beauty was to be ephemeral.

“Come home to me.” You breathe out, beseeching him with your gaze.

Jace’s gentle smile in return is woefully disarming. His thumbs brush over your hips, as if he too, were memorizing the feel of you. The way the pads of his fingers catch on your nightdress make you shiver. He presses a final, gentle, kiss to your forehead.

“I love you.” The words are pressed into your skin.

His warm hands retract from you regretfully, like waves receding from a stalwart shore. His eyes take you in for a moment more before, in a turn of red velvet, he’s gone. The thud of the mahogany door shutting behind him is a resounding omen of sealed fate.

-

When the dragonseeds do return, their heads are hung low in face of their costly victory. Your husband was not among them, nor was his steed. It seems the dragons sensed the loss as keenly as their riders. The scaly beasts seemed deflated, mournful. Far less proud than how they’d left, with a true dragon prince at their helm. Their chuffs are low, quiet. Everything was stilted, heavy. The stench of sulfur and the sharp tang of iron that hung in that room has not left you since.

It is Addam of Hull who tells you. He kindly takes your arm, guiding you a short distance away. With your heads bent towards each other; he tells you of your husband’s bravery, his strength, and his fate. Of bolts embedded in tender flesh, numb fingers grasping to ship wood, and the blood of the dragon returning to the salt of the sea. 

Many eyes, draconic and human alike, averted their gazes as a raw cry tore itself from your throat. Your hands clawed at your chest for a heart that no longer existed. It lay at the bottom of the sea, with so many other sunken wrecks and bones.

-

The light has gone out of your life. The world around you is grayed and dull, the fog and winter clouds invade in his absence.

You have not known life without Jacaerys, and that remains true even now. You’d been at each other’s sides since the glow of youthful infancy, to the awkward, jutting limbs of adolescence, to the shining pride of (what you could barely call) adulthood. The yarn of your fates, your souls, were intertwined. Together, you formed a tapestry that was supposed to tell the tale of a prosperous king and queen. You knew him better than you knew yourself. You knew his skin was as soft as downy petals, the smell of the oils you’d run through his curls each night, the way his warmth bled into you, and how his smile felt pressed into your collarbone. 

You knew his kindness in the way he’d pressed daisies into your palms as children, you knew his strength in the way he wielded steel easier than breathing, you knew his frustrations in the tick of a jaw over a comment of dark tresses, and you knew his tears; hidden away in privacy. You knew the way they’d shimmer in his eyes until he could not withhold them any longer, the defeat in a downturned head as the first droplet slid down his cheek. You’d hoped he’d always know the feel of your lips as you kissed them away and kept them close to your heart.

You would never kiss him again. Nor would you ever know him, feel him.

Without him, you’ve withered, more phantom than woman. 

You did not leave your bed for two weeks. It is a sea you drown in. It’s much too vast without another body to keep it warm. You shiver despite the furs piled upon you and you hardly ever find sleep. When you do rest, it is fitful, light, or forced by exhaustion. If you’d had the capacity to think of it, you would’ve been surprised that you did not drown in your tears.

You keep your curtains closed. Gone are the days when you invited a welcome sea breeze to billow through your rooms, there was no longer a Velaryon prince to share in it. You refused to lay eyes upon the endless azure blanket that had stolen your breath from your lungs. 

It was much like a tomb, your rooms. It was shrouded in constant darkness. You did not even permit a lit candle or hearth. You would not feel any more warmth, even should your chambers set alight with you inside. All comfort seemed to be extinguished with the soul of Jacaerys.

There was a constant pain in your chest, an ache where your heart used to reside. It was bleeding, seeping out of your every pore. It was so empty yet the weight that pressed upon you was greater still. It was difficult to breathe without him. This weight kept you lying, motionless, in a bed that was now only yours.

 It took all the energy you had to force some of the food your handmaiden brought you down your throat. It all crumbled like ash in your mouth. 

At first, the sobs that had racked your body had hurt your ribs. No comforting hand of a maester or handmaiden could rouse you from these fits of grief. It felt pathetic but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Who could blame you? You’ve lost part of yourself. You’d never hurt so much.

It came in fits. Lots of your time was spent in a haunted daze. Unseeing eyes gazing at a wall or ceiling, hands tangled in furs drawn up to your chin. It was as if your mind refused to live in a world without Jacaerys in it, therefore it would not take part in it. The passage of time meant little. You would wake and soon it was nightfall again, another day spent bleeding out in bed as you stared at uncaring stone. 

You can see the concern shining in the eyes of your maids. You can hear them murmuring to each other as they prepare your chambers, when they think you sleep. About your ashen skin, your frailing body, of the heartache that has drained every bit of life from you. 

At some point, and you really can’t remember when, you’d drug one of his old cloaks to bed with you. It had been in a moment of haziness in your grieving stupor, a late night when a storm raged not just in your heart, but outside the walls of Dragonstone. Your bare feet had drug across the floor with a soft scrape, leading you to his old wardrobe. A cloak, of deep crimson, found its way into your hands. It was an old one, one he had not donned for some time. But it was soft and weighted in your hands. Sheltered amongst his other dressings, it smelt distinctly of him. Of rosemary oil, old cedar, the smell of Vermax’s scales, and the underlying hint of the specific musk that clung to his skin. The fabric has not left your hands ever since.

You distinctly remember a time, in recent memory, when he’d returned late to your chambers from flying with Vermax. He’d left for the dragonmount with a tick in his jaw and a deep furrow in his brow, frustrated by his perceived coddling by those at the council and his own mother. Sometimes, there was a restlessness in him that not even you could settle. You knew, far too well by now, that it is a burden he must unleash in the sky. When he’d returned; his shoulders were unburdened, his curls windswept, his cheeks tinged with lasting nips from the air, and a small smile revealed a small dimple in his cheeks . A light sparkled in his eyes as he laid eyes on you, his wife.

You’d laughed as he swept you into his arms. You had soon wrinkled your nose and wriggled in his hold as he buried his face to your neck, his nose was still cold from outside. His curls tickled your chin and jaw, the smell of dragon was thick and cloying in your nostrils.

“At least wash first, Jacaerys. Your smell will transfer to me.” You’d huffed, exasperation laced with ever present affection. He’d merely hummed in response, a bright smile spreading against your skin. His arms pulled you even closer, melding your bodies together as he lent over you. He nipped lightly at the skin of your neck in retaliation, making you jolt in his arms. Any additional scolding died on your tongue as he brushed those sinful lips up your throat to smother your face in kisses. 

You would give anything to smell the heavy scent of cinders and sulfur on him again. He could smell of volcanic ash for the rest of your life and you would not care so long as he was breathing in your arms. You lay, prone with suffering, clutching the cloak to your chest. If you closed your eyes hard enough, you could almost pretend he was beside you again. Your tears soaked the fabric like blood seeping through gauze. The smell of him faded by the day, and you still refused to let go. Your face was pressed to the fabric, almost as if you wanted to smother yourself in it.

“Please, please, please.” You mouth into the red expanse, begging for a return of something that will never come.

You could only find sleep clutching the linens, like a child with a prized blanket or doll.

-

It is on the morn of the third week without him that you find the strength to leave your chambers. That is when he begins to come back to you. -

Since rising, you can hardly stand to be in the keep of Dragonstone. It is too empty. Barren. You drift the halls like a ghost, palored and untouchable. The twisting walls and damp darkness feel all too much like a crypt.

You have not seen the Queen since the news of her son’s death. The servants whisper to each other in fear, about the mother who has had all love burned away from her with the loss of her eldest. You do not try to go to her, you fear to lay eyes upon the woman Rhaenyra has become.

Baela is on the back of Moondancer more than ever before, flying the dragon to near exhaustion every day. You understand it, you can no longer stand the stifling labyrinth of the keep yourself.

That is why, today, you’ve taken to the beaches. 

You had scarcely allowed your handmaidens to run a comb through your tresses before you’d been up and moving. You’d thrown a woolen dress over your chemise and some shoes before abruptly departing, with his cloak slung over your shoulders like a blanket. You’d ignored the confused calls of your helpers, you’d apologize to them later. The walls had felt as if they were closing in on you, suffocating you. You’d remained in there too long. A moment longer, and you’d felt as if you’d be buried under ancient rubble. It’d caused a thick panic to seize your throat, you needed escape. You couldn’t breathe that stale air any longer.

You keep your eyes trained on the sand in front of you. You refuse to acknowledge the water, as if that would give it power over you. The sound of the sliding waves, coming, receding, and coming again, seemed to taunt you. You are glad for the heavy fog. It covers you like a shroud, hiding your heavy grief and sunken disposition to the eyes of all, including the gods.

The sea is greedy and unknowable. It has stolen from you, it mocks you. Yet, you cannot help but feel the nostalgia and comfort from the constant white noise. When it was sunny, he used to walk arm and arm with you along these very same shores.

The sand tracks your steps, a reminder of the breath that still fills your lungs and your blood still flowing through your veins. Even if you were missing your heart. The wind blows your hair around you, the occasional wisp of it brushing your cheek. The cold bit at your nose and cheeks, you kept the lower half of your face buried in the crimson cloak around your shoulders.

You do not know how long you walk for, you’re in a daze. You could have made entire laps around the isle and you would not notice. Your eyes flick up once, to gauge your surroundings, that’s when you see him.

And it is him. You know it is. You’d know him anywhere, even at this distance. It’s the faint outline through the fog, tousled curls, a billowing cloak, a lithe form. It makes you stop in your tracks, your breath evacuating your lungs. 

You’re left stunned. Your body doesn’t know what to do with itself. Your stomach drops and your heart hammers painfully in your chest. Your limbs are paralyzed. Your eyes are trained on him, chest scarcely moving with breath. You watch him as… he seems to be watching you. The world has frozen. Your body doesn’t know whether it should be afraid, hopeful, or some other third emotion.

Have you gone mad? Has your grief touched you so deeply that it has irrevocably harmed your mind? Your gut twists with the wrongness of it all, of this. He was dead, you knew this. The ocean holds its breath. You feel a sweat break out along your brow, alarm bells ringing in every section of your mind. And that isn’t right, this is your Jacaerys. That was him. It was him-

The tether that seems to immortally tie you together tugged at your heart, reeling you in like a fish on a line. Every fiber of your being buzzed with the urge to rush to him, to combine his sinews with your own so he might never leave you again. You want to cling to him so tightly that your nails would draw rivulets of fire and blood.

My love, my love, my love-

You shut your eyes tightly, taking three deep breaths. For an instant, the scent of cedar engulfs you so completely that it sucks the air from your lungs. There’s a brush of fingers across your cheek that causes your body to shudder, they are frigid. A faint whisper of a low, regal voice reaches you on the wind.

In a moment, it’s all gone.

 You open your eyes. There is no one around you. The fog is empty of all its secrets. The sea continues sighing as it always does. The smell of something earthy and pungent reaches your nose, the wind is picking up. A storm is on the horizon. 

You stand there for a moment longer, every sense searching for any trace of him.

When the rain starts, you’re forced to turn and pick your way back to the keep.

-

The storm that began when you left has not ceased, that does not stop you.

You keep coming back to that spot. Over and over and over again, hoping for just a glimpse of him, any hint.

You feel as if you’re going mad. You can feel him there, something of his presence. You know him, you would know him anywhere. He’s there, he’s here, somewhere. He’s trying to get back to you, like he promised.

And yet, you do not see another trace of him for a long while. You keep returning to the shore each day. It’s almost an obsession, the search. You pace around the beaches, heading down at dawn and only coerced to retreat at nightfall.

There is one day when you break down. You stare down the Narrow Sea with angry eyes. Your hands and chest tremble with the extent of it. Why won’t it reveal him to you again? Why must it take everything? Why must it withhold him?

You wade into the surf, despite the cold air around you. It laps at your calves. It begs for you to wade closer, to dive beneath it’s all knowing depths to drag your heart back to the surface. The laughing white tops dance and swirl, turning your legs numb only after a few moments.

In the turn of a moment, you snap. You curse, spit, and cry at the ocean. You kick and throw sand like a woman deranged. You hiss out venomous words of hatred and raving disgust. You beg and cry for your husband back. You offer the ocean anything it wants.

The outburst leaves your chest heaving. You slowly slide to your knees, sobs wracking your chest as the rain soaks your clothes… his cloak is heavy on your back. It almost feels like cool arms around you. The waves soak your dress, the push and pull of the tide causing your body to lull to and fro.

A knight of the Queensguard finds you just after sunset, still sitting where you collapsed. He thinks you are almost dead. Your hands tremble, lips blue, eyes glossy. Your whole body is wracked with powerful shivers, yet you hardly notice when he calls out to you. Your gaze is still trained on the dark ocean, waiting for any slight glimpse of brown hair or pale skin. -

Your efforts, it seems, are not in vain. You sense the traces of him constantly after that. 

One morning, you catch the tail end of his scent on your sheets. You spot a red flash of velvet turning down the hall, hear murmurings that sound strangely like his voice when you stand on your terrace, feel a caress on your cheek when you cry, feel the brush of curls under your chin when you try to rest at night combined with a heavy weight on your chest.

He is trying to come back to you, you know it. 

Every day he gets closer. -

You have not dreamt often since his death, but when you do it is always the same thing.

It begins with you falling. The air is so limitless that you think you might be flailing until you turn to dust. It is not dark, nor silent. The air is bright and you can see clouds above you. Around you, the screams of men, the roar of dragons, and splintering wood consumes your hearing. The smell of sulfur and burnt flesh makes your stomach turn.

Then you hit the water. Your body is wracked with pain from the impact, every limb stings. You’re stunned with shock and cannot move, sinking. You will drown here. Up and down are confused in your scrambled mind. When your lips part for air, water invades like a greedy interloper; filling your lungs and aiming to take your life. Your limbs flail and claw towards where the light shines down, reaching for you.

Finally, you break through the waves, coughing and sputtering. Your lungs heave with the exertion of spitting up water while simultaneously fighting to get air in. Legs kick beneath you to keep you afloat, though every movement shoots pain through you. When you hit the water, it felt like hitting hard earth. Your body burns, exhaustion begging you to just cease and let the sea claim you.

Adrenaline burns through your veins like fire. You cannot give up. You made a promise.

A piece of driftwood bumps into your side, a savior amongst the chaos. You cling to it, your hands shaking. If you could just hold on, hold out, you could make it back to her. What else could you possibly do? And Vermax… Oh, poor Vermax-

You don’t have the time to process your dear companions death before you feel some split through your shoulder. It jolts you forward, your chin smacking against the rough wreckage you hold onto. Then, the pain blooms through you- white hot. You grunt, your eyes screwing shut. It’s unlike anything you’ve felt before, it reaches deep within you and feels like it’s trying to break through to your chest. The wound throbs, radiating through your whole body. Blood gushed around the crossbow bolt in your back as if it was eager to jump in the water below. Before you can even think, another pain embeds itself in your lower back, making your muscles lock as you cry out. You lose control of yourself for a moment, your body slipping down your refuge. You dig your nails into the wet and decaying wood, splinters embedding themselves under your skin.

Something wet and warm fills your mouth, it tastes like iron, it dribbles down your chin like a drunkard's dribbling wine. It’s getting harder to hold on, your body fighting between survival and giving into the pain. But you must. You’ve no choice but to hold on. Someone will find you, someone will help-

You must make it back to your mother, your family, to your heart…

Something rips through your neck, cruel iron revealing red muscle to the world. Everything goes black. -

You wake choking. Your lungs take a few moments to suck in a full breath. You’re panting, lying on your side, Jace’s old cloak clutched in your fingers. In the darkness, the deep red seeps through your hands like his blood. Your eyes are cloudy with tears, a sob lodged in your throat. The recurring dream rarely lets you sleep through the night without grief. 

When you shift, you feel a warm arm around your waist, a body pressed at your back.

It makes you freeze, your veins turning to ice.

He notices this. He has always been so attuned to you. That remains so, even in death. A gentle shushing reaches your ears, a toned arm tightening around your side. Curls tickle your neck, his nose bumping against the hard bone of your shoulder.

“It’s alright, my love. It’s me, I promise.” The royal timbre of his voice brushes over your skin. And it’s so real… so tangible. You can feel him against you, his voice is right at your ear, and, when you look, you can see his arm around you… As if his death and these past months were all but an extended nightmare. 

Was it?

“Jace?” You breathe, voice wavering. You can almost taste your heart in your throat, your palms becoming clammy. You move to turn to face him but his grip around you tightens, holding you still.

“I don’t-” He stops. When he speaks again, it’s quiet. “I don’t wish for you to see me... like this.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, something like fear gripping your heart. Unease takes hold of you and you shift against him, breath picking up.

“What-” You start, still trying to wrap your mind around what was happening. He’d made his way back to you but what had happened? What did he mean?

Your words are cut off by the brush of lips over your skin, skimming across your shoulder. His lips are as plush as you remember. They brand themselves into your memory once again. It makes you shudder. He begins to press soft kisses to the crook of your neck.

“I am sorry it took me so long…” Jacaerys begins, his arm around you shifts so he can rub circles into your stomach. The touch causes your eyes to flutter shut, it was a familiar comfort. “But I’m back now. I swear, I will never leave you again.”

Your mind fights against itself. You struggle to even wrap your head around how he’s managed to appear like this when you’ve been trying to catch glimpses of him for weeks. On the one hand, you know he’s dead. He is not alive, he has not tried to convince you otherwise. What was he? Should you be indulging in something so… unnatural?

The other part of you begs all rationality to quiet. He was Jacaerys wasn’t he? Your heart, your husband… the person you’ve been begging to return to you. He has granted your wish, has he not? You are in no position to be picky about the way in which he has done it. You would know him even at the end of the world, deafened and blind, you’d know him.

The relief of his return is what ends up winning.

“I’ve missed you.” The words are reverently pressed against your skin, as if you were the Maiden and your body a place of worship. One arm slides under your body to hold you close as his other slides down to your hips, a cool hand brushing over your abdomen. Which was odd… how has the blood of the dragon cooled within him?

His kisses become more insistent, lips trailing across your pulse and your throat. When his teeth nip at the sensitive skin, you jerk against him. You’ve not been touched like this in such a long time, not since he’s left you. You feel the familiar stirring in your stomach, the desire for him. You're dazed, left breathless by his sudden return to you and the heat he is kindling under your skin.

“Missed you too… so much…” You whisper in response, your body being wound by his expert touches. It’s almost overwhelming. You’ve grieved painfully for him and now he was here… touching you.

You suck in a breath as he uses his teeth to tug your chemise sleeve down your shoulder. Jacaerys takes advantage of the open skin, left undisturbed since his absence. You can feel him almost trembling against you as he presses desperate kisses along wherever he can reach. The one arm tightens around your ribs, palm brushing underneath your chest. The other brushes along your abdomen, traveling along your thigh. He toys, dangerously, with the hem of your chemise. Despite the coolness of his skin, his touch brands you all the same. The faint smell of cedarwood and sea salt reaches your nose, filling your lungs. You're surrounded, held, by just him, him, him.

It hits you then, the bittersweetness of it all. He is here, but not as he was. He will never be your Jacaerys again. Here was his spectre, to give you a sliver of what you’d had while he’d lived. Jacaerys’ bright shining light and warmth has been dulled to dim cinders. You cannot help the tears brimming your eyes. It is a complicated thing, the emotions that swirl within you. He has defied the Stranger to be here with you again, but things will not return to how they were.

Your lungs shake with a withheld sob, warm tears trailing down your flushed cheeks. It is an odd opposition to the feelings his touches are evoking. You find one of his hands, the one lingering near your chest, and you bring it up to your lips to press a kiss to his palm. His hands are still soft yet so cold… 

Jace can feel your chest heaving, the quiet sounds of heartbreak you try to withhold. Your heated tears soak into his hand pressed against your plush mouth. He stops his heated kisses, stills his wandering hands. You cannot see it, but his brows furrowed with concern. His forehead presses to your shoulder, a shuddering breath leaving him. Warm breath brushes over bare skin.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, my love. I didn’t mean to- I… I didn’t wish to upset you. I will stop. I’ve only missed you so much, I could not help-” His voice is apologetic, saddened. It breaks his heart to see you so distraught. Jacaerys thinks his advances are unwanted, that you are disgusted by his undead return.

That could not be farther from the truth.

You cut him off quickly.

“No-” Your voice cracks over the words. You swallow thickly, clutching his hand to your lips as if he’ll disappear at the slightest loosening. “Please. Please, stay. I want you. I need you so badly, Jacaerys… Let me be close to you again. Let us be one.” You utter, voice watery and edging on desperation. 

You crave this closeness with him, to feel your husband as yours once again. You have no clue if he will even be able to return to you after this. What rules to the dead follow? You will take all you can of him, let him consume you, possess you.

His fingers mess with the lacy bottom of your nightdress again, testing the waters. He presses his lips to your shoulder blade.

“You are sure?” Jacaerys whispers against you, needing your permission. He wants his wife again. To feel as if he can be hers in the way she needs him again, even if just for a short moment.

“Please…” You almost beg, desire sweeping through your undertones. Your gentle hand finds his own on your thigh, guiding his nimble hand under your chemise and between her thighs. There is an audible hitch in his breath as you guide him to cup you through your small clothes.

You sniffle and gasp, arching into his touch.

Jacaerys curses softly, you feel long lashes brush against your skin as he screws his eyes shut. He shifts against you, hand leaving your guidance only for a moment to grasp your thigh. It’s hitched over his hip, opening you for him. You’re almost surprised to feel that his skin is bare behind you. You ache to look upon him, to cup his face and kiss him till your heart is whole again… but you stay how he wants you.

His hand returns to you again, gingerly brushing over the inside of your thigh. He’s memorizing the feel of you again, of your smooth skin under his own. You feel so alive, so plush, thrumming with the ichor of life. He groans as his hand slips to the apex of your thighs again, feeling your smallclothes are already damp. You wriggle against him, hiccuping with soft cries as your tears refuse to cease. 

He whispers your name, a breathless prayer. His chin perches on your shoulder as he continues to feel you through your fabric. Downy curls brush across your cheek, soaking up the dampness that lies upon it. His other hand moves from your kisses to tug down the neckline of your chemise, revealing your bare chest. You whine as he takes one in his palm, thumbing over it. Your eyes flutter shut, head leaning back against him. He takes this as an invitation to kiss your bare throat. You push yourself back into him, feeling his arousal at your haunches. Jacaerys makes a soft noise of pleasure, hips grinding against you for only a moment.

His hand at your core shifts. Your breath picks up, stuttering over gentle whimpers, as he slides his nimble fingers beneath your smallclothes. He’s murmuring soft words into your skin, yet your mind can hardly process them when his fingers swipe through your wet center. You gasp, pressing back into him as your hips jerk into his touch.

He groans, biting lightly at your shoulder before soothing it with his tongue.

“Oh, my love…” He murmurs, sounding almost amazed. Jacaerys is breathless behind you, massaging your breast in one hand as the other explores your arousal. You can hardly take the perceived teasing, squirming in his hold.

Your tears have begun to slow, your sweet grief overshadowed by pleasure. You had not realized how much you’d craved his gentle intimacy till you had it again.

“Jacaerys, please.” You moan, hand reaching to wrap loosely around his wrist. He shushes you gently, pressing soothing kisses to the crook of your shoulder.

“I’ve got you…” Your husband soothes. His lithe digits press your clit for a moment, making you mewl, before he’s sliding a finger into you.

You gasp at the feeling, you have not felt such pleasure for too long. He’s mesmerized. His kisses have ceased their gentle assault as he watches with amazement, his eyes focused on his hand beneath your nightdress. You’re already slick enough for him to make the slide easy. The way you tighten your hand around his wrist and shift back against him is indicator enough that you need more.

His second finger breaches you easily. Your moan comes louder now, almost a sigh of relief. His fingers have always reached so much deeper than yours can, brushing against the gummy spot within you that he only knew to reach. You roll your hips with every gentle push of his fingers, a slow rhythm being set. He hums, lips skimming across your skin. Every once in a while, he sucks marks into your neck, laying waste to the previously clean slate. His hips buck against you, trying to find some friction. He cannot help it, it’s almost embarrassing. He craves you more than life itself.

Lashes brush across your cheeks as your eyes flutter. Every pump of his digits has you whining. He always stretches you so fully, so deeply. The sounds are almost embarrassing, a slick slide becoming apparent with every thrust. Your body welcomes his touch into your tight heat, wet and eager. Your cheeks burn, mind hazy with the pleasure of it all. Momentarily, you forget every bit of the world around you. You are his again and he is yours. You gladly let him take whatever he wants from you. Your heart is his.

He begins to curl his fingers within you, picking up the gentle pace. His thumb finds your pearl, rubbing it in tight circles. Your plump lips part over a mewl, your hips jerking into his every touch. Jacaerys feels as if he might come simply at the feeling of you against him once again; as your body melds to his, the way you squeeze his fingers tightly, the way you cry and beg for more. It has been far too long. But he never intends to leave you again.

“My poor wife…” He mumbles to you, his voice low and punched out. “Her pleasure has been neglected for far too long… I will fix that. I’ll make sure you never go without a warm bed for the rest of your life.” The undead prince promises. It does not occur to you at the time to think too deeply about his words.

Soon, you're writhing against him. Your eyes screw tightly shut, your throat constricting over moans. Your cunt squeezes and flutters around his digits, brought to release at his expert touches. You ride it out beautifully; lips parted, red marks blooming across the one side of your throat, body flushed, and your grasp on his wrist forcing him still as you take your pleasure from him. He can feel your release dripping down his palm, messy and desperate. It makes his body tighten with desire. He craves to be inside you, to make you his wife again, to feel the ultimate form of connection they can share.

“That’s it… Take what you need, my girl. You can have it all…” He praises, the filthy words curling over your skin. And you do.

You slump back into him, grip growing slack around his arm. He gingerly pulls his fingers from you, shushing you as you whine at the loss. His arm leaves you for a moment… but you hear him licking his hand clean of your release. It makes your gut swirl with heat, your body buzzing with the eagerness of having him again.

Jacaerys’ veined hand keeps working at your breast as he lets you catch your breath. Soon enough, you're shifting against him again. You can feel his cock pressed against you and he’s been so so patient. You press yourself back to him, you both moan in tandem with him at the friction it provides. 

He suckles at your neck, breathing heavily. His hand tightens at your chest, feeling you almost roughly.

“Please.” He utters. Jacaerys was never one to beg easily. But his soft whimper always made your knees weak and heart flutter, arousal flowing through your veins like the wine of the gods. “Let me take you again, my heart… I’ve missed you. I just.. I just need you again.”

You're nodding before he can finish his next sentence. You want to kiss him so badly. You want to lick into his mouth as you let him claim you. You wish to spend all night with him warming your bed and pressing his imprint back into your body till the memory is ingrained into your sinews forever.

“Take me…” You breathe.

That’s all he needs.

Jacaerys moans against you. His nips at your pulse point as his free hand slides your small clothes down your legs. You kick them away swiftly. He hitches your leg over his bony hip once again, exposing your bared core. 

He positions himself at your entrance, almost trembling with the effort to hold himself back. He pants against you, pressing his nose to your throat. Your eyes flutter as you feel his disheveled hair caressing your skin. Your body hums with anticipation, clenching around nothing.

It’s a momentary stillness, almost as if the room itself is holding its breath.

Then, he’s pushing into you.

You’ve never felt so complete. Your lips part over a silent moan, your body trembling against him. He groans loudly into your neck, almost whimpering. He mouths over your skin, as if to distract himself from the overwhelming pressure of sliding home to you once again. His kisses are wet and hot, tongue laving over your throat as if he was trying to eat you.

Your body flutters around him. He moves slowly, letting you adjust to taking him once again. It used to be a nightly ritual for you both, but now… it was something reverent. Your chest heaves, he fills you so completely. He isn’t even pressed in fully yet but it forces your body to make room for him. It’s beautiful. Jace’s hand tightens on your thigh, keeping you spread open despite your fluttering muscles.

Soon, you can almost feel him in your lungs. His hips press flush to your backside. You both pant, breathing synced. His thumb brushes your nipple, causing you to mewl and squirm against him. Your cunt flutters, adjusting to the stretch. You cannot handle the stillness any longer.

“Jacaerys…” You moan. He knows that inflection in your voice all too well. He rolls his hips against you, punching a groan out of you both. He feels almost frenzied, having your perfect body wrapped around his cock once again.

Soft rolls soon turn into gentle thrusts. It feels like he forces the air out of you with every move. The stretch soon becomes intensely pleasurable. His hand on your chest and thigh holds you in place, holding you open for him to take, for the slick slide of his cock. And you’re so much more than willing.

Your eyes flutter closed, your mouth parted with continuous whines and mewls. You sing so prettily for him. He tries to bite back his pathetic whimpers, but it’s little use. He’s soon moaning into your neck, always so loud and needy for you. He can feel your walls sucking him in, pulling him deeper with every thrust. His hips hit your plump backside with every move. He feels as if he’s reached heaven.

“My love..” He whines against your skin, greedily kissing and licking at any skin he can. He nips at your jaw, your throat, your pulse, your shoulder, even your arm. It’s frenzied, wet, hot, desperate.

“I’m sorry..” He rambles on, causing your chest to tighten. You whine, mouth opening to argue his apology but a moan takes its place as he picks up his pace. 

“Broke my promise..” Jacaerys continues, nosing along your jaw. “But not anymore. Not leaving you ever again… My wife… my beautiful beautiful girl… Always so good for me. Saw you mourning me..” As he speaks, his hand moves from your thigh, finding your pearl and pressing mercilessly into it. It causes your body to jolt, your cunt fluttering around him. You’re left almost breathless with pleasure, voice hoarse from crying out to him in bliss.

“I’ll take care of you now.. I promise. Never again, never breaking my promise again… I’ve got you.” He murmurs, an oath formed with a gentle kiss to the thudding pulse beating against your neck. You gasp out, rolling your hips back into him with every firm slide of him within you.

You’re embarrassingly close already, body spasming around his length. He hits every place within you that makes your body light with fiery rapture. His hand has never moved from your chest, firmly holding you against his own as he feels you. The other works mercilessly at your clit, playing you like an instrument made just for him. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you…” You repeat over and over again, the confession barely made over heaving breaths. Then, you’re pushed over the edge.

You cry out, gasping as waves of pleasure roll through you. You gasp and ramble meaningless sweet things, incoherent. You hear yourself repeating his name like a prayer. You clench tightly around him, taking all the pleasure you can. It makes him whine, arms tightening around you as he finds himself in a similar state.

Jace’s breaths are shaky, raspy as he pleads your name. It rolls off his tongue easier than his own, the sound melting over you like honey. The tight slide of him within you, the sounds you make, the all consuming heat of you against him has him following you over the edge.

A hand slides from your chest to your throat, tilting your head back against him as he muffles his pathetic moans into your throat. He pumps his hips; once, twice more before he’s spilling into you. He fills you to the very brim and you’ve craved that very warmth. You feel so alive, so full, so thoroughly had. 

Panting is the only thing heard in the room, breathy whines reverberating off the stone walls. His hands slacken around you, shifting to a comfortable hold. You can feel Jace practically drooling on your shoulder, no doubt blissed out as he always is after such intimacy. He is pressed deeply within you, kissing your womb. He makes no move to remove himself yet.

But eventually, you whine from the overstimulating feeling and your body’s sensitivity. He shudders as he pulls out of you. You can feel his release dripping down your thighs. You regret the absence but you both know your bodies well enough to know it must be done.

You take advantage of the lull in his guard. You turn quickly in his arms to face him, too swift for him to make a move to stop you.

Jacaerys speaks your name, startled. It’s a protest that comes much too late.

Your heart feels as if it shatters in your chest.

He is your Jacaerys… but he is changed. He looks much like he did before. His skin contains its color, as if he still holds life. His freckles stand out on the bridge of his nose, his curls disheveled across his forehead, his eyes watery as they meet yours. 

But what catches your attention the most is the crossbow bolt through his neck. The wound does not ooze and bleed as it would normally, it is more a stationary part of him now. There is only the red, irritated flesh where the metal enters and exits him. It is a cruel reminder of how he’d suffered his fate.

Jacaerys shuts his eyes tightly at the sound of your startled gasp. He turns his head into the pillow beneath him, almost looking ashamed. He hadn’t wanted you to see him like this… and yet you’d discovered him anyway. 

Trembling hands reach out to cup his face, tilting it towards your own. When his eyes find yours, he finds your bright eyes filled with tears. Your bottom lip wavers with the effort to withhold your cries. He shushes you gently, his own hand coming up to brush away the first tear that falls. 

“Oh, Jacaerys…” You murmur weakly. You're quick to pull him to you, clinging to him so tightly that he thinks his apparition of flesh will blend with your life. As your hands slide around his back to hug him, you discover two more bolts. One in his shoulder, the other in his lower back. You whimper against him, face pressed into his collarbone. You cannot imagine the pain he’d gone through… the fear he’d felt as he felt life slipping through his fingers and bleeding into a hungry ocean. Your warm tears seep into his skin. He holds you close in turn, his hands press their firm marks into your skin, clutching you close like you’re salvation. He buries his face deeply into your hair and shutting his own bleary eyes.

You’ve seen him, the worst of him, and your first instinct is to pull him to you… not to flinch away in fear or disgust… He loves you, more than anything else.

“I’m so sorry.” You sob into him, chest heaving with the weight of it. “I’m so sorry, Jace…”

He shakes his head immediately, pressing his lips to your hair.

“Don’t.” Jacaerys murmurs to you, his voice quiet and shaky. “It is no fault of yours, my heart…” 

He gently pulls away to make you look up at him, his eyes soft as they meet your own. He presses your foreheads together.

“I’ve made it back to you, my love. I told you… the Stranger could not even keep me. I belong to you. Heart, body, and soul… You shall never be without me again. I will crawl back to you if I have to, always.” He promises. You do not comprehend the full extent of it but your heart warms with the words of utter devotion. Jacaerys has defied death and will continue to do so… for you.

He’s always been so stubborn.

Your eyes flutter shut as his lips brush your tears away.

“I am yours… I love you.” You whisper to him, throat tight but your words sincere.

Then, you press close to kiss him. It is all gentle and saccharine. 

That night, you fall asleep with him in your bed. His tresses brush your chin as his face is buried into your neck, you can feel his breath fan across you, his plush lips pressed to your skin. His hand rests protectively over your still beating heart. You cannot feel the beat of his own, but his chest rises and falls with your breaths. Your arms rest around his shoulders, greedily holding him to you, face pressed to the crown of his head. The smell of cedar chokes you but you happily suffocate in it. His old cloak is wrapped around you both.

It is the best sleep you’ve had in weeks. -

The next morning, you wake alone. 

You feel the most rested you have since Jacaerys has passed. The memory of his loving touch, even if just a dream, was a pleasant one you cling to as the Sun coaxes you awake. You are unsure if it was real. The more that dawn lights your rooms, the more unlikely it seems. The storm that has haunted Dragonstone for weeks has seemingly passed. 

Strangely, your immediate grief is stifled as your eyes flutter open, something warm and pleasant wrapped about you like a blanket. Your body hums with the feeling of rest and intimate exertion. Jace’s burgundy cloak is tucked nicely around you, you bury your face into it until your handmaidens come to rouse you from your bed. 

You are groggy, still half-asleep as they begin to dress you.

You are startled when one of your maidens gasps, stilling in her braiding of your hair. 

“My lady! What has happened to your neck?” 

Her hand cautiously brushes along your shoulder and you hiss, the skin surprisingly sensitive. Your eyes sharpen, finding what she’s talking about in the mirror.

Lying stark in hues of red, pink, and purples are violent looking love bites.

[pagelets]

Maroon- C.B

Disclaimer: smut, toxic relationship (idk what else to call it), scratches and cuts (nothing too serious).

Word count: 20.1k

Playlist (guys this playlist is the whole core of this story, really 😭)

Note: Happy Beomgyu day!!! Today, 24 years ago, this beautiful soul was born. He makes me smile, he makes me laugh, he even made me choke on water when he came back from vacations. I love everything about him from his physical features to his funny side but also his emotional one. I love him so much 😭 this is my first year celebrating his bday but i hope i can celebrate many more. Enjoy this little silly fic i made for celebrating the day 🫶

Thank you @nanahachi3 for letting me use a little of your drama in my story. The rest of it is basically based on my pathetic love life 👍

The bell rings, loud and persistent, signaling the start of the last first period of the semester. A sea of students moves through the hallways, heading for their classrooms, arms linked with their friends, talking about their summer plans, filled with excitement for the ending of the semester. But you— you remain still, eyes fixed on the two figures in front of you. 

On her, leaning against the wall, and on him, with his hand pressed against it just above her head, cornering her.The depth in their gaze, the soft smiles they share, the gentle way his hand holds her chin, drawing her closer— it hurts. Their happiness pierces you, almost cuts you physically.

Your vision blurs, and the rest of the hallway spins, like a faded memory of an old dream, in which you can barely see, barely understand anything. Your skin feels the warmth of tears, rolling down, salty, dripping from your jaw. Your fingers loosen around the strap of your bag, and your feet move in the opposite direction. Fast. Running away, as far as possible from him— Jeon Wonwoo.

As you roam without direction through the almost endless college hallway, you ask yourself why— why you care so much about this? After all, Wonwoo is just a nerd who only cares about two things: his physics book and his stupid band— Seventeen. And well… now, about her too. But who cares, right? You’re more than he deserves. You’re smart, funny, beautiful, the best in class— everyone agrees. You have your own friends, your own projects to take care of, to focus on, things far more important than a boring boy like him. And yet… why does it hurt so much that he chose her and not you?

Apparently, you care.

The tears and the run make your lungs burn, so you stop and lean your hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath. You inhale deeply, telling yourself it's not worth it crying over him, when you realize where your feet have led you— the campus skatepark, the "home" of the skaters. Those long haired boys, with their baggy clothes, attractive faces, and ridiculously stupid minds. You’ve never understood why anyone would do something as dangerous as skateboarding for fun— it doesn’t make sense. You straighten your back and let out a sarcastic chuckle, “Pathetic”. Then, you turn to walk away, but suddenly, everything around you spins again, and you feel your body being pulled back.

Like in a freefall, you’re about to hit the ground, with nothing to do but close your eyes, protect your head, and pray no one sees or records your fall. That’s what you do, closing your eyes and waiting to feel the concrete hit your ass. But then, you feel everything stop. You feel a strong arm wrapped around your waist and a fruity and floral scent of pomegranate with yuzu and peony with magnolia, alluring your senses. You slowly open your eyes to see an angelic face, yet carrying an expression of concern. His long, black hair with highlights sticks to his sweaty forehead, and his brown eyes scan your face, trying to decipher something.

For a moment, you think you’ve died and ended up in paradise, because the man in front of you doesn’t seem real, and even the exact moment he appeared doesn’t seem real, “Are you okay, miss?”. His voice is deep, husky and carries the same concern as his expression. You open your mouth and close it repeatedly, unsure of what to say,  “D-did I... die?”. Of course when you manage to say something, it's a silly question. But he doesn’t seem to agree, because he laughs, “No. Don’t worry, you’re still alive”, he says with a playful tone before helping you straighten up, “Not sure if that’s a good thing,” you mutter, “Hum?” “Nothing, never mind”. You straighten your skirt and look around, trying to figure out what happened to make you slip like that, “What happened?”, you ask.  

He gulps and rubs the back of his neck, “Well… you kinda... hum, tripped over my skateboard”, his voice fades as he finishes the sentence, “Sorry about that”. Your eyes spot the skateboard under his arm, “Oh. You skateboard?”, there’s disdain in your tone, but he doesn’t seem to care. “Yeah! Want to see some tricks?”, he says excited, like a kid who just got a birthday present, “No, thanks” “Oh, come on! Just a few tricks. As an apology” “I don’t see how that could be an apology…” “Great! Check it out”. He interrupts you, pointing to the skate park, “But I didn’t say that…”, but he’s no longer listening. He walks past you, gives you a tap on the shoulder, and heads to the ramp.  

You roll your eyes and cross your arms as you turn to watch him, “What’s up with this guy? Just because he’s ridiculously good looking and caught me like in a movie scene, he thinks I’m gonna stay here watching him show off while he risks cracking his head open and dying?”. He waves at you from a distance, you huff and cross your arms as he places the skateboard on the ground and steps on it, getting ready for the trick.

He kicks off with his right foot, and his body disappears down the bowl, “Well… he’s so wrong”. You prepare to turn around and leave, but just as he reappears— almost flying, with one hand raised to the sky and the other holding the skateboard— your jaw hits the floor immediately. Your arms uncross, hanging loosely by your sides, “Or maybe… not so much”. He repeats the trick, this time extending his arm and making a hang loose sign and giving you a goofy grin. You can’t help but laugh. But when the skateboard hits the ramp again, it slips and the skater boy falls into the bowl. The loud bang echoes through the area.

You gasp, covering your mouth with your hand before rushing to him, calling out, “Oh my god! Hey, are you okay?!”. Reaching the top of the ramp, you find his body sprawled on the bowl with the skateboard beside him and his hands resting on his stomach— laughing. Laughing loudly, like a psycho. “W-what…?”, you say, completely confused, “Are you okay?” “Okay?! I’m great, that was insane!”. You roll your eyes— it's typical of a skater to say something like that, “You’re crazy! I thought you died!”. He laughs even harder, even louder. The guy might be nuts, but seeing him laugh so genuinely like that makes something in your chest stir— a laugh? You don’t know how or why, but his laugh is so contagious that you start laughing as a crackhead, just like him.

He opens his eyes, holding his belly from laughing so much, and watches you laugh— the way your shoulders shakes and your eyes become two flat lines as you smile and laugh so brightly captivates him. “You look beautiful when you laugh like that,” he blurts out, without thinking much. You look at him, remains of laughter still in your throat, “What was that?” “You look beautiful when you laugh like that” “Did the fall mess with your sense of reason, man?” “No. You just are”. You blush. How could a guy like him think something like that about you? You clear your throat and quickly change the subject, “Look! You’re bleeding”, you point to his elbow. He glances at it but doesn’t seem to care, used to it, “It’s just a scratch” ““But it’s an open wound, it can get infected. Let me take care of it… as  a thank you for not letting me fall”.

He smiles, not caring about infection, but amused by the fact that you care, “Okay, okay. You can take care of my wound”. You straighten your back, satisfied, then extend your hand to help him up, “Let’s go then…”, he smiles playfully, completely charmed about you, and takes your hand, “Beomgyu. But you can just call me Gyu”.

Beomgyu follows you to your locker like a puppy trailing its owner. He watches you with curious, attentive eyes, as if you were some new creature and he is a researcher studying you while you take a first aid kit out of your locker. He chuckles, "What?" "I can't believe you keep a first aid kit in your locker” "You don’t?", you say nonchalantly, "Of course not" "Well, you should. From what I see, you get hurt often”, your eyes scan his arms, covered in scars, marks, and band-aids. Embarrassed, he quickly covers them with his hands, "Come on, let me see your elbow”, he bends his arm, showing you the wound. You take a sharp breath, "That looks pretty bad” "But you're going to take care of me, aren't you?", he pouts, "If you stay still, I will". He chuckles again, watching as you grab an antiseptic spray and a cotton pad, "This is going to sting," you warn, "That’s fine, I’m tough" "Alright, then". You press the spray lightly, not even releasing anything yet, but he instantly flinches. You raise an eyebrow at him, "Weren’t you tough?" "I am… That was just a reflex” "Sure" "I think I'd feel better if you held my hand," he says, grinning, "Are you serious? You literally flew on that skateboard, and you're scared of antiseptic?" "The skateboard doesn’t sting". You can’t help but laugh, "I promise to stay still if you let me hold your hand” "Promise?", he holds out his pinky finger. You stare at his outstretched finger, "Put that down and stay still, bro. I ain’t gonna hold your hand”, he pouts again, but you couldn't care less. Seeing no other choice, he finally gives in and shows you his injured elbow again.

You finally press the spray and quickly place the cotton underneath to prevent the medicine and blood from running down his entire arm. The antiseptic stings upon contact with his wound, you can tell by the grimace he makes. So you gently blow on it, trying to ease his agony a little. To anyone passing by, you look completely normal, just a girl blowing on a scraped elbow. But to Beomgyu, you’re almost a mirage— no one, besides his mom, has ever cared enough to check on an open wound or offered to clean it for him. Usually, he just washed it in the shower and slapped a bandage on top. But you— you’re right here, applying antiseptic, blowing softly, carefully, like a small, beautiful angel that fell from the sky, that he just happened to break the fall.

And he doesn’t even know your name.

"You haven’t told me your name” "Yn. You can call me that" "Yn”, he repeats, your name echoing down the hallway in his voice, sending a chill down your spine. "What do you study?" "Medicine” "Really?! So you’re literally doctor Yn” "I will be someday” "That explains a lot", he mumbles. You apply the ointment with a cotton swab, thinking about how annoying he is, "Ow!" "Sorry”, you soften your touch. But he doesn’t stop with his annoying questions, "Why aren’t you in class, Yn?" "Why aren’t you in class?", you say without looking up from what you’re doing. He smirks, "Touché", he stays quiet for a few rare seconds, watching as you carefully place a band-aid over his wound. "Is it because of the same reason you were crying?", your eyes snap up to meet his, your face carefully composed, and then— you lie. "I wasn’t crying”, his gaze is sharp, almost as if he could pull the truth straight out of you just by looking. So, you avoid his eyes and focus on organizing your first-aid kit instead. But he doesn't give up, "You were. Your eyes were red and puffy” "It's just… something got in my eye”, he smirks, crossing his arms and leaning against the lockers. "Sure… You failed a test?", you look at him, offended, "I’m a top student. I have a merit scholarship and I’m a member of the cardiology student association. I don’t fail tests”. He laughs, "Oh, my bad. Forget I said anything”. He goes silent for a few more seconds— something rare that doesn't last long, "Did someone say something to you, then?" You roll your eyes, slam your locker shut, and turn to him. "No, Beomgyu! No one said anything." "I told you to call me Gyu." "We’re not friends." "But I want to be." You cross your arms, stepping forward with a challenging look. "Who said I want to be your friend?" He holds your gaze, matching your challenge with even more intensity. "You do. I can see it in your eyes." You try to look away again, but you can’t. Something inexplicable keeps you locked in his stare. "See? I’m irresistible, aren’t I?" "You’re just cocky, that’s what you are." He grins, but something flashes in his eyes— just for a second, before he mumbles, "Yeah... cocky. That’s all I am” "What was that? “Can’t I want a thoughtful, smart, and gorgeous girl around, huh?". You giggle shyly, blushing against your will. He loves to have that power over you, "So? What do you say? Friends?" He extends his hand, and without even knowing why, you take it. Maybe it’s his undeniable charm, or maybe it’s the fact that you won’t have to see him for the next 3 months, "Friends”.

“Rise and shine, you trainwreck!”

The first thing you hear in the morning is Yunah’s, your best friend, voice practically shaking the walls. You groan, sitting up in bed, still groggy with sleep. Your hair is a mess, your face is marked by the pillow. She comes running out of the bathroom, a bikini in one hand and a bottle of sunscreen in the other, "For the love of God, get up!", Yunah practically jumps on your bed, shaking your shoulder like she’s trying to wake you up from a nightmare .  

You yawn, still half asleep, "What the hell, Yunah… it's 6 in the morning” "It’s almost 10", she corrects, throwing the bikini in your face, "And today is the day!". You take the piece of fabric off your face and stare at her like she lost her mind, "The day I get suffocated by my own bikini?" "What?! No! I mean… maybe, but no! You need to get ready, we have to go out!" "Go where?" "To the event of the century!". You blink slowly, "Yunah, if this is another hippie bazaar where you force me to buy energy crystal necklaces, I swear…" "It’s not!". She kneels on the bed and raises the sunscreen bottle like a villain about to start a monologue. "Today is the day we enjoy summer, and I am not letting you bury yourself under blankets like a depressed sea turtle!".

You blink. Then blink again. Then yawn and curl back on the bed, "Too late" "But Yn you don’t get it!". She pops the sunscreen bottle open with a little too much enthusiasm, and in an almost cinematic disaster, a jet of white lotion shoots straight to your forehead. Silence fills the room. You close your eyes, feeling the sticky mess slowly sliding down your eyebrow. Yunah’s eyes widen, her mouth opening in slow realization, "It’s fine. I can fix this" "I'm going to kill you," you say, completely serious. She throws herself off the bed before you can grab her, laughing as she yells, "Not before I force you to have fun!".

You and Yunah are on a beach on the east coast, where you’ll be spending the 2 next weeks in a paradisiacal bungalow along with Huening Kai, the missing piece of your 3 pieces puzzle, who is staying for a few days with his sisters. The following weeks will be all about no worries. No studying, no medicine— just sun, the beach, friends, and relaxation. And the best part? No boys. 

Yunah is lying on her beach towel, sunglasses on, her body relaxed as she bathes in the sunlight, soaking up vitamin D. You’re beside her, lying on your stomach, reading a new romance novel while enjoying your sunbathing session, until— a volleyball lands right in the middle of your book. She pushes her sunglasses down to her nose and quickly sits up, her mouth parting in indignation, “What the hell is this?! Who do they think we are, huh!? These half assed volleyball players!” “Calm down, Yun. It was probably an accident”, you say, turning to her, “Calm down?! They almost took my bestie’s head off, and you want me to stay calm?! The last thing I’m gonna be is calm!”. You chuckle— she’s a drama queen, but it’s cute that she cares about you. 

The sound of footsteps coming from the horizon catches both of your attention. You look in its direction, a tall male figure comes running towards the two of you, his black shoulder length hair, porcelain skin, and toned body give him away immediately— “Yeonjun?!”, you both say in unison, not expecting to see him out of the university hallways. He smiles apologetically, running his fingers through his soft hair, “Hey, girls… Sorry about the ball”. You glance at Yunah, she’s no longer angry as before– Yeonjun has this strange, soothing effect on everyone. All it takes is for him to speak, to glance in a certain way, and everything just calms down, falls into place. As if the way he talks, the way he looks at people, is some kind of calming spell. You know it because you’re just as much a victim of it as Yunah is. 

He looks at you and smiles, “Hey, Yn!” “Hi, Yeonjun��� “Sorry for interrupting your reading, the serve kinda got out of control”, he scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. You smile back at him, “It’s fine, Jjunie”, you say, tossing the ball back to him, “No worries”. You and Yeonjun have known each other since the beginning of the year when you had a practical suturing class at the university hospital and, well… he was your first patient. Choi Yeonjun is a fashion student who loves extreme sports, and on that particular day, he almost tore his arm in half while rock climbing with a group. He sat on the stretcher in front of you and told you stories about his adventures, and since then, you two have been friends— though no one really knows just how close you are.

“No problem at all, Yeonjunnie. You look radiant, you must be having a great time playing volleyball, huh?”, Yunah says sweetly, her voice high pitched, giggling in between words— it’s obvious she has a crush on Yeonjun. You scoff, amused, but she ignores you, “Yeah, yeah. The game’s fun, except Beomgyu always makes these wild, uncontrolled serves, like the one just now, and I’m always the one who has to go get the ball”. Your calm expression vanishes as if melting ice in a desert, “B-Beomgyu, you say?”, you mumble, “Yeah. Choi Beomgyu, from fine arts. Do you know him?”. You feel the blood rush to your cheeks, if it weren’t for the sun, they would’ve noticed how red your face just got, “Well… I…” “Oh, she knows him alright”. A deep, firm voice interrupts you— his voice. Beomgyu emerges from the same direction Yeonjun came from, wearing dark green swim trunks and his hair half tied. And on top? Nothing. Completely shirtless. Why does he have to be so ridiculously hot?, you ask yourself. Yeonjun glances at you, then at Beomgyu, as does Yunah, “You guys… know each other?”, he asks, his tone neutral but… surprised. “Oh, we do. My friend doctor Yn took care of me the other day”, Beomgyu says with a teasing tone, and of course, all eyes are now on you.

You gulp and reply timidly, “Well… he fell off his skateboard and had an open wound” “Ah!” Yeonjun laughs, “He always does”, Beomgyu hits his head and for a moment, you see Yeonjun’s patience falter. He takes a deep breath, clearly fighting against himself to avoid punching his friend's exposed ribs. “Anyway, would you guys like to join our game?”, the older guy gestures toward the volleyball net, where Soobin and Taehyun are waiting impatiently for the ball. “We’d love to, but Yn and I are working on our tans now, right?”, Yunah says, and you simply nod, grateful that you don’t have to make that decision yourself. “Ah, what a shame. Guess I’ll see you later then. I wanna check out that tan”, Yeonjun says playfully. “Of course! See you later”, Yunah replies before he waves and walks away.

But he forgets to take Beomgyu with him.

He stares at you with a smirk on his lips. To him, finding you here is like stumbling upon a pot of gold— now, summer’s going to be interesting. “What a convenient surprise”, he murmurs, “Sorry, what?”, Yunah asks, since you can’t seem to form a single word. He giggles, clearly enjoying your misery, “See you around, Yn”, he says, winks, and then jogs toward his friends, leaving you with slightly parted lips and a mind in absolute chaos, yet completely blank at the same time.

Yunah looks at you, her lips parted. You glance at her, indifferent, "What?" "Choi Beomgyu, huh!? How did I not know this, Yn Yln?!" "Because isn’t important?" "It is important! He's hot, talented, the king of the skatepark!”. You roll over on your towel, focusing on your tan, "And should I care?" "You should!", her voice is loud, indignant, "Come on, he's everything!" "I told you, Yun, we're just acquaintances" "Yeah, right. The way he looked at you tells me otherwise". You swallow hard, "W-what do you mean?" "That he look at you like you're the most desirable woman in the world", you laugh, dismissive, "Yeah, sure" "Well, if you don't want to believe it, fine. But I know what I saw". She puts her sunglasses back on and leans back to relax.  

But her words have the opposite effect on you, leaving you completely absorbed in your thoughts— thoughts of him, Choi Beomgyu.

"I really don’t wanna go", Yunah pushes your arm, "Come on, Yn!" "Are you seriously going to let me go to a party all by myself?" "I always let you!" "But I need a wingwoman, and that’s you" "Now I want to go even less" "Please, Yn! Do it for your beloved Yun, pretty please?", she pouts. You groan, rolling your eyes, "Ugh, I hate you" "But you’re coming?" "...Yes" "Yay! I love you, I love you!". She kisses your cheek before bouncing to the bathroom to get ready for the party. 

The bar is decorated in a tropical luau theme, vibrant decorations of palm leaves and colorful lights creating a lively, almost surreal atmosphere. The low bass of the music vibrates in your chest, the beat pulsing through you with every note. The indistinct chatter of voices mixes with the music rhythm, making everything feel like a blur of sound. The bright, flashing lights dance across the room, projecting chaotic colors on the walls, and you feel your head starting to spin. 

This isn’t the kind of place you’re used to. You’re not used to being in a space where the noise and the lights seem to swallow you whole, making you feel both energized and disoriented at the same time. You knew you shouldn't have come to this party. The uneasy feeling tingling in your stomach only confirms it. Yunah notices it too, "Hey, Yn…  are you okay?" "Y-yeah. I’m fine" "Are you sure?" "Well, I…" "Yn! Yun!”. Yeonjun's voice cuts through the noise and before you can react, he's already in front of you, arms open, pulling you into a tight hug. "I didn’t expect you to come!", he says against the curve of your neck, his warmth spreading across your skin. "I’m so glad you made it".

You glance at Yunah, who has a guilty smile dancing on her lips. The little brat knew Yeonjun would be here, along with his friends— including Beomgyu. And she knew you wouldn’t have come if you'd known. You shoot her a deadly glare before wrapping your arms around Yeonjun, trying to push the tension aside. How were you supposed to disappoint him after that? So you laugh softly, forcing a smile, "I’m glad to see you too, Jjunie". He lets you go, "Come join us, girls! We’re playing a game" "Which game?" "Seven Minutes in Heaven" "Seriously?! What are we, sixteen?". But before you can go any further, Yunah cuts you off, "We’d love to play!". And just like that, against your will, you find yourself sitting in a circle facing Beomgyu, who has a smirk printed on his lips, while a soju bottle spins between you.  

As if you weren’t already unlucky enough, the damn bottle seals your fate, the neck pointing straight at Beomgyu and the base at you.

The murmur of your friends and Beomgyu's penetrating gaze make the air thicken around you, almost suffocating— are you really about to spend seven whole minutes alone in a room with him? The answer is yes. Your body being pushed by Yunah and Yeonjun toward the coat closet, the sound of the door shutting and the click of the lock confirm it. It feels more like a nightmare than anything else.

You freeze, waiting for your eyes to adjust to the darkness of the small space. Even from a distance, you can feel the heat of Beomgyu’s body in the air, his presence weighing down on you, still and silent. His breath and the muffled sound of the music are the only things you can hear. You've been alone with Beomgyu before, but now it's different. Now, you're locked in a tiny coat closet for whole 7 minutes, with no chance of escaping. It feels like the walls are closing in around you, but you're not that lucky— you'll have to face it alive.

 “So”, he says, wiggling his eyebrows, leaning his back on the wall and crossing his arms. “I’m all yours for 7 minutes” “So what?” “We can do whatever you want to” “Well, I don’t want to do anything” “Really? Are you sure?”, he leans in, “Cause I have a couple of things I can think of”, you can feel his hot breath brushing against your face. You close your eyes, breathing him in, the scent from before isn't there anymore, you can feel his natural musk now and it's very very attractive— almost torture. “Get off, bro”, he steps back, still smirking, “Are you afraid of intimacy, Yn?” “What?! No! I just think you’re annoying as fuck” “Okay, okay, we can just sit here and talk if you want to”. He says, sitting on the floor in a cross legged position. You look at him suspiciously, “Or you don’t want to talk either?” “Talking is fine” “So, tell me how you got into medicine. And don’t come with that sugar coated story about loving the profession and blah blah blah”.

You sit in front of him, crossing your legs as well, “Helping people. I’m good at it. Even though I usually don’t get anything in return, it’s something I genuinely enjoy doing” “You usually don’t get anything in return?” “Yeah” “And why is that?” “I don’t know. It’s always been like that in my life. I put effort into others, and they just turn their backs to me at the end”. You run your fingers through your hair, “Not that you’d understand” “I do”, you look at him, surprised, “I don’t have many people I can actually rely on in my life. Except for my family, I just have Yeonjun, Soobin and Taehyun” “But… what about the guys from the skatepark?”. He smiles, but there’s no amusement in his act, “We just like to skate together. In our best, we’re all close as a family, but ask for someone’s help, for someone’s support”, he chuckles, bitterly, “During dark times, they all vanish in a second”. He carries bitterness in his voice, as if he himself had experienced it.

You look at him, surprised, "Wow, that was... unexpected", you say, your jaw almost on the floor. He grins, though there’s still a trace of melancholy on his lips, "Why do you think that?" "I just… I didn’t expect someone like you to feel this way" "Someone like me?", there’s curiosity in his voice, "Yeah. Someone who's always surrounded by people, always smiling, someone who… radiates charisma,  you know?". He exhales softly, "You know, Yn, deep down, I’m just a guy who feels alone, looking for a place to belong. You say I’m annoying, but maybe I’m just trying to be noticed". There’s vulnerability in his voice— his feelings are raw and real. You know it. You feel it. 

You look at him as if you've just made a revolutionary scientific discovery. Choi Beomgyu is actually a lonely guy who annoys people for attention?! Now, that you didn’t see coming. Not at all. "Well, you're doing a great job at that. Anyone can notice you from a mile away”, you say, trying to make him feel better.  But he is not in the mood for little white lies, so he lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head, "People notice me when I make them laugh, when I’m fun. But when I’m not, they just move on”. His voice is light, playful as always. But for some reason, it doesn’t feel like a joke.

You place your hand over his, giving it a light, reassuring squeeze, "Well, you have me now. Besides your friends". He stares at your hand covering his, clearly caught off guard by your gesture, "That doesn’t mean I like you. Or that I find you any less annoying", you add. "What do you mean you don’t like me?! I thought we were friends!", he exclaims dramatically, almost yelling. You laugh, "Oh no, I only said that to get rid of you, silly", but your tone is teasing. He gasps, placing a hand over his chest, pretending he is deeply offended, "Yn, you are hurting me!" "It’s okay, I can take care of you", you reply. He smiles, and you can’t help but smile too, "And, Yn..." "Hum?" “I recognize what you do for me. If that means anything to you”.  

Choi Beomgyu is the only guy who can make your palms sweat with just a look, a smile, or even a single sentence.  

You nod, pulling your hand back. He looks at the spot, feeling the absence of your warmth but you don’t care, he doesn’t need to know the effect he has on you. Even though you feel, almost know, that he���s already aware of it.

The next day dawned stormy. After you returned to the bungalow from the party, the world dissolved into rain. Throughout the night, thunder and lightning drove everyone away from the sand and sea. By the morning, the rain had ceased, but its effects lingered. The air is more humid and cooler than usual, and piles of sand are scattered along the shore, a result of the strong winds. And the sea is rough. But it isn’t just the sea that is feeling rough— Yunah is part of that club this morning too. 

And guess who she drags to the convenience store? Yes, you. And unfortunately, all the hangover medicine is sold out— apparently, a group of young people bought the last ones. She groans, placing a hand on her head as you both walk back to the bungalow, "Ah! Yn, I'm never drinking again", she whines. You laugh sarcastically, "Sure. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that, Noh Yunah?" "No, but this time I'm serious. I'm a mess. If I don't die, I’m never touching alcohol again" "You’ll survive, drama queen”.

Out of nowhere, she stops, grabs your arm, and pulls you behind a palm tree, "Oh my god, Yn! Tell me I’m not hallucinating!" "Huh?! What?" "Aren’t those Soobin and Beomgyu over there?". She points toward a wooden bench a little ahead of where you are— 2 tall men with black hair are sitting with their backs turned to you, staring at the sea, immersed in a conversation. "Uh, yeah, I think it’s them" "Are they drinking Pedialyte?! I’m going over there to ask for some”. She steps out from behind the palm tree, but you pull her back, "No, you're not" "Why not?" "Because if you go, I’ll have to go too" "And?", you swallow hard, your eyes unable to look away from Beomgyu. 

Yunah follows your gaze and then looks back at you with a smirk on her lips, "What happened in that closet last night?" "Nothing…" You feel the blood rushing to your cheeks. "We just talked". She grins, "And I don’t find Choi Yeonjun attractive" "I'm serious!". You try to argue, but she clearly doesn’t believe you, "Okay, if nothing happened, then you can come with me and ask for some of their Pedialyte". She turns her back to you and walks toward them. You bury your face in your hands, holding back a scream, then reluctantly follow her.  

"This is never going to work", Soobin tells Beomgyu when he catches a glimpse of a figure approaching from the corner of his eye. He looks in the direction where you and Yunah are coming from and grins, "Hey! Isn't that Yunah and Yn?", he says, poking Beomgyu’s arm to get his attention. Beomgyu looks away from whatever he was doing and glances back— Yunah is confidently walking toward them while you clumsily try to catch up to her. He smiles at the scene. 

"Yunah! Yn!", Soobin greets you both. Yunah jumps forward like she just won the lottery. Her excitement is so raw, it almost feels contagious. Almost. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger, eyes sparkling as she greets Soobin, “Soobinnie! Gyuuu! Hiii!”, Yunah says, overly excited, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. "Hey, girls! How are you? Did you enjoy the party last night?" "We looooved it! But, you know… hangovers are a problem. We tried to buy some Pedialyte, but the store was sold out". Soobin chuckles, "I think that’s our fault", he gestures toward a ridiculous number of bottles in a bag on the ground, "Yeonjun and Taehyun are going to need some too", he explains, "But you can take some as well". Yunah grins from ear to ear and bends down to grab a bottle of strawberry flavor like a starving lion that just found a defenseless prey.

You remain standing, watching her, trying to ignore the weight of Beomgyu’s gaze on you. "And you, Yn?", Soobin asks, "She didn’t drink last night", Beomgyu answers for you. You just know he’s smirking without even looking at him, “Right, yn?”. You swallow hard, your gaze meets Beomgyu’s. His eyes catch yours, and you feel your chest tighten, a mix of frustration and something else you can’t name. Your heart skips a beat. Damn him. “Yeah. right”.

You thought that as soon as your friend grabbed her hangover medicine, you would leave. But instead, she decides to start a conversation with Soobin, "Isn’t it a crazy coincidence that we’ve run into each other on vacation 3 times in a row without even planning it?". Soobin takes a sip of the medicine and nods in agreement, "Pretty crazy, isn’t it?" "Yeah. How long are you guys staying here?"  "A month"  “Oh, wow! That’s a long time", she says, and he nods again, “What about you?” "Just 2 weeks, the bungalow is too expensive for just the two of us to afford alone for too long" "Why don’t you two join us? We’re at my family’s beach house and there’s an extra room. I think it’d be nice for all of us to stay together since we keep running into each other”, he grins, making his dimples appear, “That is, if you don’t mind sharing a room" "Oh my God, of course not! That would be amazing, right, Yn?”. 

Sharing a house with Beomgyu?! You’re not mentally strong enough for that. So quickly you come up with an excuse, "What about Huening?", her excitement melts away, "Oh, right… Yeah, we have a friend, Kai, who's joining us tomorrow morning. That makes three of us for one room" "Ah. What a shame, maybe next ti…" "I’ll share my room with him", Beomgyu cuts Soobin off. "Are you serious?!", Yunah says, excited, "Yeah. I’m serious”, he replies to her, but his eyes never leave you, making it clear he’s doing this for you— to keep you close. "Then it’s perfect” "But… shouldn’t we check with Kai first?" "I’m sure Kai won’t mind. He always shared a room with his 2 sisters. What’s one guy around his age?". You look calm on the outside, but on the inside, you're thinking of all the different ways you'll torture Yunah later, “But…” “Look, I have a better idea. Beomgyu comes to my room and Kai can take his”, Soobin decides. 

The three of them look at you, waiting to see how you’ll argue this time— except there’s nothing left to argue, "Fine. Whatever”, you finally say.  "Great! I’ll go tell the guys we have new guests” "I’m coming with you. I can’t wait to see Yeonjun’s face", Yunah says before following Soobin, once again leaving you alone with Beomgyu.  

He watches the two of them disappear, then turns his attention back to what he was doing before you arrived. You glance at his hands— one is holding a bottle of Pedialyte, and the other is gripping a rock, which he’s using to hit the plastic cap. Apparently, he’s trying to open the bottle. With a rock. You furrow your brows and sit beside him on the bench, "You know that’s never going to work, right?". He gives you a sideways glance, "Doesn’t hurt to try". You open your mouth to argue how stupid his idea is, but a burst of wind makes you shiver. Of course Beomgyu notices it.

 He sets the rock and the bottle aside, then pulls off the gray hoodie he’s wearing and holds it out to you. You just stare at it, not even considering accepting it, "You’ll get sick, and there won’t be anyone to take care of you, so you better just take it" "Yunah will take care of me if I get sick!" "With her head spinning from all the alcohol she drank last night? I don’t think so". You keep staring at the hoodie— he has a point. "The rest of us can’t even tell the difference between a cold and the flu. You’re our one and only hope, Yn, so please don’t get sick”. You chuckle softly, then take the hoodie from his hands and slip it on. The fabric is warm yet light, like a cloud against your skin. And the best part? It smells like him— not the sweet scent of his perfume or the woody scent of his deodorant, but his natural scent. Indescribable, yet unmistakably his, "Aren’t you going to be cold?" "I can handle it" "Thanks…”

"You seem to love the idea, huh? Of staying with us", he teases, "Yeah, right. Having you as a next door neighbor sounds like a dream", you reply, sarcasm thick in your voice, "Damn, Yn. You’ve been in a bad mood these days. What’s up?" "It’s just…”. You hesitate but end up letting it out, “I’m nervous about my project” "What project?" "I'm going to make a presentation at the cardiology academic league". He chuckles, you’re unbelievable, "You’re thinking about that during vacation?!" "It’s going to be the most important event of the whole fall!" "What’s it about?" "The role of the heart in processing emotions" "Wow, you're really a hopeless romantic, aren't you? If you need to run some experiments, I volunteer to mess with your feelings”, he says, wiggling his eyebrows. Seriously? Don’t say, you think sarcastically, as if he already doesn’t already do that without any purpose. You roll your eyes and mutter, "You don’t understand", he notices your frustration. Nudging your thigh, he catches your attention, "Hey, it’s gonna be fine. You’re dr. Yn, there’s nothing you can’t do" "Yeah… I hope so”, you say, still unconvinced. 

He feels your lack of confidence, so he tries to distract you, "Hey, have you ever surfed before?" "Surfing? No, never. Do you surf?" "You bet. I can teach you if you want" "Should I really trust you to teach me how to skate on the water?", he laughs, "Yes, I’m actually pretty good at it" "I don’t know about that" "How about this: I'll go out there, catch some waves, and you can judge for yourself". You bite your lower lip, hesitate, but then nod. He brightens up, a grin growing on his lips, "Great! I’ll go grab my board then” "Okay". He runs off through the sand like a kid, and you can’t help but smile— his energy is contagious.

When Beomgyu returns with a surfboard under his arm and a surf shirt on, you no longer think it's a good idea to go into the sea. The waves are convulsing violently. You look at him, who seems to not care about it, "Beomgyu... I don't think you should go into the water" "Why not?!" "It looks dangerous". He glances at the sea, seemingly unbothered, and then turns back to you with a shrug, "Nah, it's fine. I’ve got this". He takes a step forward in the sand, but you grab his arm— your touch makes him twist inside. "Beomgyu... are you going to be okay?", he smiles, "You're so cute when you're worried about me", he holds you by the shoulders, "I'll be fine, Yn” "Really?" "Relax, you’re not getting rid of me that easily".

With a light pat on your head, he comes into the water. Your heart races. Beomgyu might be annoying, but you don’t want anything bad to happen to him, just the thought of it makes you shiver.

The waves crash violently against the shore, a wild mix of water and foam. Beomgyu is just a small figure in the middle of the enraged ocean, his surfboard cutting through the waves like a knife through the air. Each wave he rides feels like it might be his last, the board dipping and swerving, as if the ocean wants to pull him under. You can barely see through the spray of water, the sky and sea blurring into one. You watch him with your breath caught in your throat, the roar of the water fills your ears, and for a moment, you lose sight of him. You grip the sleeve of his hoodie tightly, eyes shut, anxiety building in. 

There’s silence— only the sounds of crashing waves and your own heavy breath fill the space. 

And then, you hear it— his voice, a triumphant scream. You snap your eyes open, heart pounding, and there he is, above the waves, balanced perfectly on top of the surfboard, riding the chaos of the sea effortlessly. You can’t help but smile, the relief flooding you, and without thinking, you shout back, a cheer of victory, "Yay! Beomgyu!". The wave finally crashes, sending a spray of water into the air. Beomgyu rides the remnants of the wave, his movements fluid and confident as he paddles toward you, a wide grin spreading across his face— he feels like he has conquered the sea itself.

He walks toward you, water dripping off him, a triumphant glow in his eyes. The smile on his face makes your heart flutter, and for a moment, everything feels perfect.

Until…

Beomgyu screams, loud and painfully, dropping the surfboard, which stays tethered to his ankle. His face twists in pain as he frantically splashes his leg in the water. From afar, you can tell that something is wrong, “What happened?”, you ask, walking toward him, the current making it harder to move. “Shit… I think it was a jellyfish”, he growls through clenched teeth, gripping his leg. Your eyes widen, “You’re kidding, right?” “Do I look like I’m kidding, Yn?”, he groans, his face furrowing, and you can tell he's in pain.

Without thinking twice, you grab his arm and start guiding him back to the shore, “Come on, we need to get out of here”. Beomgyu limps along beside you, the pain evident on his face. As soon as you reach the sand, you make him sit down. He props himself up on his elbows, watching as you unstrap his board and examine the red, irritated mark on his skin, “Yeah, that jellyfish really got you” “AM I GONNA DIE?!”, he yells, loud and dramatic. “What?! No! … At least I hope not”, you mumble, praying he doesn’t listen to the last part. “Do something, Yn. It’s hurting” “There’s a hot spring nearby”, you say, “The water might help ease the pain”. He nods, biting his lip to hold back another groan of pain, “Okay. If it doesn’t work, I’ll let you have my hoodie”. You shrug. “I’ll sell it and use the money to buy a new book. To replace the one you ruined with your degenerate volley serve. A weak chuckle escapes him, “Fair”.

The two of you make your way to the natural spring. The place is almost magical— a small stream that feeds in a little pool of crystal clear water, surrounded by large gray stones with moss on top and cascading ferns swaying gently in the breeze.It really looks healing. Beomgyu sits on one of the rocks and dips his calf into the water, letting out a sigh of relief as the warmth starts to work its magic. “Better?”, you ask, sitting beside him, “Way better”. He murmurs, tilting his head back with a groan of relief. You swallow hard, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he leans back. It makes something pulse deep in your core. You want to tear your clothes off. Shit. “Who would’ve thought I’d survive a jellyfish attack thanks to you”, he says, with amusement in his voice. You roll your eyes, but a smile escapes your lips, “Don’t be dramatic”. 

He turns to look at you, his eyes glowing with something different, “I’m serious. You’re always so… lost inside your own head, thinking about everything, but that’s just who you are, isn’t it? You care about everything, even about an idiot who got himself stung by a jellyfish— more than you do about yourself”. You feel warmth spread across your chest. He’s looking at you in a way that makes your stomach flip and your palms sweat, “You’re not an idiot”, you say softly. Beomgyu smiles, small but sincere, “Is that a compliment?”, he teases, “Maybe”. Silence falls between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. On the contrary, there’s something in the air, like magnetism, pulling you closer to him. Something you can’t quite name. Beomgyu leans in a little more, his eyes flickering to your lips for a split second before locking onto yours again. Your heart races.

He wants this too.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly your faces are so close.  His breath is warm against your skin, as hot as the steam rising from the water around you. Your eyes flutter shut. His lips are just about to brush against yours when you hear a loud splash, followed by a sharp gasp, “Oh my god!”. Beomgyu freezes at the familiar voice, his lips mere centimeters from yours. 

Both of you turn your heads around at the same time to find Yeonjun standing there, knee deep in the water, staring at you like he just walked in on a crime scene, “Were you guys about to kiss?!”, he practically shrieks, scandalized. You slap a hand over your mouth, holding back a laugh, while Beomgyu groans in pure frustration, burying his face in his hands as he sincerely mutters, “Dude, I hate my life”. You, on the other hand, can’t hold it in and burst out laughing, the moment between you two dissolving into thin air. “What the hell are you even doing here?” you ask, amused,“I just wanted to relax, but apparently, I just stepped into a drama”, Yeonjun says, looking personally offended.

Beomgyu lifts his head, shooting him a deadly glare, “Can you, I don’t know, just leave?”. Yeonjun crosses his arms, “No need to be rude, lover boy. I’ll leave you two alone… eventually”. You sigh, “Yeonjun…” “Alright, alright, I’m going!”, he raises his hands in surrender, backing away dramatically, “Enjoy your little moment or whatever”. But just when you think you’re finally free of him, he yells over his shoulder, “Use protection!”. Beomgyu tosses a handful of water at him, “Why don’t you trip over a rock and die!?”. Yeonjun takes off running, cackling. 

You glance at Beomgyu, biting your lip to hold back another laugh. He looks absolutely defeated,“The universe hates me”, he grumbles. You smile, “Maybe it’s just Yeonjun who hates you”. He sighs, shaking his head, but as you watch him, a thought flickers in the back of your mind:

This isn’t over at least not yet. Deep down, you know it’s only a matter of time.

For the rest of the summer, you and Yunah spent time with the rest of the boys—Yeonjun, Soobin, Taehyun, and Beomgyu. And of course, Kai, who joined you along the way. To your surprise, it turned out to be the funniest summer ever. You guys played games, camped on the beach, and the boys sang songs around the bonfire. Soobin tried to cook for you, but it was a big disaster. Thankfully, Yeonjun and his supply of ramen saved the day. Yunah flirted with everyone, except Kai, who was like an older brother to her, and Beomgyu, who she considered yours, even though you never admitted it. As for Beomgyu… well, he was a complete tease, yet somehow, completely dreamy. Every opportunity to press you against a wall and mutter some provocative words against your lips, but without actually kissing them, he took it.

You told yourself that you hated it, but deep down, you knew you liked it. And now, at the end of your trip, you knew you were going to miss him— his mischievous grin as he splashed water on you while you were sunbathing, the thick tension between you whenever no one else was around, his flirtatious words... But also his calm moments, like when he would pick up a guitar, sit down to draw, or completely focus on his skateboarding or surfing moves. You’re going to miss everything.

Now, the whole group is sitting together in the dining room of the house. The room is lively, filled with the voices of the group scattered around the long table. Taehyun cooked with the help of Huening— an exception for this special night. The scent of freshly prepared food lingers in the air, blending with laughter and the clinking of glasses. You are sitting next to Yunah, trying to focus on your conversation, but your mind is elsewhere. Or rather, on someone else.  

Choi Beomgyu.  

He is sitting on your right, his leg is brushing lightly against yours under the table. Still, you tell yourself it’s just a coincidence. Then, his elbow brushes against yours, and without warning, he reaches out and places a piece of meat on your plate. You blink, surprised, and lift your gaze to him, “Eat”,  he said, not even looking at you. You raise an eyebrow, “I can serve myself, thanks” “I know you can, Yn, but you’re not eating enough”. He lifts his brows, challenging you to argue. You open your mouth to protest, but he simply takes another bite of his food, as if he hadn’t just provoked you.

You shake your head in disbelief and sigh, bringing the piece of meat to your mouth before he decides to feed you himself. Suddenly, you feel a touch— his hand is under the table, resting lightly on your thigh. Your body stiffens immediately, your chopsticks frozen mid air. 

You look at him. Beomgyu continues to act as if nothing is happening, chatting with Soobin about something trivial, his expression completely relaxed like his fingers aren’t tracing slow, teasing circles on your skin, just below the cuffed hem of your denim shorts. You narrow your eyes, What the hell is he doing? With a discreet movement, your hand reaches down, grabbing his wrist, fingers tightening in a silent warning for him to stop. Beomgyu finally turns his head toward you, amusement flickering in his gaze, lips curling into that typical smirk of his.

 He leans in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper, meant just for you, “What’s the problem, Yn?” “The problem is you”, you muttered just as quietly, irritation dripping from your words. He smiles, running his tongue slowly over his lower lip, “Oh, I know”. Then, he simply turns back to his conversation with Soobin.  

The audacity.  

So that’s how he wants to play?  Feeling personally challenged, you flash a sweet smile before slowly trailing your hand down to his leg. Beomgyu doesn’t react at first, probably thinking you are going to return his touch.  

He is so wrong.  

Your nails dig into his skin in a firm squeeze. Beomgyu is used to Yeonjun squeezing his thigh, but unlike Yeonjun, your nails are long. As a result, Beomgyu chokes on his own saliva.  You keep an angelic expression, sipping your drink while he struggles to compose himself, “You okay?”, Soobin asks, offering a glass of water. Beomgyu gives him a forced smile, accepting the drink, “Yeah. Just… the food’s spicier than I expected”. 

He looks at you. You grin, devilishly, and continue to eat, satisfied. But before you can celebrate your victory, he leans in again, murmuring into your ear, “You’re gonna pay for that, babygirl”. And by the mischievous glint in his eyes, you know Beomgyu will keep his promise. 

You swallow hard, regret kicking in. For the rest of the dinner, you can’t focus on anything except the revenge awaiting you.

Dinner ended without further incidents, but you know Beomgyu didn’t forget. You could see it in the way he looked at you during dinner. In the way he smiled— slow, unhurried, like he knew something you didn’t.

You feel when he follows you to the bedroom, his presence heavy behind you. When the door closes, a shiver runs down your spine. The soft click of the lock is quiet, but loud enough to make your heart race. You turn around slowly, meeting his gaze,"W-why did you lock the door?", you mumble. The corner of his mouth lifts, and he steps forward, "Because I don’t want to be interrupted”.

Your body reacts before you can even form a response. You step back, but your back meets the wall too soon, and he is already close for you to escape. Too close, with one hand resting on the wall beside your face, shortening the distance between you, "What do you think you’re doing?", you mutter, heat creeping up your face. He tilts his head, the smirk never fading, "Making you pay. You think I forgot?". His voice is low, intimidating. 

You widen your eyes, "Beomgyu, I just squeezed your leg" "With sharp nails!", he’s loud again, "It was a reflex!" "A reflex?!", he repeats, eyes sparkling, "Funny... because it seemed pretty intentional to me” "You started it!". He chuckles softly, dark eyes drifting over your face before lowering to your lips. His fingers brush against your waist, slowly, playing with the hem of your shirt. Your body tenses under the teasing touch, a warm shiver running up your spine. You hold your breath, a small whine escaping your lips.

He isn’t just touching— you know he is playing with your mind, messing with your emotions.

"Beomgyu..." "Hum?", you hate the satisfied tone in his voice. You hate how weak your own voice sounded, your breath shortened— he knows exactly what he is doing.

The tip of his fingers trail down, tracing a light, torturous path along your waist until they reach your hips. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to relieve the tension pooling between your legs. The room is silent, except for the sound of heavy breaths. The energy between you is so tangible it is almost suffocating. Your bodies are inches apart, and the tension is quite unbearable. "Are you going to stop me this time?", he murmurs, his lips so close you feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. You slowly lift your gaze, meeting his. His dark eyes are full of something that makes your stomach flip.

You try to open your mouth to answer, but he leans in before you could say anything, his breath now brushing against your jaw, "Answer me, Yn". Your heart pounds against your chest, "Beomgyu...". He smiles, satisfied. You shut your eyes for a second, trying to gather your thoughts, but his hands are already moving again, tracing a tempting path up your body.

Without hesitation, he goes deeper, his touch now bolder, fingers nibbling your collarbone, then trailing lower. Each touch seems to mimic the erratic rhythm of your heartbeat. You try to stay calm, but it is impossible when he has his hands spread across your back, pressing you against him with an intensity that sends your senses into overdrive. Slowly, he moves down again, his fingers brushing along the curve of your chest. You bite your lower lip, trying to suppress the overwhelming sensations he is stirring inside you. 

Beomgyu pauses for a moment, looking at you, his eyes shining with a mix of desire and amusement. "You teased me at dinner”, he murmurs, lips dangerously close to your neck, "Now it’s my turn”. You hold your breath when you feel his lips barely brush against your skin, a touch so warm, so slow—- it makes your mind spin. The feeling of his mouth against your sensitive skin, the way his tongue moves, exploring, makes you lose yourself. Every movement leaves you wanting more. His fingers tighten around your hip, pulling you closer. Your body reacts before your mind can even process it, your hips pressing against his, involuntarily. Of course, Beomgyu notices it, "I knew you’d like this", he whispers against your skin, pleased. You open your eyes, pupils blown, your entire body burning and you know that if you don’t do something, he will take this exactly wherever he wants, however he wants.

So, you do what you can. Your nails dig into his back this time— right on his trapezius. Beomgyu lets out a low groan, his eyes shutting for a second. When he opens them again, there is something different there— a dark, dangerous glint. He smiles slowly, "You just made things worse for yourself, Yn". Now, you know you are completely damned.

He moves even closer, pressing his leg between yours, just to tease you. You let out a quiet moan through gritted teeth as the firm muscle of his thigh rubs against your sensitive core, sending electric jolts through your entire body. You feel his bulge pressing against your stomach— so hard, so quickly. When your gazes lock, everything around you seems to vanish. 

There are only the two of you.

Beomgyu lifts a hand, cupping your cheek, the gesture delicate but charged with an urgent need. His eyes never left yours, his expression overwhelmed by desire, "You have no idea what you’re doing to me, Yn", he whispers, his voice rough, low, consumed by something greater than the two of you can control. Another shiver runs down your spine— you can’t look away, and you don’t want to. Your skin burns under his touch, and the feeling of being so close, yet not close enough, drives you crazy— you know you are about to give in.

"Yn...", he murmurs, his eyes shining with an intensity you have never seen before. There’s something almost possessive in his aura, as if he wants to claim every piece of you, in a way you can’t say no."I want you”, he whispers, voice dripping with need, "Right now". There is still an invisible line between you two, one that both of you know will soon disappear, "You want me, Yn. You don’t have to hide it", he is right— you want him, you need him. With every part of you.

So, for the first time in a long time, you let yourself relax. In one hurried, needy motion, you pull him close, finally closing the space between you. His lips are like the ocean— gentle at first, but quickly turning into a powerful force, devouring you whole. A muffled moan escapes your lips as you feel the warmth of his tongue against yours, melting deeply into the kiss. His touch is both fierce and soft, like he is devouring you with a deliberate care. You match his intensity, your hands trailing up beneath his shirt, slowly, savoring the warmth of his skin, tracing every ridge of his abdomen, meeting every expectation you have of him.

Just like you, Beomgyu is lost in the moment. His lips travel back to your neck and your body trembles at the heat of his breath against your skin. The pressure, the hunger, everything is building inside you—- like something ready to explode. There are no more words, just the sound of ragged breaths, tangled bodies, and a tension that is about to break. The whole world seems to disappear, and all that remains is the desire to lose themselves in each other.

Suddenly, he pulls away, gasping for air, "Do you think Yunah will be back soon?", his voice is shaky, "I saw her coming into Yeonjun’s room with Taehyun and a few bottles of whiskey". His mouth forms an "o", already thinking about the tea he is going to spill with Soobin the next day, "Looks like we’re not the only ones having fun tonight". You laugh, playing with the hem of his shorts, slowly undoing the knot that holds them in place. 

He follows your lead, pulling off his shirt just as you strip him of the rest of his clothes— slowly, teasingly, sending sparks through his entire system, which inevitably transmit to yours. You scan his half naked body, devouring him with your eyes, "Have you done this before?", he asks. You meet his gaze, nodding, "Good", he murmurs. Then, he tugs at the waistband of your shorts, unbuttoning and sliding them off with swift efficiency. His fingers brush against your stomach before moving up, taking your shirt with them. You gasp as the cool night air contrasts with the warmth of his body against yours.

His hands travel down to your ass, gripping tightly before lifting you effortlessly and carrying you to Yunah’s bed. Normally, you’d correct him, tell him it’s the wrong bed and make him take you to the right one, but you're too lost in the moment— too lost in him— to even consider it. The only thought in your mind is for him to throw you onto the bed and make you forget your own name. 

As if he could read your thoughts, your back soon meets the soft mattress and his face settles between your still covered breasts. He breathes you in, taking in your sweet natural scent before putting the fabric of the bikini to the side to capture one of your nipples. The circular motions of his tongue against the sensitive point send shivers down your spine, making you arch your back slightly as a moan escapes your lips. Your fingers grip the sheets, seeking relief.

He smirks at your reaction.

His hands return to your hips, untying your bikini bottoms and leaving you bare from the waist down. The sensation of your exposed skin against the fabric of his boxers drives you insane. You try to grind against him, but he pulls away, removing the last piece of clothing between you. You miss his warmth instantly, but soon, he’s crawling back over you, his body hovering above yours. 

His fingers slowly slip inside you, testing if you’re ready for him. A soft moan escapes your lips against his neck, "You're perfect for me, babygirl". He sucks on your earlobe, "Please”, you beg. Without hesitation, he aligns himself with your entrance and, torturously slow, pushes inside. A quiet whine slips past your lips, as you feel yourself stretching to take his length, "You're so tight", he groans. "Are you okay?", his voice is muffled against the curve of your neck, his whole body trembling as he holds himself back from tearing you in two with all his strength. "Y- yes. You can…”, you gulp, voice shaky, “... move if you want”. You feel his smirk against your skin.

With your back flat against the bed and your legs wrapped around his torso, your bodies move as one. Balls deep, his thrusts hit the sweet spot inside you, making you see stars. The connection between you is so intense, so intimate, you can barely breathe. Your body is reacting, the momentum building, and when he suddenly pauses, you force yourself to open your eyes. 

Beomgyu is watching you, his lips still close to yours, but he doesn’t move, "W-What?", you whisper, your voice trembling from the pleasure, "You're beautiful” "You’ve told me that before” "But you look especially beautiful like this, burning with desire for me". You chuckle, feeling the tightness in your core intensify with every second he doesn’t move inside you.  He obviously notices because, without warning, he resumes his thrusts— this time deeper, rougher. His sweat drips down on your chest mixing with your own. You're reaching your edge soon. 

The tension in the room reaches its peak, the air between you is on edge, like a wire ready to break. The growing tension in your gut finally snaps, the pleasure hitting you like fireworks lighting up the midnight sky. He comes first, and you follow right after. Beomgyu collapses on top of you, both yours and his breathing completely erratic. You stare at him, both of you fully aware that the line between you has been completely crossed.

The house is bathed into shadows, illuminated only by the moonlight that slips through the windows. The soft sound of the distant waves fills the silence— absolutely peaceful. Still, he couldn't sleep.

The house is cool and refreshing from the cold midnight breeze, but the room where you are sleeping feels warm, completely suffocating. He already has spent too much time lying beside you, feeling your rhythmic breath against the pillow, feeling the warmth of your body curled under his.

And that's a problem.

He needs to get out of there. He needs space to think— or maybe, he just needs to escape.

When he leaves the room and slowly shuts the door, he feels the fresh air against his skin. Beomgyu moves carefully down the hall, his bare feet against the cold floor. But just as he’s about to take another step down the dark hallway, he realizes he’s not alone.

"Yeonjun?"

His friend is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, as if waiting for him. Beomgyu furrows his brow, "What the hell are you doing awake at this hour?", Yeonjun raises an eyebrow, “I should be asking you that". Beomgyu rolls his eyes and steps to the side, trying to pass him, but Yeonjun blocks his way with his arm, "Where are you going?", Beomgyu shrugs, "Outside”. Yeonjun furrows his brow, "Why?", he holds up a joint case, "I can’t sleep. I need to relax". But the older man knows his friend, knows it’s not just about insomnia.

 He sighs and crosses his arms again, "What? What’s the problem?", Beomgyu mutters impatiently, "The problem isn’t you smoking. The problem is you leaving her room in the middle of the night like she's a one night stand". Beomgyu forces a low laugh, "It's not like I’m running away. I told you, I just can’t sleep, and I need to relax”. Yeonjun lets out a skeptical, nasal laugh, “Really? Because that sounds exactly like the opposite of what’s happening". Beomgyu opens his mouth to say it’s not like that, but even him doesn't believe those words.

 His silence makes that clear to Yeonjun, confirming what he already knew. He grunts, dragging a hand over his face, "Ah! Beomgyu...", he hesitates, choosing his words carefully, "Why do you always do this?". Beomgyu raises an eyebrow, "Do what?", Yeonjun steps forward, closing the gap between them, "You know what I mean”.

Beomgyu lets out a short, humorless laugh, "Are you going to start with this again?" "Yes", Yeonjun replies without hesitation, "Because it’s always the same thing”. Beomgyu turns his face away, his eyes fixed on the darkness of the hall, but Yeonjun continues, "Everytime you like someone you get close. You make them like you back, then, when you realize they feel the same, you run away".

Beomgyu clenches his jaw, his eyes burning with anger in the dim light of the night. The silence grows heavier between them. Beomgyu licks his lips, uncomfortable. He knows where this conversation is going. He knows that Yeonjun always sees right through him, that he always reads him like an open book, "You like her".

Beomgyu doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he swallows hard, searching for an answer in the back of his head, "If I liked her, what would that change?". Yeonjun tilts his head, his eyes fixed on him, "You’d distance yourself from her”. Beomgyu clenches his jaw, shifting his gaze to the joint case, as if that would absolve him of all the guilt. His smile falters, it’s so quick that someone less attentive wouldn’t notice— but Yeonjun notices. And in that moment, he knows something inside Beomgyu cracked just a little—  his fortress is starting to crumble.

Finally, he sighs, "Maybe with her, will be different”. Yeonjun lets out a short, humorless laugh,"Then why are you looking for a way to run away?". Beomgyu doesn’t answer, because they both know there’s no need to— the truth is implied in his unspoken words. Yeonjun takes another step closer, his fists clenching at his sides, “But this is Yn, and if you even think about doing this to her, you’ll have to deal with me”.

For a moment, the only sound between them is the distant noise of the ocean. Beomgyu closes his eyes for a second, trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling settling in his chest. 

Then, he grabs his lighter and spins it between his fingers, "Good night, Jjunie”. He gives his friend a light pat on the shoulder and walks past him, heading for the front door with doubt heavy in his chest. Because Yeonjun is right— if he keeps this up, he’s going to end up pushing you away, leaving you completely broken. 

And that scares him more than staying. 

The last thing you remember was falling asleep with Beomgyu on top of you. You recall watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the silence of the room filled only by his soft snores and the gentle sound of the ocean in the distance. His hair had cascaded over his shoulders, damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead

You fell asleep to that sight— only to wake up without it.

Your entire body is covered in goosebumps from the cold midnight air sneaking in from the open window. The first thing that crosses your mind as you wake up is the absence of his warmth. Slowly, you sit up, your limbs feeling heavy, your thighs aching from the roughness. Then, you stand, wincing slightly, and walk to the window to close it—only to catch sight of Beomgyu sitting outside with a trail of smoke curled above his head, blending into the night air. He’s on the sand, curled in on himself, staring at the ocean. Silent. Still. You smile softly, then glance around for something to wear, settling on the hoodie he lent you the day he got stung by a jellyfish. The one you, sneakily, never gave back.

The air outside is even colder. You wrap your arms around yourself and make your way toward him, quickening your pace. As you approach, the strong scent of the joint between his fingers reaches your nose, making your head pulse slightly. When he sees you, he grins lazily— still hazy from your scent, your taste, your touch. From you. The fact that he’s smoking is just a detail. “Hey, Yn," he murmurs, his voice even huskier than usual— a mix of sleep and smoke. "Are you smoking weed?!" "Yes. Want some?", he extends the joint to you, "Huh, no. Thank you" "Have you ever tried?" "Pot? No” "Do you want to get high?" "I'm not sure I even know how to smoke" "Want to try?".

You stare at the joint between his fingers. You never do things like this, "I don’t know if this is good for me". He chuckles sarcastically, taking a drag before speaking, "Go ahead, lecture me", you tilt your head, "Hum… lecture you?" "Yeah. Tell me about the harmful effects of smoking and all that shit”. You sit beside him on the sand, the strong scent of weed invading your senses, making you doubt you'd ever want to smoke that, "But it would ruin the mood", you say. He laughs, "You're surreal" "What do you mean?" "No one has ever captivated me as much as you", he says. You chuckle softly, "C’mon. I’m just an uninteresting college student" "No. You’re unique, unusual. I’ve never met someone like you before. Don’t belittle yourself, Yn". You nod, agreeing, trying to ignore how quickly your heart started racing.

"Isn’t this hoodie mine?", he asks, "Well… hum, maybe I… kind of forgot to give it back". He takes a drag, laughing under his breath, "Keep it. It looks better on you" "You think so?" "I know it does". You fidget with your hair, trying to hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks.

That’s when he pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket and slips it into the front pocket of the hoodie, "Here. Open it when you’re alone” "What is it?” "Something I made for you”. You fight the urge to peek at it right away. Instead, you follow Beomgyu’s gaze toward the horizon, watching the moonlight ripple across the dark ocean. You love these quiet moments with Beomgyu— when he isn’t talking nonstop and you can just enjoy his presence without being teased. But they are rare.  

"Hey, I have an idea”, he says, eyes glinting. "What?" "I can get you high without you having to smoke" "How?" "Just watch". He takes a big drag but doesn’t exhale. Instead, he leans in, lips hovering yours. Your heart pounds— how could it not? He is so close, his lips mere inches away, and you feel so tempted to kiss him, as if some supernatural force is drawing your lips closer. 

He holds your chin, eyes locked on your lips. You move forward slightly, just a fraction, unable to look away from his mouth either. He pulls your chin down, parting your lips just enough before exhaling the smoke into your mouth. Your lips brush against his lightly, sending a rush of serotonin through your body, intensifying your longing for him. But he pulls away too soon.  

"Inhale and exhale slowly", he instructs, and you do as he says. Beomgyu watches you with a smirk, proud, "Now you can get high with me". As if I needed weed to feel high when I’m around you, dork, you think. Soon, your body feels light and relaxed, almost like the waves in front of you.  

But Beomgyu looks completely normal, "Gyu", your voice sounds slower, heavier, "Yes?" "How come you’re still so freaking electric?". He laughs, "I’m used to it, I guess". You rest your head on his shoulder, "I like you, you know”. For the way you begged for him under his body hours ago,  he probably caught the hint that you like him, "I-I like you too, Yn" "That’s something I wanted to know. Why do you always say my name at the end of your sentences?" "I like your name inside my voice", he shrugs. You chuckle, "That makes two of us”. He grins, "You know, I…" "I'm afraid. Terrified of losing you.", your loose tongue cuts him mid sentence, "What?"  "If you ever get hurt, I… I will miss you. I don’t want to lose you. It would break me apart” "Why do you think I would get hurt?"

 "Skateboarding"

"Oh!", he suddenly freezes in place. His breath catches in his throat, and his chest tightens as if the air itself has thickened. He pulls his shoulder back, forcing you to lift your head. Your eyes meet, and you tilt your head slightly, "Are you okay?" "Yeah! Yeah, I...". He runs a shaky hand through his hair, trying to steady himself, but the motion feels desperate, as if he's trying to rid himself of the tension building in his body, "I just remembered I haven’t packed my bags yet". He stands, his legs unsteady, like his own body doesn't know what to do with the rush of panic flooding him, "S-sure" "I’ll see you tomorrow. We can... sit together in the car" "Alright…”.

He walks away, each step a struggle as the weight of your words presses on his chest. His mind races, Yeonjun is right. If he leaves, he’ll hurt you. But if he stays... he wouldn't be able to let go of skateboarding— it’s as much a part of him, of who he is, as his own personality, as the heart beating in his chest— and he’ll hurt you even more. No matter what he does, he's going to  hurt you.

His breath is shallow, there's a tightness in his chest not just from the panic, but from the realization that he’s cornered, Why does it feel like I’m suffocating, like there’s no way out?

You watch him, hoping he’s okay, hoping your words didn’t push him too far.

The next day, he sits next to Soobin in the car.

If hurting you it’s inevitable, then wouldn’t it just be better... to end it now?

Fall, beginning of the new semester:

The bell rings, loud and persistent, signaling the start of the first period of the semester. A sea of students moves through the hallways, searching for their classrooms, arms linked with their friends, laughing at their summer stories, filled with excitement for the beginning of the semester. But you— you remain still, eyes fixed on the photo you just hang on your locker.

A group photo taken during the summer.

You haven’t heard from Beomgyu in about two months, not even Yeonjun knew about him. Soobin also claimed he didn’t know either, but you’re convinced he lied. The way his voice faltered over the phone, how he quickly changed the subject— it all gave him away.

Still, you like to believe that Beomgyu just needed some time to himself. After all, he’s an introvert who spent the entire summer surrounded by 6 people almost the whole time. Even so, the constant thought that something might have gone wrong haunts you day and night.

You take a deep breath, shutting your locker, trying to focus on your classes. This semester, you’re one step closer to actually becoming a doctor, something that requires your full dedication. You also have an important project in your academic league. There’s no time for distractions like this. 

But then, you see something. 

Something that makes your confident strides slow until they stop completely. Your eyes sting with unshed tears. The bitter taste of a broken heart rises in your throat, exploding on your tongue. Because standing right in front of you there’s a tall figure with a hair that’s no longer as long as before and no longer black— but now a deep, almost maroon shade of red. And beside him, a girl of average height, who has her hand clasped in his hand while her head rests lightly on his arm. “B- Beomgyu?”.

Are you having a deja vu?

It doesn’t make sense. It makes even less sense than it did with Wonwoo. Maybe they are just friends, you and Yunah also cling to Kai like that. But the confirmation of the inevitable comes when your eyes meet— there's no longer that heat that provoked you throughout almost the entire trip. It’s like there’s nothing left inside of him. 

Looking away from you, he grabs the girl’s hips and abruptly presses her against the lockers, sealing his lips to hers just as intensely as he did with you. He’s hurting you on purpose. You know this isn’t just a coincidence, not some sudden impulse— it is calculated, meant for you to see, to feel the pain. And it works cause your instincts kick in, and anxiety spreads through you like wildfire, reaching every last nerve in your body. You turn your face away, knowing that if you keep watching, you’ll collapse right there in the middle of the hallway, and break apart. So, just like at the end of last semester, you let your feet guide you blindly, aimlessly, in a desperate, yet futile, attempt to escape the nightmare you're living. Why is this happening again?, you ask yourself. 

The wind crashes against your sobbing face, and that’s when you realize— you’re outside, at the very place where your fate was sealed at the end of last spring: the skatepark. You breathe heavily, watching the skaters rise and fall on the bowl ramps, the clouds shifting with the wind. The sun is light, the sky, maroon, the same color as Beomgyu’s hair. But he won’t save you this time. 

You turn to leave but bump into a broad and solid chest, which belongs to a man as tall as a lamppost. “S-Soobin?”, who had witnessed the entire scene, opens his mouth and closes it a few times before finally managing to speak, his voice trembling, consumed by anger, “Yn… can we talk?”. You nod, too drained to say anything other than, “Alright”.

The scent of paint fills the art room as you sit at one of the tables, watching Soobin pace back and forth, struggling to piece together something that both makes sense and doesn’t completely destroy you in just a few words. The sound of his footsteps is already starting to irritate you— you should be in class, not watching him hit his daily step count. Clearing your throat, you hop off the table, “Look, Soobin, I have a lot to do, so if you’re not going to say anything, please just let me go”. 

He finally stops walking and blocks the door, “No… please, don’t go. I…”, he runs his fingers through his hair and exhales sharply,  “...I lied to you when you asked me about him”. You cross your arms, “I noticed” “I’m sorry. I… I don’t know why I protected that idiot”. His voice is heavy with guilt, “I tried telling him that ignoring you wasn’t a good idea. I tried to understand why he was doing this when all he ever did  when we were at the beach was talk about you, think about you, but nothing made sense. Nothing makes sense” “He… talked about me?” “Yes! That day when you and Yunah showed up after the storm, I was teasing him about the closet game”, he says with a small smile, as if recalling how Beomgyu had turned red with anger at the mere thought of his best friend assuming he would ever disrespect you like that.

 You swallow hard, forcing the back tears, trying not to ache from how much you miss him, “I asked him if, well, you know…”, Soobin hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck, “And he got so mad at me. He said you deserve more than just a quick fuck in a closet during a drinking game with a guy you barely knew”. He chuckles, lost in the memory, “I don’t think he ever thought that way about anyone else, you know? That’s why, when we came back home and he just disappeared for an entire month, only to show up later and tell me all the shit he was doing…”, Soobin clenches his jaw. His previously pale cheeks are now colored in pink, and the vein in his forehead is prominent, “... I just refused to believe it”. 

He takes a deep breath in and rubs his temples before continuing, “I thought he was finally going to settle down with someone, but if I had known he was just going to throw himself into reckless parties and grab the first girl in front of him to put a damn couple ring on her finger, I would’ve warned you”. He walks over and pulls you into a tight hug, crushing you against his chest until you can barely breathe, “I’m sorry, YN”. The warmth of fresh tears slides down your cheeks as you hug him just as tightly, “It’s not your fault, Soobin. I was the one who misread everything”. He pulls back just enough to look at you without letting go, “No, YN. Don’t think that way. You didn’t do anything wrong, he’s the one being an asshole” “I just thought it was mutual. I felt like it was mutual. Or at least, I thought I did”, you sob, “But god… I miss him so much. Why do I have to lose him like this over a stupid misunderstanding?”. Soobin cups your face with his large hand, wiping away your tears, looking at you with pitiful eyes, “You should try talking to him. Maybe you two can at least be friends” “I can’t be his friend. Not when I know he holds someone else the way he held me”. He nods,“That’s okay. You don’t have to be his friend. But… at least try to talk to him. Just to… to be rejected”. You blink at him, stunned, “What?” “I know it sounds ridiculous, but… it’ll be easier for you to move on that way. Promise me you’ll at least consider it”. You hesitate, then nod. “Okay, Soobin. I promise”.  

But deep down, you’re not sure you have the courage to let him go.  

At least, not yet.

Days passed, and everything you did hurt. From waking up in the morning knowing that Beomgyu was never really yours, to having to watch him making out with his new girlfriend in the college hallways. In class, everything is unbearable— you stare at the professors' slides, but you don’t hear their voices. By the time you realize it, the lecture is already over, and your notebook remains blank. Your body feels heavy as you head home, doing nothing but throwing yourself on your bed and crying. You can’t even remember the last time you attended an academic league meeting.  

You drag yourself down the streets, seeing him in every face. The guys with long hair are just reminders of the person he erased by changing his appearance as if he wanted the version of himself that had you to never have existed. But you remember— and you doubt you'll forget anytime soon.  

Until one day, you go to meet Huening Kai in the music room and instead, you find him— Choi Beomgyu, pulling a guitar out of its case. 

Immediately, you freeze. Your fingers stiffen around the doorknob, your feet know you should turn around and leave before he notices your presence, but the only thing they manage to do is stay rooted to the spot, as if the floor beneath you had turned into quicksand. Inevitably, his gaze lifts and lands on your rigid figure. He tries to mask whatever is going on inside him, but you can see the storm of thoughts flashing across his face, "Yn…", his voice makes you shiver. It feels distant since you haven't heard it in so long, yet at the same time, it's as familiar as your own.  

Your eyes land on the shimmering ring around his finger, you feel stabbed. You just want to run and yet, you just want to hold him, to pull him against your chest and never let him go again. You shift your ankle, ready to leave, but then you remember the advice all your friends gave you: Let him reject you and move on.  

Taking a deep breath, you step inside the room, letting the door close behind you, "Have you seen Huening Kai?" "Huening? Not here"  "What?!”. You grab your phone, the first notification coming from him:  

‘Family drama with Lea 🫠’

‘I’ll call you later’

It was delivered an hour ago. You exhale deeply. So this encounter could have been avoided. Great. But you move forward. Sooner or later, this moment was bound to come. Slipping your phone back into your pocket, you say, "I thought you majored in Fine Arts" "I do, but I come here from time to time to play". He lifts the guitar in his hands, pretending he doesn’t know where you’re actually trying to go with this. "I guess I think I know you too well when in reality, I don’t know anything at all". 

He watches you for a few seconds before setting the guitar down on its stand and stepping closer, "Look, Yn…". But your voice, thick with unshed tears, cuts him off. You’ve been overwhelmed with emotions for weeks, "I-I don’t understand. Why are you with her?" "Because I love her" "L-love?" "Yeah, Yn. I love her". He says he loves her but he has no emotion in his voice. "But... what about me? What about us?" "We had nothing, Yn. It was just a summer trip between friends". Friends. His words hit you like an arrow right in the middle of your chest, "Friends?! What about the things we did…”, you lower your voice, “.... In the bedroom?” “It was pure physical, Yn. I was just… in the mood”. No fucking way that motherfucker is saying that. “Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it too, Choi Beomgyu! I know you felt it!” “How are you so sure, Yn!? Huh?! Did I say something?”, his voice is loud, angry, “Cause I felt it too…”. Did you really just… confused everything again? Did he actually use you and you weren't even aware of that?!

 He buries his face in his hands, letting a frustrated groan out, you are making everything more difficult for him. When he looks at you again he seems tired, his whole energy being drained, "Look, Yn, I’m sorry, but…" "No! Don’t apologize”, you interrupt him, sniffing, “I think it’s time for me to be rejected by you, to move on with my life. But for some reason, I still held on this tiny shred of hope, thinking you'd give me a real explanation or something that actually made sense", you chuckle, bitter, “I’m so stupid” "Yn... I like you. But liking you isn’t enough to make this work” "I never wanted to be ‘enough’, Beomgyu, I just... wanted to be with you". 

His gaze burns yours, you know he wants to say something— it’s written in his eyes. But nothing comes out of his mouth, the only sound you hear from him is his heavy breath, “I thought you felt the same way, but I was wrong. I see that now”, you pause again, giving him one last chance to say something, to try to fix things, but you only get his silence. “Goodbye, Beomgyu”, are your last words before walking out the door— without thinking twice or looking back.

The following months were chaotic. You entered focus mode, and your life began to revolve around one thing only— your studies. Well, not entirely. You also spent a lot of time with your friends, both old and new, the ones you made over the summer. They all became your biggest support system. Soobin, who studies computer science, helped you create incredible slides. Yeonjun picked out your outfit. Taehyun prepared an energy packed snack just for you. And as always, Yunah and Kai made sure to drown you in love.  

Now, standing on the auditorium stage, with all those people seated, waiting for you to begin your presentation, the nerves don’t feel as overwhelming anymore— thanks to them. And Beomgyu? You still think about him, but you've realized that your life is still a good one, with or without him.  

The room is silent, except for the faint sound of chairs shifting as students adjust in their seats. Your heart pounds in your chest— ironically, the very organ you studied for this presentation. You don’t see him, but Beomgyu is there, standing in the back, arms crossed over his chest. He shouldn't be here, but he is.  

The lights darken. 

You clear your throat and bring the microphone close to your lips, "The heart does more than just pump blood. For centuries, it has been a symbol of human emotions, and modern science confirms that this is more than just a metaphor”. The slide changes, revealing a diagram of the heart and its connections to the nervous system, "The heart is not just a pump that sends blood through the body. It contains a huge network with about 40,000 neurons, allowing it to communicate directly with the brain. This communication happens through the vagus nerve, a neural pathway that carries signals between the brain and vital organs”.  

You pause, scanning the room. Beomgyu is there, in the back, eyes locked on you. The last thing you expected was to see him. However, you stand firm, "When we feel intense emotions, the heart reacts before the brain has even fully processed the information. That’s why our heartbeat speeds up before an important moment, or why we feel a tightness in our chest when we’re sad”. 

You move to the next slide: a graph showing how heart rate fluctuates in response to different emotions, "Our heart doesn’t just respond to emotions, it can influence them. Studies show that heart rate directly affects brain regions responsible for emotional processing. Breathing techniques that regulate the heartbeats, such as meditation, help reduce stress and anxiety”.

You step slightly to the side, making space for the next slide: an image of a human heart intertwined with brain waves. "The brain releases hormones like oxytocin, the so-called ‘love molecule,’ and adrenaline, which prepares us for intense emotional reactions. The heart doesn’t produce these hormones, but it responds to them, regulating how we experience emotions in our body”. 

Finally, the last slide appears: the drawing Beomgyu made for you—a human heart, sketched in graphite on a notepad, rich in detail despite its rough edges. In the corner of the paper, is written:

‘This my heart, I’m giving it to you’.

That's the same drawing that had been hidden in the paper he secretly slipped into the pocket of the hoodie you were wearing. Almost like he was quite literally giving you his heart at that moment.  

This time, it’s his heart that races.  

"The heart and the brain work together to shape our emotions. Maybe that’s why, when we lose someone or something important, it feels like something inside us has physically broken. Because, in a figurative way, it has”. Your voice wavers on the last sentence, and finally, your eyes find his. For a second, everything else disappears— the classmates, the professor, the slides, it’s just the two of you and the weight of everything left unsaid. You continue, "But the heart also adapts”, you smile, shifting your gaze to your friends in the front row, all of them watching with eyes full of pride. "It can hurt, but it keeps beating. And that means we move forward”.

And then, the lights bright again. The silence lasts only for a moment before the professor starts clapping, followed by everyone else in the room. 

But Beomgyu doesn’t move. He stays there, frozen, his eyes fixed on you, as if he were reliving something he tried so hard to forget— yet failed miserably.  

And in that moment, you knew your words had reached exactly where they needed to. 

The air inside that auditorium feels increasingly rare, Beomgyu needs to get out of there. Heading straight for his locker, he grabs his skateboard and headphones before making his way to the skate park— the only place where his mind goes blank, focusing only on what he is doing.  

The late afternoon is cold, the sky moonless, and the faint streetlights create long shadows across the empty park. Beomgyu kicks his skateboard forward, his headphones hanging around his neck, there’s no music playing. The sound of the wheels gliding over the concrete is the only thing filling the silence. He shouldn't have been in that auditorium. 

After the presentation ended, he left before anyone could come after him, but his mind is still trapped on that stage— trapped on you. The words echoes in his head:

"But the heart also adapts…

… It can hurt, but it keeps beating. And that means we move forward”.

Have you really moved on? Beomgyu runs his tongue over his lips, feeling a bitter taste in his mouth— the taste of regret. He wants to believe you have. He wants to believe your words weren’t meant for him. But then why does it feel like every single one of them had been constructed specifically to bury him deeper in his own remorse?  

He bends his knees, picking up speed, the wind cutting against his face. If he can go faster, maybe he can overtake the suffocating grip on his chest. But no matter how fast he goes, the truth always catches him up. The image of the last slide flashes through his mind: his drawing. You still have it. You still see meaning in it. 

His gaze shifts to the flickering park lights, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. Your words came back like a punch to the gut:

"It feels like something inside us has physically broken. Because, in a figurative way, it has”.  

Your heart had broken— because of him. The realization hit harder than any fall he ever took. And then, as if his body had decided to punish him, the skateboard’s wheel get stuck on a crack in the pavement. 

The impact comes too fast. 

He doesn’t even have time to react before the world starts spinning, his weight pushing him forward, his hands instinctively reaching out to stop the fall. A shock runs through his arm as soon as he hits the ground, his body sliding against the rough concrete. His skateboard rolled away, stopping only when it hit the park’s railing. Beomgyu stays there, immobile, eyes fixed on the ring around his finger— completely meaningless. He doesn’t know what hurt more— the sting of the fresh wound on his skin or the certainty that he lost something he might never get back.  

The cold pavement chills him to the bone, still he doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls in short, uneven breaths. The adrenaline masks the pain for a moment, but then it comes back in waves. His arm burns and his shoulder throbs in a way that makes his stomach turn. He closes his eyes shut. Idiot— that’s what he is. An idiot for thinking he could just let you go and feel nothing. An idiot for realizing too late that he will never be able to convince himself that you were just a summer distraction.  

He takes a deep breath in, trying to compose himself, but the moment he pushes up on his right arm to get up, a sharp jolt of pain spreads through his shoulder, forcing a low groan from his lips. “Shit…”, he rolls on his side, body tense with pain and lays there for a few more seconds, staring at his skateboard standing a few feet away.  

Different from when he fell the day he met you, there’s nothing to laugh about right now.

That’s how one of the guys of the skatepark finds him— sprawled on the ground with a blank expression, like the fall had hurt something beyond just his body, “Dude, are you okay?”. Beomgyu blinks a few times before responding, his throat dry, “I’m great”. The attempt of sarcasm is weak. The guy doesn’t seem convinced but doesn’t push it, tho. Instead, he crouches down, grabs Beomgyu’s skateboard, and offers him a hand. 

Beomgyu hesitates before accepting the help, pulling himself up with a grimace. The pain in his right shoulder is unbearable, and he knows something isn’t right, “You should go to the hospital”, the guy suggests, arms crossed. Beomgyu let out a short, humorless laugh, “I don’t need to”. But the moment he takes a step forward, his body wavers, pain spreading through every fiber of his being, “Great”, he mutters. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he needs help. 

And that’s exactly why, less than an hour later, he finds himself sitting in one of the hospital’s cold hallways, his arm resting on his lap, the cut on his elbow covered by his flannel shirt. The hospital smells like disinfectant and melancholy. Beomgyu watches the nurses and patients passing by, his head still spinning— but not from the fall. Because of you. Always because of you. 

And then, as if the universe decided to make his night even worse, he hears a familiar voice echoing down the corridor— your voice. His heart skips a beat. He looks up at the exact moment you appear at the reception desk, worry written all over your face as you speak to the nurse behind the counter, “Sorry, but what’s the patient’s name?”, she asks.

You are there. And just behind you, Soobin and Taehyun, who exchange tense glances. Beomgyu clenches his jaw, fingers tightening around the chair's armrest. When he called Soobin, he didn’t expect him to bring you along. The last thing he needs is you to see him like this.  

But it is already too late, your eyes finally meet his. For a moment, neither of you move. Beomgyu’s heart pounds against his ribs, your words still hammering in his head:

 “It can hurt, but it keeps beating. And that means we move forward”.

But he hadn’t moved on. And judging by the pain in your eyes, neither had you.  

“Beomgyu?”, your voice comes out as quiet as a whisper, and then you are already walking toward him— with quick, hesitant steps. Soobin and Taehyun follow you, stopping a little behind, without saying anything.  When you stand in front of him, your eyes trail over his face, down to the cut on his elbow, and how he grasps his shoulder, “W-what happened?”. Beomgyu opens his mouth to answer but hesitates— he doesn’t  want to tell you the truth. Imagine looking into your eyes and saying: I fell because I was thinking about you. Because my mind was stuck on that damn presentation. On your smile. On your voice. 

Saying it out loud would only make it all even more real. So he just shrugs, or at least tries to, because the movement sends a sharp pain through his shoulder, making his face twist in discomfort, “It was just a fall”. You narrow your eyes, clearly unconvinced, “Just a fall!? You have a cut on your arm and you’re holding your shoulder like it’s dislocated. That’s not ‘just a fall,’ Beomgyu!”, disbelief is evident in your voice. But he looks away, “It’s not a big deal”.  

Without patience and without asking for permission, you kneel beside him, fingers lightly touching the bloodstained fabric of his flannel. He holds his breath. Your touch is gentle, but it makes something twist inside him. Your face is close enough that he can see every detail— the long eyelashes, the curve of the lips he had kissed once, now frowned in worry. And he never wanted something so badly as he wants you to look at him the way you used to.  

But then, you break the silence, pulling him from his thoughts, "Why do you always do this?", he blinks, "Do what?" "Get yourself hurt”. Beomgyu clenches his jaw, for a second, he considers answering with a joke, saying it’s because you’re always there to save him. In a dismissive tone, like he always does. But he doesn’t have that right anymore— it’s written in your eyes.

Before he can say anything, the nurse calls his name, "Do you need someone to accompany you, Mr. Choi?". He looks at the three of you, waiting, hoping that even after everything, one of you might volunteer, "Where’s your girlfriend?”, Soobin teases. "I- I didn’t call her”, Beomgyu mumbles, voice low, almost ashamed. "I’ll go with you”, you don’t say it as a suggestion or a question— it’s a statement.

 It’s not a good idea to be alone with you. But he doesn’t have the strength to say no. So he just nods. And as you both walk into the examination room, Beomgyu has the strange feeling that, no matter how shattered his body is, there’s another part of him that hurts even more.

The examination room is small, with white walls and bright lighting. Beomgyu sits on the examination table, watching you in silence as the nurse cleans the cut on his arm. You don’t say anything, but your shoulders are tense, arms crossed as if trying to shield yourself from something. The tension is palpable. When the nurse finishes bandaging him up, she lets him know that the doctor will be there soon to examine his shoulder. 

As soon as she leaves, you take a step forward, finally breaking the silence. “Are you going to tell me now what really happened?”. Beomgyu exhales sharply and looks away, “I already told you, I just fell” “Beomgyu”, you say his name firmly. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the feeling of drowning. When he opens them again, you're still there, waiting. Even when he doesn't deserve it.  

He runs his tongue over his dry lips before murmuring, “I was distracted”, you frown, “By what?”. He hesitates but decides to tell the truth before he can stop himself, “You”.

The silence that follows is deafening. You blink, startled, “What?!”. Beomgyu lets out a humorless chuckle, running a hand through his hair, “I was thinking about your presentation”. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, his voice low, almost defeated, “Your words, mainly”. You don’t say anything, but he notices the way your breathing falters. He laughs again, shaking his head, “About how the heart adapts. How it suffers but keeps beating”. He swallows hard, then looks at you as if finally admitting to himself something he had been denying for months, “But mine didn’t”.

The air between you grows heavier.  

You part your lips, but no words come out. So he continues, his voice rough now, “I thought forgetting you was the right thing to do. That it would be easier”. He lets out a short, bitter laugh, “But it’s not. If anything, it’s worse”. Your eyes shimmer, and Beomgyu doesn’t know if it’s from the light or something else.  

You finally break the silence, your voice soft but steady, “Then why did you do it?”. Beomgyu’s chest tightens, “Because I was scared”, he runs a hand down his face, exhausted— running away from you is exhausting. “I was scared of hurting you. Of not being enough for you and then losing you, Yn”. He laughs at his own stupidity, “I was terrified of you losing you, but in the end, I just ended up hurting both of us, didn’t I?”. You keep looking at him, your gaze piercing through all the walls he tried to build. When you finally speak, your voice is a whisper, “Yes. Yes, you did”.  

He opens his mouth to say something, to tell you how sorry he is, when the door opens, and the doctor walks in. And just like that, it ends with words stuck in his throat. Beomgyu closes his mouth, swallowing everything he still wants to say. You take a step back, arms crossing over your chest again.  

“So, Choi Beomgyu, right?”, the doctor glances at the papers, “Looks like you got lucky. The shoulder isn’t dislocated, just a bad bruise. I’ll prescribe an anti-inflammatory and recommend some rest for a few days. No skating for the next 2 months”. Beomgyu lets out a small relieved grin, “That’s good”. You remain silent, but he can feel your gaze burning into him. “I’ll ask the nurse to bring your discharge papers”. The doctor gives a brief nod and leaves, once again leaving you two alone.  

The silence returns.  

Beomgyu looks down at the bandage on his arm, flexing his elbow slowly. He knows he has to say something before it’s too late, “Yn…”, you lift your eyes, “I know that…” “Why did you go?”. Your question catches him off guard. You cross your arms tighter, as if holding yourself together, “To the presentation. You weren’t supposed to be there. But you showed up anyway”. Beomgyu blinks, “I…”, he sighs, running a hand through his hair, “Because I missed you. I needed to see you” “Did you at least get what you wanted?”. The pain and resentment in your voice are so sharp it physically hurts him. 

Beomgyu shakes his head, “No. I know it was selfish of me” “You hurt me, Beomgyu, you know that?”. He closes his eyes for a moment, the weight of guilt pressing down on him like a burden too heavy to bear, “I know”. When he opens his eyes again, his voice is raw, honest, “And I hate myself for it”   

Your shoulders tremble slightly, but you hold yourself firm. Beomgyu inhales deeply before continuing, “I ran away because I thought it would be easier for you. But watching you move on without me… it’s unbearable. I don’t want to pretend I don’t care anymore. That I don’t…”. He stops, his throat tightening. You wait, knowing that pushing him won’t help. But then Beomgyu forces the words out, even though they hurt, “That I don’t love you” 

You don’t move, don’t blink, just stare at him like you’re trying to process what you just heard. Beomgyu exhales, feeling like he just ripped something open inside him, “Because I do”. His voice falters, overflowing with emotions, “And I’m an idiot for only admitting it now”  

You blink a few times, trying to push back the tears. What is left to say after a confession like that? 

Suddenly the nurse walks in with the discharge papers, and the moment is broken, giving you time to think, “I need you to sign here, please”. Beomgyu takes the pen, his hand trembling slightly as he signs. When he’s done, he looks at you again, waiting— waiting for any reaction. But you only avoid his gaze and murmur, “Let’s go. I’ll take you home”.  

Beomgyu nods, swallowing hard. He still didn’t have an answer, but you didn't yell, didn't hit him, or threw anything at him, which had to be a good sign. Or at least, he liked to think so.  

And maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance— a chance to get you back. 

The silence in the car is heavy, dense— just like it  in the hospital. You keep your eyes fixed on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, while Beomgyu watches you from the corner of his eye, his body aching against the seat. "You drive too fast”, he comments, breaking the silence.  

You scoff but don't slow down, "And you skate like you have 9 lives”. Beomgyu smirks, "Maybe I just like the adrenaline" "Or maybe you’re just stupid". He lets out a low chuckle, "Strong possibility". Your grip even tighter on the wheel, "Are you mad at me?". His voice is more serious now.

You bite your lip but don't answer. Beomgyu leans in slightly, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, "If it’s because of what I said in the hospital, I…" "It’s not just about what you said, Beomgyu!”, you cut him off, frustration thick in your voice, "It’s about everything. About how you left. About how you came back. About how...". Your voice fades, your fingers loosening on the wheel.  

Beomgyu watches as your throat moves when you swallow hard. This time, he waits for you. Until you exhale slowly and, for the first time, turn your head to look at him, "You can’t just disappear, destroy me, and then come back saying you love me like that’s supposed to fix everything”. Beomgyu’s chest tightened, fear swallowing him whole, "I know". You scoff again, “Do you?” "Yes", he wets his lips, "But I’m still here, trying, ain't I?". He leans in a little more, his face now dangerously close to yours, "And so are you”.

Your jaw clenches, "Don’t test me, Beomgyu”. He smiles, "Why not?" "Because I’m still mad” "I like  when you’re mad”, he murmurs, his voice low— almost like he was testing you. "You look sexy like this”. You turn to face him fully, your gazes locking for the first time in what felt like forever. And there it is— the tension that always existed between you, the spark that never went out.  

Your eyes flicker down to his lips, and Beomgyu notices. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, "You miss me”, he taunts, voice slow, provocative. "I don’t”, you lied. Beomgyu lets out a soft laugh, "You’re such a bad liar, babygirl”. 

The nickname triggers something in you— the last night of the trip, your first and only time together. 

Your fingers abruptly let go of the wheel as you suddenly park the car, hitting the brakes hard. Beomgyu’s body jerks forward slightly, but he barely notices. Because the next thing he sees is you turning to him, breathing heavily, "You wanna know what I feel?", you ask, your eyes burning into him. He doesn't answer, he just holds your gaze, his fingers unconsciously gripping the fabric of his ripped jeans.  

You lean in, "I feel anger, I feel frustration", your face is even closer now, "I feel like...". You stop, your lips hovering just a breath away from his. 

But Beomgyu doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe. "Like what?", he murmurs, voice almost a whisper. Your gaze flickers to his lips again. 

And then, you let out a shaky breath, close your eyes for a second, and... pull back. Beomgyu blinks, surprised, already missing the warmth of your breath.  

You turn back to the wheel, start the engine again, and let out a short laugh, like you are mocking yourself, "I’m not falling for this again”, you say more to yourself than to him.  

Beomgyu watches you in silence for a moment. Then, he leans back in his seat and smirks, satisfied, "Let’s see how long that lasts".

With Beomgyu, you felt everything:

The euphoria of falling in love for the first time,

the shy giggles,

the tension between your bodies,

the sweaty hands,

the pounding heart,

the constant tingling in your stomach.

One hundred times. 

And still, he manages to still make you feel like that over and over again.

The car comes back to the road, but now, the electricity in the air between you is almost asphyxiating. 

He glances down at his hands, the moonlight catching the silver ring on his finger. Without a second thought, he grips at it with the little strength he had left and yanks it off, tossing it out the window without looking back.  

Your lips parts slightly, disbelief flickering across your face.  

And in that moment, you both know.  

It isn’t over.  

It never has been.

EPILOGUE:

The evening breeze blows softly, rustling the leaves around the skatepark. The sky is painted in shades of orange, and you wonder— not for the first time— how the hell you had let Beomgyu convince you to do this.  

You look at the skateboard in front of you, hesitant. Knee pads, elbow pads, helmet— you looked more prepared for battle than for skating. Beomgyu, on the other hand, watches everything with evident amusement, "You look like you're about to face the apocalypse, not just learn how to skate", he teases, leaning casually against the railing, arms crossed, a mischievous smile curving his lips.  

"Easy for you to say", you shoot back, eyeing the board suspiciously, "You're not the one who is risking falling and breaking your teeth". He chuckles, pushing off the railing to step closer. The warmth of his presence is almost tangible as he stops behind you, his hands settling gently on your shoulders, "Don't worry, princess", he murmurs, way too close to your ear, sending a shiver down your spine, “If you fall, I'll catch you”.  

Before you can say anything, his hands slide down to your waist, delicate yet firm, making your breath hitch for a second. He leans in slightly, lips hovering just near your ear, "Relax. You trust me, don’t you?". You scoff, trying to ignore the heat rising to your face, "You're the first to laugh when I fall. Don’t play the nice guy now”.

 Beomgyu smirks, his hands slowly gliding down your arms before gripping them firmly, "Trust me”, he whispers, his voice low and lazy, carrying that usual calm tone that makes your heart pick up speed. "Put one foot on the board… yeah, just like that. Now relax” "Relax?!". You let out a dry laugh as he slides one hand back to your waist, his fingers pressing lightly against your side, "I'm about to eat the pavement, and you want me to relax?".

He dips his head closer to your ear, his smile practically audible, "You'll be fine. I promise". You take a deep breath, trying to ignore the way his touch sends warmth coursing through your chest. His hand still guides yours as he adjusts your posture, positioning you just right before stepping back, his gaze following your every move.  

"Now, just push off slowly with your back foot and let the board slide". You follow his instructions, but the second you try to move forward, the skateboard shakes beneath your feet. Your heart skips a beat, and you instinctively grab his arm. Beomgyu laughs, clearly enjoying himself, "Look at that, already holding onto me? We haven’t even started yet" "I swear, if you tease me one more time, I…” "You’ll do what?". He cut in, leaning even closer, his eyes sparkling with challenge, "Knock me over? Because honestly, I think you're the one who's gonna hit the ground first”. You stare at him, your stomach twisting in the most frustrating way possible. Beomgyu has this effect on you— he knows exactly how to push you to the edge. But you aren't going to give him the satisfaction. 

So instead of responding, you let go of his arm, fix your posture and, taking a deep breath, push off with your back foot. The skateboard rolls smoothly, and you feel the balance settle into your body.  

For a moment, there is silence. Then Beomgyu smiles, walking alongside you, his hands hovering near your sides— not touching, but close enough for you to know that he is there, ready to catch you at any moment. "Look at you, already mastering it", he teases you, his voice carrying amusement. "It's only because you're still holding on”,  you shoot back. "Oh, really?”, he raises an eyebrow, the challenge glinting in his brown eye, "Are you telling me to let go?" "No!", you answer way too fast, and he laughs. "So just admit it”,  he leans in, his nose almost brushing your cheek, "You like it when I hold you like this”.  

Your face burns, and you bump your shoulder into him lightly, "Shut up and teach me properly” "Yes, ma'am!”. He grins, his hands returning to your waist, thumbs subtly brushing over the fabric of your shirt. His laughter is light, effortless— just like everything the two of you had always been.  

And between the teasing and laughter, you realize it isn't just about learning how to skate. It is about how, after everything, he is still there. About how his hands find yours at the right moments. About how his laugh is the last thing you hear before falling— and the first thing pulling you back into his arms. 

In the end, you never really needed him to hold you.  

But still, he did.

[luffington]

paradise circus ♡

➤ summary: Corazon gets extra needy when he smokes weed. (18+)

➤ pairing: donquixote rosinante (corazon) x gn!reader

➤ word count: 945

➤ warnings: modern AU, drug use, oral (m receiving), established relationship, fluff

➤ notes: lil stoner bf cora brainrot :D title is one of my favorite strains of weed! feedback is appreciated as always <3

NSFW under the break! minors dni thank uuu

Rosy pink and ruby red hues of light illuminated the otherwise dark apartment, midnight city streets lying quietly outside. Slow and rhythmic classic rock reverberated throughout the room — Corazon’s “setting the mood” playlist. The air reeked of marijuana and overly fragrant candles fighting for their life to diffuse the scent. You sunk deeper into the plush cushions of your boyfriend’s living room couch, head hazy and drowned in music. Your slightly unfocused gaze fell on the blonde man sitting on the carpeted floor in front of you, tall frame hunched over a coffee table as he rolled the second joint of the night. A quick swipe of his tongue sealed the rolling paper and he proudly showed you the final product with a goofy grin.

Corazon shuffled backwards until he settled between your legs, back pressed against the couch and head lying in your lap. He looked up at you with puppy eyes and the unlit joint resting between his plush lips. You chuckled and grabbed his heart-patterned lighter — Corazon and fire did not mix, and you tried your best to keep it out of his control when you were together. 

Fire ignited the clumsily twisted end of the joint. The blonde’s pretty maroon eyes fluttered shut as he took a long, lung-filling drag, leaning forward to exhale a long stream of smoke before returning his head back to your warm lap. 

“Thank you, angel,” he sighed with a smile. His sexy baritone voice sent pleasant vibrations throughout your body. Slender fingers brought the joint to your mouth and you noticed that it was already stained with a ring of dark red lipstick. You inhaled generously, welcoming the calming sensation that flooded every cell of your body. 

Your boyfriend always loved physical affection, but he got extra clingy when he was high. Sitting beside you on the couch, lanky arms wrapped around your shoulders and keeping your bodies pressed together. There was some bad Netflix original movie on the TV in front of you — your brain was too fried to follow the convoluted plot, and Corazon wasn’t even attempting to focus, too busy nuzzling into the crook of your neck like a cat and mumbling about how warm and soft you are. You slipped off his red beanie to pet his feathery hair and soothingly scratch his scalp. He almost purred. 

Blindly grabbing at the ashtray on the table, not daring to move away from you for even a moment, his fingers finally settled on the halfway-burnt joint. The blonde took another hit and exhaled the wispy smoke into your parted mouth. You moaned into the kiss, lips moving against his languidly. He tasted like sugary sweet cherry coke mixed with the strong earthy aftertaste of marijuana and old cigarettes. It was addicting and made your mind swirl. 

Weed inevitably made him horny. Long legs spread wide, the waistband of his sweatpants pulled down just enough to free his cock, already at full hardness after a few strokes. The movie was long forgotten and put on mute, but the light from the screen still flickered across his beautiful features.

“You’re so good at this, baby…” You’d barely touched him and there were already stars in his glazed-over eyes. He let out a delicious high-pitched mewl when you flattened your tongue and dragged it from the base of his dick to its flushed red tip. 

His long and pretty dick was always hard to swallow, stretching your throat to its limit, and especially now that the weed had made your mouth bone-dry. You swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, running the tip of it along his slit the way you knew he loved. He threaded his fingers in your hair but didn’t apply any pressure, letting you take things at your own pace. Sometimes he liked to hold hands when you sucked him off — he said it made it more intimate. You thought it was adorable.

It only took a few minutes of your warm mouth wrapped around Corazon’s length to unravel him into a whiny mess, occasionally bucking his hips into your awaiting throat. He tried his best to restrain his movements – he would never forgive himself if he hurt you – but you just felt so fucking good. The blonde attempted to muffle his embarrassingly wanton noises with the back of his hand, but you tugged at his sleeve insistently. Pulling off of his cock for only a moment to tell him how pretty his voice was, how much you wanted to hear it. His face flushed red and precum beaded at the tip of his dick. 

You hollowed your cheeks and slurped noisily at his cock, stroking the base at a lazy pace. His labored breathing and increasingly louder moans signaled his approaching orgasm. “I’m so close,” he panted. “G-gonna…” That was all the warning you got before ropes of warm cum coated your mouth. You savored the salty taste and continued to suck him through the aftershocks of his climax, throat constricting around him until he was shaking from oversensitivity. When you pulled away, a thick string of saliva connected your lips to his cock.

“Sorry I finished so soon,” he mumbled shamefully. In response, you climbed into his lap and grabbed his cheeks and kissed him passionately. He whimpered at the lingering taste of his own cum. He broke the kiss and brought the mostly burnt out joint to your lips again, black ash spilling from the end and falling onto his fluffy black hoodie (which thankfully didn’t burst into flames). He watched you inhale with a lethargic smile and a dopey, loving expression. “Can I return the favor?"

[hwaightme]

Impressionism

(masterlist) (taglist)

🩸 pairing: vampire!gallerist/collector!seonghwa x art historian!gn!reader 🩸 genre: fluff, noir, soulmates, supernatural, strangers(?) to lovers, art nerding 🩸 summary: a post-graduate student specialising in impressionism, you were a regular visitor to the many art galleries in the city. who knew that among the paintings you would encounter your favourite, timeless work of art? 🩸 wordcount: 12.3k 🩸 warnings/tags: questionable editing, mention of blood, fangs, wounds, suggestive, many pet names (love, darling etc), art theory/history ponderings, time skips, mention of rituals, philosophy, hwa is centuries-old, yearning hwa 🩸 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🩸 a/n: happy birthday to @starrysvn!! lheo, ilysm, and i hope you enjoy this little rambling <3 hugs to everyone, all reblogs, notes and comments appreciated! 🩸 playlist: nfwmb - hozier, who is she? - i monster, keep on loving you - cas, la vie en rose - edith piaf, a l'ombre de nous - pierre barouh, les feuilles mortes / sous le ciel de paris - yves montand, moon over bourbon street / until - sting

‘Love and Pain’ - an enigmatic masterpiece that was painted by Edvard Munch, the famous Norwegian artist, in 1895. In vibrant oil paints a dramatic scene interpreted by millions as something more sensual, darker, revealing was immortalised. Perhaps quite literally. You leaned back on one hand, feeling the coolness of the bench located in the middle of the gallery hall, careful to not let the notebook in your hands slip from your lap. ‘Vampire’ - first, it was a label for the woman with the alluring, long red locks that was leaning over her supposed lover, then it turned into a second name for the work. It was comical how Munch himself had initially stated the piece depicted nothing more than a woman kissing the neck of a man, and yet, the tale had told itself. What followed were six versions of this same subject, with a woodcut titled “Vampyr II”, followed by paintings titled ‘Vampire’ and ‘Vampire in the Forest’, and then through common acceptance that this indeed was the ‘submission of a man to the bite of a vampire’, if you were to paraphrase a critic who had been in an astoundingly similar position as you, except without the decades upon decades of other material to refer to. They had been the firstcomers, the initial perceivers to set the tone for society’s consumption of the artwork, the louder of the many voices in the artwork who often had the final say. In some senses, they were your long lost colleagues - they were there to create history, and you were there to study it.

While it was not exactly a part of the movement you had decided to specialise in, you nonetheless would never reject the opportunity to learn more about the stunning world of visual arts, trying to guess how the artist had felt in the moment, what did they see beyond what they presented to the world, how did they translate the heart into brushstrokes. You were taken by all forms of art since you were little - having grown up surrounded by items that were far removed from what you called your air, you were intrigued by anything that was external to your version of ordinary. In your case, it just so happened to be the little private gallery that you had spent almost all of your monthly allowance to visit when you were a school kid - you had been so dedicated, in fact, that the elderly guard who had often also acted as a guide to the visitors had become your first friend in the art world, something of a grandparent figure, and on multiple occasions - when the lack of eyes would allow, simply let you through with a grin and glance out of the entrance doors.

And so here you were, many years later, many hard decisions and conversations behind you, regarding artworks with an unprecedented soulful closeness that you had initially thought was unattainable. Had you believed all those who remained outside of the walls of your personal paradise, you would have been immersed in the same cycle that had been drilled into the majority of your family members, except maybe a handful who you had never met for the exact reason that they had chosen something for themselves. But you regarded your dream as the thorned path - undoubtedly more challenging, not immediately fruitful, but in the long run leading to the heaven of your design. What more could you ask for?

It was enjoyable to be alone with the paintings surrounding you, portals to new realms that any visitor could have the pleasure of exploring. And what was even more inspiring, was that in the eye of every beholder was a different universe, and no matter who one would speak to, their version of the painting would be different, even if just slightly. You huffed, amused. When was the last time you had visited a gallery with anyone else? You could not quite recall - it was likely that you had never seeked company from another because you were more than satisfied with the company of the legendary works that were regarding you from the many walls. It was possible to compose oneself, spend limitless time on every piece, study the details, and drift into one’s own musings when there was no one to ground them. This was when you dared to say you got your best work done. Even though you, of course, conducted research within university and ventured out to galleries, museums, collectors or auctions only within professional bounds, the bulk of the thinking process was carried out in times such as this. When it was just you, your notebook and pen, and a new point of focus. However, this time, you could not say you were fully attentive to the painting that you had decided to focus on, as a certain someone was appearing to share your level of interest in ‘Love and Pain’ too. 

A gentleman who could not be much older or younger than you, at most a couple of years, stood off to the right of the bench, unmoving, gaze fixated on the painting. Dressed in a pinstripe navy suit, light blue dress shirt, lacquered dress shoes and a matching navy tie, he was nothing short of being a moving work of art. Hints of a glimmer from his thin framed, elegant silver spectacles gave the man a scholarly aura, while the slicked back dark hair - evidently a lot longer than the styling would suggest, added notes of business, entrepreneurship, perhaps leadership. Nothing was out of place, not a crease, not an exposed thread in sight. Needless to say, your curiosity had been sparked.

Much like you found joy in exploring creations in the realm of the visual arts, you were fond of crafting stories about the people who were strangers in passing. You could not help it; perhaps this affinity for creative internal ramblings had come as a package with studying the degree you had selected, or perhaps this was a naturally occurring guilty pleasure that you simply had not had the chance to entertain before you cut yourself off from expectations and predetermined patterns of thought. But now, you had the full pleasure of wondering, letting your mind travel to lands far away as you took the real life masterpiece in, and pondered why the man could be here, what he could be thinking as he studied Munch’s work, and what resonated with him, and only him. 

There was a melancholia with the weight of centuries resting upon his shoulders, that much you could decipher in the stranger’s stance. Even then, there was a gentle burning flame within his heart judging by just how dedicated he was to inspecting the artwork. Like he was seeing an old friend for the first time in years, and was attempting to memorise them anew and recognise each change, bit by bit. You suppressed a chuckle, entertaining the possibility of this man finding a kinship with the painting, but chose to set the idea aside for the time being, instead focusing on sketching his emotional landscape. Was the stranger remorseful? Lonely? Perplexed? You could not quite pinpoint the answer, at least not before you noticed the man’s head starting to turn, and soon enough, his eyes were peering into your own.

They were two pools of deep chocolate, an all-consuming shade that, due to the ever so slightly dimmer lights than in the general halls of the gallery, appeared to be approaching a captivating onyx. The gaze that originated from behind the glasses, and glided across the room that was suddenly too small for two struck you, and you could feel heat starting to rise on your face, blush threatening to reveal the effect of the man’s spontaneous act of confidence. Lowering your head, you gave the stranger a sheepish grin, and pretended to make a random note, pen erratically scribbling over a filled page. He continued to regard you with that same unwavering expression, and only when you looked up again did he seem to catch himself and give you a closed-mouth smile, equally as bashful as yours, and crossed his arms. One step, another, and he was right by the painting, though careful to not obstruct your view - instead, he took his time to read the brief paragraph on the information plaque that had been stuck to the wall off to the side of ‘Love and Pain’. With the same familiarity that is common among those grieving, or in a state of existential sorrow. A bittersweetness prevailed in his aura, one that reminded you of autumn - the falling leaves in red and gold, twirling to join a magnificent carpet, but nonetheless, making a departure, albeit a nearly unnoticeable one. Had he seen many fallen leaves? Was he himself approaching the season? You gasped, but even though the sound was barely audible, you caught the stranger making a minuscule turn in response. 

His footsteps were louder than your thoughts, his departure an irrevocably impactful act that left you breathless. You did not know him, and yet you felt as though you had gotten a glimpse at multiple lifetimes, and were part of a moment that was greater than yourself. In the wordless exchange, question after question had found its root, and something told you that you should not dare attempt to craft him a backstory, and choosing to believe in anything but what would be declared by him would be a gross misinterpretation, much like one that was carried out by those who did not wish to reflect on art and look beyond a first impression. For the first time since you had made your initial discovery of the arts, you felt like you were not alone in the gallery, the other visitor’s presence remained so intense that he could be sat right next to you, scrutinising the same painting, entertaining the same thought. Was the woman with the bright tresses indeed what she had been declared to be over the many years she had been introduced to many venues, many variations of public, and finally finding a home on this wall? Did she settle with her lover, or perhaps a carefully selected victim? Would the man have an answer?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ . It was unlike you to retrace your steps a mere few days after a visit and return to the same gallery, amble down the same halls, and seek for a new source of investigative inspiration among the same selection. This obviously did not mean that you would never return, definitely not, that would be almost criminal of you to possess such intentions, but you tended to try to cleanse your palate with alternative movements, contemporary takes and avant garde interpretations between searches which were more directly related to your studies. And yet, for the first time in a while, nothing was stopping you from your return. It felt only natural, and so right. Moreover, you felt no unease when you headed straight towards the section that housed the impressionists. An individual with an unspoken, mysterious mission, you were on the hunt for the creative streak, something that would help you ponder the next section of your hefty dissertation, and you could sense that it had to be somewhere here. And, like always, you were right.

‘Bazille’s Studio’, one of the most famous works painted by the so-called ‘tragic artist’ of the impressionists, Frédéric Bazille in 1870. In fact, it had been a collaboration between him and Édouard Manet, another gifted artist, though more renowned as a figure leading modernism, and depicted a scene of discussion and creative collaboration in the studio that Bazille had shared for a certain period of time with other spectacular figures of the visual arts, Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who could also be found in this painting. On the walls were works rejected by the Salon, which at the time had been the one of the most influential, famous art exhibitions in the Western World, administered by the Académie des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Interestingly, above the piano on the right hung a painting which Bazille had purchased from Monet, potentially hinting at the material ties between them, and the importance the young artist had because of his familial wealth. In a sense, Bazille expressed his support, as well as showed an intimate, platonic scene of the art world where there was a moment of calm, of mutual appreciation, despite the financial troubles and tensions due to character that had been experienced in those walls.

You stepped closer to the painting, trying to detect the transition from Bazille’s to Manet’s hand, the latter of whom painted in the former to take ‘centre stage’, palette in hand. Truly seamless work, though what else could it be? This painting had been a new addition to the permanent collection, and after strenuous, detailed restoration work to give the oil paints their original vibrancy and for impeccable strokes to forget the burden of time, you had the pleasure of seeing it in person. You were an arm’s length away from yet another work essential to history, culture and the arts as a societal colossus.

While it was easy enough to appreciate the technical detail, you found yourself halting to remember the names of all those depicted in the painting, failing to finalise the list in your head. Starting from Bazille, you had determined for yourself the presence of Monet and Manet in his vicinity quickly enough, however where Renoir was, or what were the names of the two other gentlemen in the scene, slipped your mind. You rocked to the side to lean closer to the plaque that was meant to provide you with the information, however you only found the name of the painting, the artist and the medium, much to your misfortune. Clicking your tongue, you returned to studying the faces of each individual, and furrowed your brows in agitated concentration. It was simple to take out your phone and search for the answer, though you knew that just as neutral that action would be, so would be your reaction unless you were to remember, or somebody were to-

A presence to your side caught you off-guard, and you felt a shiver run up your spine. One glance was enough to determine that it was the same man from yesterday, only the outfit revealing a change. Other than that, he had the same impeccable posture and stance, as well as a thoughtful look towards the painting in front of you both. His arms were crossed, though not in a defensive manner; instead they offered an interpretation of philosophy, as though this man was carrying centuries of wisdom with him, history having pummelled down on him and yet needing to support it like Atlas; the titan carrying the world.

Today, he was dressed in a mahogany coloured suit, with a white top underneath and some black boots with thick white rubber soles - quite the transition from last time, when he had been a manifestation of a sleek and pristine office gentleman. Hair, now let down and wavy, neatly framed his face, accentuating the regalness of his features. It was astounding how you were still sure that it would be more likely to find a man of this fashion in a painting, rather than standing beside you. You kept quiet, not wanting to interfere with his musings. Perhaps it was just a silly coincidence that the two of you were at the same place and at the same time again - how else? You did not know him, and you hoped that he did not know you. Though, you truly did not mind his company, and maybe it could serve as your motivation to figure out the rest of the characters in the painting. Once again, your attention returned to the task at hand, but before you could even begin to list off prominent figures of the art world during the era of Impressionism, a deep, honey-like whisper halted you and made you hold your breath. 

“Auguste Renoir is the one seated, Emile Zola, the writer, is on the stairs, Monet, Manet and Bazille are, as you likely know in the centre, and that,” he paused to raise his hand, gesturing in the general direction of the far right of the piece, “is Edmond Maitre. Pianist, art collector, and Bazille’s closest friend.”

“I- uh- thank you. How did you know I was trying to recall? Pardon me, I must look so clueless-” you trailed off, eyes finding the floor, an action which seemed to be your automatic response to being under inspection of the man, though this time, he captured your gaze quickly by stepping closer towards you. Looking up, you found concern and apology in his eyes.

“No! Not at all, I… sorry if I misunderstood and I am sorry for forcing you into such erroneous conclusions,” he gave you an ever so slightly crooked smile, charming, very disarming and so suiting this beautiful stranger, that you were instantly prompted by your instincts to return it, dismissing doubt. 

“You saved me,” you joked, though the phrase contained within itself an unlikely compassion. Two people, alone in the same gallery, sharing a precious dialogue was something to cherish, and with all your might you wanted to make it last.

“Just as you made me regard the painting in a new light, for which I thank you, greatly,” he bowed his head, the smile not leaving his face for a moment. There was a recognition in his gaze, as well as an inexplicable admiration. What did he discover?

“I guess it might be true that no matter how many times you see a painting, every viewing brings something new,”

“Well said. Are you an artist? A critic, perhaps?” He inquired, moving closer to stand level with you, head turned slightly in your direction to spare the occasional glance. You shook your head slowly, wondering if in a retelling of your destiny you could have pursued either of the careers he had mentioned.

“I am in the arts, though rather than looking at the present I remain in the past. Art historian, well, a postgraduate. Nothing too fancy.”

“Oh? But that is marvellous, and what are you focusing on?”

“I like to call it the painting in plenair during the turn of the century. I focus mainly on impressionism, though do sometimes stray into its interplay with post-impressionism, modernism and expressionism.”

“Ah, no wonder I have been seeing you here often. Enjoying the new collection?” he asked, eager to hear your opinion. There was excitement in his voice as though you were a renowned expert and were about to bestow upon him a priceless evaluation. And this was without considering the technicality of you having only half-met. Just crossing paths twice in one week.

"Yes, of course… The collection is unlike any other I have seen. I keep wanting to return and stay here for ages." You explained, glancing at the stranger while he nodded along.

"Incredibly happy to hear it. I swear I have seen you around quite often during the past month that the exhibition has been open? Am I correct?" evidently, your rapid blinking was interpreted rather quickly as perplexion, for the man gasped ever so lightly, as if to catch his own speeding thoughts.

“I- how do you know? I do believe this is our… second time meeting?” you uttered, one eyebrow raised in suspicion, which, to your disbelief, revealed something akin to fear in the beautiful stranger’s features. Nervously, he adjusted a strand of hair that was threatening to cover his right eye.

“Not quite… you were present at the opening event, right?” he quizzed.

“Indeed, my depar- wait. But how? Respectfully, I am starting to think you know me.” you enunciated with newfound caution, while the man pursed his lips. One second, another passed in near total silence, until a chuckle escaped him and he shook his head. It appeared as though he was mentally scolding himself - his eyes held no malice, instead glinting with hope, that melancholic wisdom, and something unidentifiable, ethereal, supernatural.

“I think it is high time I introduce myself before this gets out of hand. See, in some sense I work here, and most of my days are spent in the gallery or labouring for it-”

“Ah, I see-”

“Park Seonghwa, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” with one arm folded behind his back and the other on his chest, he bowed to you like how you imagined princes in the numerous portraits you had studied would bow. And the most enthralling part was how the gesture flowed, and was so befitting. Quickly, you bowed in return, but while raising your head, you froze. It hit you why he would know. And know a lot. And would remember you, and likely anyone and everyone who visited. In a low whisper, you asked:

“Am I… correct in assuming that you are ‘the’ Park Seonghwa?” quickly enough, you realised that it was a mistake to find his eyes again - clearly, you were not ready for the intensity, nor for the intrigue that was contained within them, nor for the fact that he moved another step closer to you, the rubber of his boots dampening any sound produced.

“I never knew that there was a ‘the’ attached to my name. I simply love art.”

“Well that love translated into the creation of what is possibly the greatest gallery in the nation, if not worldwide,”

“Oh you flatter me too much, ah, your name-”

“L/N Y/N, and I, too, love art.”

“Elated to hear it,” he gleamed, and you swore the room exploded with the illumination of a thousand stars.

Stunning, awe-inspiring, ever so elegant. He was a walking dream. In that smile was concealed a certain something that had been taboo, a well-kept secret until a couple of decades ago, when those like Seonghwa had started to be fully integrated into society, and no longer had to hide, changing identity from one century to another. With that came Seonghwa’s success - you had read in an article that advertised the permanent exhibition a short blurb of his story, and how for many turbulent decades, the man single-handedly collected masterpieces, crafted a meticulous network and introduced genius artists to the world, and the world to the artists. The gallery was a magnum opus for Seonghwa - a presentation of what he had achieved as a collector, as a patron of the arts, and a celebration of his personal culture. 

You could not help but hone in on the fangs, and recall the original reason why it was even possible for Seonghwa to obtain such legendary works and have as much influence as he presently did. It was not spontaneous; submerged in turmoil, he had personally approached artists who, previously abandoned by critics and other prospective buyers, had never considered a future beyond a mysterious tomorrow. Hiding his own true nature, he crafted the tale of a ‘Park’ dynasty, and rose again and again to continue his work. Perhaps, now, some might argue that once he had revealed himself as a vampire the velocity of Seonghwa’s developments had fallen, but you would passionately argue the opposite. It was challenging to believe that any move by this stunning artistic mastermind was not strategic - the announcement had given the gallery more partnerships, more donations, and in turn, an even greater prominence in the community both among professionals and enjoyers. 

“Thank you,” the phrase spilled from your lips inadvertently. It seemed to be the only thing that was reasonable to say in that given moment. You pondered the pains that must have been suffered to make the world that you were consumed by come together, and the painting in front of you, aside from what was contained within the frame,now shined in a new light externally too, possessing its own story, resembling a search for a kindred spirit, a true home. 

Seonghwa remained quiet, the words of gratitude echoing in his heart. It was endearing, encouraging to hear such warmth from you. So, you did know him, at least the parts he had shown to the public - as was expected from someone so deeply ingrained in visual arts and history, but he could not help but identify it as something much greater than mere awareness. The openness with which you had welcomed conversation with him, the kind charm that radiated from you as you engaged in the careful verbal waltz reminded the vampire of times long, long ago when all that existed for him was drive, enamourment and art. Oh, how your eyes glimmered. His heart clenched into near unbearable agony as he read your expressions, and wondered how much you have seen, what have you yet to see, who you were in this temporary life. If only he could ask fate to tell him how much you remembered of who you had been before. 

“No, thank you, for giving this,” he gestured to the gallery around him, graceful hand unfurling as though revealing a delicate flower, “meaning, and reason to exist.”

“I highly doubt I am of much significance, Mister Park,” you responded, a soft smile on your face.

“Would anything hold the same meaning if there was no one to behold it?” he responded. You chose not to answer, catching onto the rhetoricism, “and please, call me Seonghwa. I’d like to say we are to be good friends.”

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Sitting across from Seonghwa in the cafe that was located on the top floor, above the main halls of the gallery made you feel strangely serene. Today he had foregone the straighter hair styles that you had begun to get used to, surprising you with a head of tousled, almost curled locks that embodied the world’s softness, though remained to be quite the contrast to the more formal and highly fashionable attire that adorned his stature. A suit, tastefully oversized with a buttoned double breasted jacket that was simultaneously serving as a shirt, the plunging v-shaped neckline revealing perfectly smooth skin, and what you noted to be a solitary freckle right in the centre of his collarbone. The trousers, at least from the glimpse that you had allowed yourself when you had met at the entrance to the cafe were of a loose fit, defining his waist at the top and falling to form an almost skirt-like silhouette should he stand how he usually stood: the echoes of what would be called the ‘third position’ in ballet, more relaxed, but still retaining an elegance that only he could carry. The biggest shock to you, however, was Seonghwa’s choice of shoes - a refreshing point to the visual, he had selected to contrast the formalwear with a pair of limited edition, geometrically intriguing Converses. You could catch a glimpse of one of them from over the edge of the table whenever his slightly shaking leg, positioned over the other, would rock forwards just that tiny bit stronger. 

While the setting was meant to be casual, the circumstances in which you found yourself were nothing short of miraculous. Never in a million years would you have imagined for it to be possible to be sat across the table from, quite possibly, one of the most legendary contributors to art restoration, collection and exhibition. On top of that, Seonghwa was a figure who actively bridged the gap between disparate communities, finding a common language, and using the arts as a salvation. You were in awe, and could not hold back on regarding the handsome vampire as he quietly reported your and his orders to the waiter who had floated to your table.

“Are you sure you do not want anything else?”

“Yes, I am sure. I do not wish to exploit your kindness-”

“-Not at all. I hope you do not mind that I… must make a rather unconventional order,” he smiled sheepishly, clearing his throat so as to attempt to hide his doubts, though you were uncertain as to how much of such emotions could possibly be left after what had to have been centuries. 

“An unconventional order is pouring a sugary energy drink into a triple shot espresso and calling it dinner,” you answered, eyes travelling from Seonghwa’s face to the mural on the wall a few tables away that wrapped behind him and to your left, disrupted only by the occasional floor length window that provided city vistas - rather gloomy, compared to the optimistic illumination of the restaurant. Perhaps out of pity, or out of genuine entertainment, Seonghwa chuckled.

“That does sound like an acquired taste, indeed. Thank you,”

“No need. Thank you for inviting me,” you turned back, nodding a polite bow as he softly waved your gesture off.

A silence settled across the table as you waited for your respective drinks. Your hand, had you not consciously restrained yourself, would have probably reached for the phone that you stored in your purse, but now was fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt, finding the buttons to stress test the threads that had them sewn tight to the fabric. You were not bored, in fact, far from it. You needed a barrier. The grandeur of this man’s presence was almost overwhelming. He was not a mere individual in a room, he consumed it. Had you just walked in, you were certain that your gaze would still settle on his form. Just like the concrete outside was grey, and the pause retained a divine ambiguity, Seonghwa was unforgettable. In an attempt to calm your clouded thoughts, you studied the mural once more.

“May I inquire into your thoughts on the decor?”

“The choice of ‘A Sunday on La Grande Jatte’ is wise. I am guessing you were the one to make the decision?” you heard an exhale, and once more your attention was captured.

“Alas, I cannot take full accolades for this. This stemmed from a discussion that a good friend of mine and I had one late night. Seurat just so happened to make an appearance amidst the chatter, and so… this was born,” he gestured at the surroundings. Clearly, the interior was picked carefully to fit the theme of the legendary painting. 

From the colours to the textures and the greenery that had been intricately set up across the restaurant, every detail had a meaning and a place, and did not take away from the spaciousness of the hall. It was breathable, while still giving the illusion that you were stepping into a whimsical impressionist paradise. Perhaps that was another reason why you could not quite contain your disbelief firstly in your encounter, secondly in its progression, and thirdly in your interlocutor’s warmth. 

“Spectacular, truly. I have heard you have an eye for detail, however this surpasses all expectations.”

“Oh? There is more you have heard?” he interjected, leaning closer to you and placing an elbow on the table, simply to rest his head on his hand. While this could potentially be seen as slightly unceremonious, it hinted at well-kept confidence, ownership, control. A healthy undercurrent of motivation that came with indirect praise.

“I-oh y-yeah of course,” you did not mean to stutter, but some part of you was grateful you did, for the smirk that had threatened to burst on Seonghwa’s lips was enough for you to feel ignited to elaborate, “if my memory is not failing me, you were the one to distinguish a reproduction of a piece some time ago, no?”

“Ah- yes. That was a Degas reproduction. I must say, the attempt was sincere, however when I saw the-, hm, you will not be startled, will you?”

“Please,” you urged him to continue, intrigued by the story. 

“When I saw the original, as it was being made and when it had been finalised, it would be shameful of me to not spot a fake,” he fell back into his chair, just in time for the drinks to be served. 

A coffee for you, and a non-descript beverage concealed by a semi-opaque, tall glass for him. Though, you did not need to be a detective to guess what it was that Seonghwa was bringing to his lips, and what he took a tentative sip of. The only mystery that was remaining for you was what ‘type’ he had picked - was it O+? B-? Whatever else? You joined him in the tasting, lifting the mug and indulging in the wonderful aroma of your americano. It did not strike you as necessary to opt for something fancier and lie to yourself - so you settled for your regular order, much to your joy. Familiar taste and the reliability of the caffeine hitting your system painted the scene in more comforting colours, and gradually, you found yourself easing into the dialogue more and more, until life stories, musings and a surprisingly large common ground came pouring. 

You discovered that Seonghwa possessed a unique sensitivity and attunement to those around him. Focused on the emotional experiences, he felt through time and could recount emotions like the memory was from a mere few days, rather than decades ago. He was well-spoken, eloquent, intelligent, polite in every right as he navigated through the linguistic landscape and guided you like a partner in a dance. You were spiralling oh so quickly, intrigue catching up to you and prompting you to sacrifice all of your senses to the man and the pleasantly intoxicating atmosphere he captured you in. He was enchanting, and it was far too easy to give in. 

“May I reveal something?” in a hushed tone, he inquired, a finger absent-mindedly tracing the rim of his glass. 

“Oh, a little secret?” you raised your eyebrows in jest, lightening the initial seriousness with which Seonghwa uttered the question.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Depends on how you take it. A confession might be more accurate,” he waited for you to take the final sip of your coffee before continuing, unphased by your unwavering focus, “if I were to be honest, I have been meaning to approach you.”

“Pardon?”

“As you know we have a… common awareness of each other thanks to what is housed under this roof, but ever since we first unknowingly crossed paths… I wanted to speak to you.”

Confused, you did not speak, though the words contained an unparalleled affection within them. What could he possibly mean? You chose to refrain from commenting, your hesitation prompting the vampire to continue.

“Do you remember the most recent opening night? Of the exhibition? I believe you were with someone…” he trailed off, hoping you would continue for him.

“Ah, yes, a friend of mine from university. So?”

“This might sound strange but, I distinctly remember you mentioning a name. An artist from the same era, dubbed as L/N Y/N?”

“Goodness, you overheard that? I am so sorry, it is just that said artist has intrigued me for some time, and I was half-hoping to encounter their work. Maybe it is because our names are the same but still….”

“Elusive, aren’t they?”

“To put it softly, yes. I only vaguely recall seeing… maybe one piece in my lifetime, when I was little, and then… nothing. And there is barely any information on the artist online, let alone libraries and archives.”

“Hm, indeed. I guess that makes two of us…”

“Two of us who are searching?”

“That’s right. It brought me happiness to know that I am not alone in this endeavour.”

“Then we can keep searching together.”

While you were positive that you could not conceal your interest, Seonghwa’s did not go unnoticed either. It was of course possible that he was simply well-versed in political correctness, but the burning depth of his pupils told you otherwise. Enthrallment, the discovery of a kindred spirit, recognition, the rekindling of a bond that had existed at some point long ago - all fantasies that played out in your mind as you returned that look with subtle fervour. You wondered how many people he graced with those charms. How many had succumbed to his influence, becoming a marker on his infinite life path, a fleeting second? How many had his lips known, how many had turned into a decadent treat for a genius man with natural peculiarities? While the researcher part of you was perplexed and aching for answers, the you that was caught in the moment simply let it go on, and the feeling of Seonghwa’s leg brushing against yours, and the pride blooming in your chest as he praised the few articles and papers you had published upon having claimed that he ‘knew some things about you too’ preoccupied you in the most magnificent way.

Naturally, you agreed to meet Seonghwa again. On your journey home, in the privacy of the anonymous metro, immersed in the cacophony of deafening rails and the millions travelling to anywhere, you pressed your phone to your racing heart as the vampire, the man, the beguiling Park Seonghwa sent you a message confirming so. Who knew a simple selection of words could be so captivating?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Under the comforting thrum of raindrops on the large umbrella, you walked down the streets of the grey-coloured city, your hand lightly holding onto Seonghwa’s arm while he ensured that both of you were protected from the elements. Despite the dull light and bitterness of the cooling season, Seonghwa appeared radiant, truly timeless with every gesture and stride. The elegant angles of his face that you could tirelessly study stood out against the monotone buildings and overcast skies. His voice drowned out the sound of droplets racing one another to the ground. A miraculous gentleman who appeared in your life much like a portrait, or a landscape - a masterpiece you wanted to explore in every spare moment, and better yet, this masterpiece was equally as open to you as you were to him. 

“...essentially, yes. It is like another nationality. A marker of species isn’t too far isn’t it? Just another line on a stack of documents. Nothing more,” Seonghwa concluded his explanation, pursing his lips for a moment before letting an exhale turned dragon’s breath escape into the afternoon.

“Makes sense. So would that mean there are separate medical papers and treatment too?”

“Well… when regeneration fails us or when a given case is severe enough… yes. Though it is handled by private clinics run by other vampires.”

“There are private clinics?”

“Of course. Often they are connected to donation points too, and that is how we remain on the right side of the law and stay alive,” he nodded to himself, giving you a bittersweet smile when he noticed confusion overtake your gaze. “Blood,” he stated as-a-matter-of-factly, “I mean blood.”

In a nervous stupor, you cleared your throat and focused on a droplet that was hanging onto the edge of the umbrella, right in front of you, all the way until the gentle motion of Seonghwa’s amble provoked its abrupt descent onto the stone under your feet. 

“Ah, yes, I see-”

“If you find this disturbing, we can forget the conversation ever-”

“-I want to know you better, Seonghwa, truly-”

“Careful-”

“Sorry wha-” 

With an extraordinary swiftness, you were tugged abruptly by the arm. Not registering your surroundings, you merely went with the inertia, caught off-guard by the proximity of your face to the vampire’s as he held you against him with the arm that you had previously been resting your own on. A hand that you raised on instinct went limp and landed on Seonghwa’s chest, feeling the thick felted wool of his coat. The ringing of a bell, going farther away from you by the second, incessant but at least waking you up from the blur, was enough for you to put two and two together - a cyclist who thought they owned every part of the street, like always. You sighed.

“Reckless… my apologies I did not mean to-” Seonghwa tried to detangle himself, refusing to remain in your personal space for longer than necessary no matter how much he did want to, but his efforts were reduced to nothing when your hand moved to a hold on his upper arm - reassuring, comfortable, accepting.

“Thank you,” you interrupted, “that bike would have definitely run into me…”

“It’s nothing,” a low chuckle echoed in your ears as Seonghwa peered into your pupils, confidence that had previously wavered out of habitual caution now restored, growing into a pride as you continued to hold onto him, “the man was slow enough for there to be no risk of harm. I hope you are not too startled though.”

“Oh? You have super powers too? Do elaborate,” you jested, resuming your walk.

“I would call it more like… being a finely tuned machine. Can’t say I have bad reaction speed. Though I must say, it was a little challenging pulling you out of the way,” there was an evident intent behind the words. However, you were too curious to pay it any mind, instead preferring to find out their meaning live.

“How so?”

“I think this,” dropping his arm, Seonghwa’s hand reached for yours, and without a moment of hesitation, his fingers were intertwining with yours, his palm pressed against yours, “would be better. You know, for safety.” As if you could ever reject him. This was a fact you had established for yourself with an unprecedented certainty. His gallant disposition, attentiveness all confirmed a care for you that was impossible to ignore. 

There was something picturesque about the present after meeting this wonderful, infinite pool of art and humanity. You found yourself leafing through articles, art books and biographies with a more wistful and sentimental perspective, imagining what it would be like if it were you who was immortalised in the thousands of brushstrokes, or if you were on the other side of the canvas, how would you go about depicting the scenes unfolding before your very eyes. Timelessness - a quality shared between the art you so adored, and the man you had encountered and over the weeks, let your intrigue be transformed into a shy flame of infatuation. Perhaps it was the underlying reason why you did not reject his advances, nor cower in fear of his true nature with which he was upfront. The other, of course, was the search for the mysterious artist, an adventure that fuelled many of your dialogues, and prompted you to spend more time in the library and the archives of your university than you had ever done before - to the point where Seonghwa himself had encouraged you to take a break from your intellectual expeditions and step into the world as a casual observer. So, you let yourself drift; it finally hit you, what scenes your once again tranquil stroll reminded you of, and you smiled to yourself as you recalled the intricacies of the not quite commonly discussed representation of the Impressionist movement. 

‘Rue de Paris, temps de pluie’, painted by Gustave Caillebotte; his most famous work. Not quite as widely discussed, despite still technically being created in the Impressionist era, perhaps due to the meandering through form, realism and reliance on stronger lines rather than broad brushstrokes and the study of light. You did find it fascinating how Caillebotte’s passion for photography had seeped into this piece, however. Much like how, in recent days, you could easily find a way to mention Seonghwa in conversation, be it related to the arts or not. From the subjects in the foreground being slightly out of focus while the middle ground was crystal clear, to how the shapes of some passersby were cropped were all characteristic of photos, rather than paintings, making this particular work all the more dear to you. It was a reflection of life, of behaviour and of what had been daily back in the late nineteenth century.

Was it any different from now, aside from those grand, global topics that historians dedicated their lives to studying? If one were to whittle down to the intricacies, the miniatures that ornamented the span of a human existence, was it so terribly far away from what you were born into, and Seonghwa saw develop and had adopted? How people shielded themselves from the rain with umbrellas, and then used them as a tool to isolate themselves from other urbanites who were in a rush to take a day-long route out of their homes… and back again. The latest silhouettes of dress and accessory; the same rush to be with the times as now.

You felt your companion’s arm move, prompting you to let go and leave your hand hovering as though you were awaiting some kind of change. You bit back an unprecedented sliver of disappointment, only to be caught by surprise once again as you felt the hand settle on the small of your back. Cautious, like you were going to melt from any more pressure than the brush of a feather. A quick glance was enough to determine that you were being studied intently for any sign of discomfort - Seonghwa was ready to pull away at any moment, any sigh, and most definitely at any word. A meek smile settled on your lips, and you shyly used an oncoming stranger as an opportunity to affirm the gesture, stepping towards the vampire, and sensing the confidence of his protective measure be solidified. With glee he followed your every tilt and turn, angling away from the passing form that neither of you could focus on. The touch was electric, somehow monumental despite being so common and barely present. Your mind was on fire, pondering what it would be like to put your head on the elegant man’s shoulder, and let yourself be carried away into a terrific fairy tale.

“This really is a rainy day,”

“Seems quite sunny to me,” you respond with sarcasm, realising only after the fact that your phrase still did retain an element of truth within it. 

Sunshine did not have to be literal. It was easy to see, you just needed to return Seonghwa’s gaze, and watch as another spring flower blossomed in the soul of one you had initially assumed to be so cold, so distant. In the darkest winter was a safe haven that you could not help but lean into, and regardless of what you had initially thought, with him, you felt more human, more safe and alive than ever. He listened without fail to your ramblings, and could easily pick up the ball and balance it with his own musings that you could listen to for many lifetimes.

Lifetimes; immortality, the one concept you couldn’t quite wrap your head around. Well, the latter was technically not true, as Seonghwa had elaborated some few days ago: vampires did age, albeit at such a slow pace that to the run of the mill human being, it was impossible to notice, and if they did, it would be someone very close, and only over a matter of decades. Maybe it was this exact inability that made you want to stay and learn all there could be about the gallerist - you thought that would make you feel like you have been living forever. His wisdom was beautiful. The kindness with which he treated you, akin to that of how a spouse treats their long-time sweetheart with a mellow and comfortable affection, was not something you asked for nor expected, but something which he introduced himself with through every action, progressively more amiable when you allowed him to advance.

“Mm, no wonder I can’t quite look at you,” he mused out loud, dramatically looking off into the distance. You raised an eyebrow, curious about what was going to come after his theatrical pause, “your brightness is unparalleled,” Seonghwa chuckled, satisfied with your sigh and the way in which you pretended to be annoyed, only to dissolve in a mute giggle. “So, I do suggest we get out of the rain for a moment and stop by that book shop over there, shall we?”

Following his hand, you spotted an antique bookshop a few doors down, marked by an iron sign and ornate shop window decorations that glistened with each hit of the dancing droplets. A warm golden light emanated from the inside, the hue comparable to a summer’s day. An odd feeling of deja vu washed over you, as though you had been in this store before, even though this was quite the distance away from your home, not on any of your usual commutes and in a part of town you barely visited aside from the occasional brisk walk. It had been established over a century ago, sporting a historical plaque and detailing original to the era the date on the sign suggested. Suppressing your internal monologue, you simply nodded, fond of Seonghwa’s excitement as he pushed lightly against your back and walked on ahead. If you were any more of a romantic, you would have assumed that the shop was a representation of his heart, but you couldn’t allow yourself to think that way, at least not when you felt heat rise to your cheeks as he whispered your name, openly planning what you could look for amidst the rare editions together. You and him turned into a ‘we’ so naturally, you barely had time to blink. A new brushstroke on a canvas, brave, bold and bright. Impressionist.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

The hypnotising improvisation on a semi-acoustic guitar, followed by a launch back into the theme of a well-known jazz song had you tapping on the counter, unknowingly following every drum beat. The bar turned cosy music venue that Seonghwa had invited you out to was proving to be every bit a wonder of the world, and paradise inside of the otherwise gloomy city which had been plagued with miserable weather and lack of daylight for atrociously long. The classy establishment was a well known favourite among the vampires residing in the city, especially those aligned with a more bohemian and art-focused lifestyle. Critics, painters, collectors, musicians, poets alike all gathered to share ideas and energy, and reminisce days long gone, while the band - one that had not changed since the bar’s establishment, revived legendary pieces one after another. 

With ease, Seonghwa had ordered your favourite drink, having memorised it after your many outings that had smoothly transitioned into dates and shared nights. He remembered every detail about you, holding each one tenderness. Your lover gazed at you as he ended a conversation with a fellow collector who had recently come to town for a few days, stretching out his hand until it just touched yours, guiding it to lie flat on the counter. Seonghwa’s palm, still retaining a pleasant coolness despite him having had a couple of drinks of his own, was another reassurance that in the buzz of the venue, you still had your person by your side. Feeling his digits tap and then proceed to brush the back of your hand, you hummed in contentment, and let your eyes travel over the beautiful vampire, who leaned back, tempting you just for fun, knowing full well that you were wholly his, and even when you turned to look elsewhere, it was his face you saw in the crowd, it was his voice that rang in your ears, it was his touch that ghosted over your skin. 

The bustier from Alexander McQueen, the gorgeous flowy shirt with ruffles and cuts so tastefully sewn and executed, the statement necklace that was worthy of being displayed at a gallery and must be the envy of many, the high heeled boots that were concealed by elegant trousers - Seonghwa was your favourite work of art, and you could never deny it. Each one of his gestures was worthy of marvel, and the care with which he approached everything - even the tending to the items which he painstakingly selected and matched for tonight made your heart skip a beat. It was boggling how each garment and accessory was either an original, or a one of a kind piece. But at the same time, you did not expect anything less of Seonghwa.

He must be impossible to depict in paintings, you concluded, shamelessly staring at your lover’s face, from the shape of his nose, to the plushness of his lips, to the waviness of his night-like inky locks. You bet many had tried, but judging by the lacking evidence in the art world, they must have failed, miserably, to create something more immortal and invincible than the model and muse. You understood them, and Seonghwa gave no signs of being perturbed. 

“So, was that the intent behind our spontaneous trip to this bar tonight?” you gestured at your surroundings, taking another sip from your ornate glass. A sharp exhale accompanied a contrasting soft answer:

“Not at all,I had the business sorted a couple of days ago, and tonight was a lucky crossing of paths to secure the deal,” cryptic as ever, Seonghwa only alluded to the matter at hand.

The matter, or how he had referred to it as ‘business’ was a particular artwork that he had been hunting, by the elusive artist you had been investigating, first in your lonesome, and then joining forces with Seonghwa. Apparently, one of the pieces, by some stroke of unimaginable luck, had been kept safe in the private collection of a ‘Mister Kim’, at least that was how he had been initially introduced to you. Until you put two and two together, and when the very well dressed and styled character had entered the bar and made a beeline towards your partner in artistic musings and romance, recognised the man as a world-famous designer and fashion icon, Kim Hongjoong. And of course, another vampire and kind soul in one. 

Their conversation had happened outside of your earshot; whether it was on purpose or just so happened to unfold that way was for your ruminations to determine, but you did overhear enough to figure out that this was a portrait, a never seen work, and was completed by the artist who as it had turned out had been closer with Seonghwa than you had initially thought. 

“Seems to be very important, and not just in a ‘collector’ sense…” you trailed off, watching as the ice in your drink cracked, “is this why you were interested, you know, back then?”

“If I were to be honest, darling, I was, and still am, a lot more interested in you. The artist was something of an excuse to get a conversation going. And I do hope,” Seonghwa turned and sauntered towards you, “this conversation does not end.” 

Even though you were sitting on one of the bar stools, the heels and stance still left him some room to look downwards, and his sultry expression, orbs glinting at you through dark lashes left you transfixed. In moments such as this, you hated to be mortal. There were so many things that you could not possibly know, and no matter how hard you would try to comprehend the vastness of the angelic man’s mind, you would always remain theoretical, and accept the grand majority of intricacies as axiom.

“I hope so too,” your voice barely rose above a whisper as his gloved hand landed on your neck, gliding upwards to caress your jawline.

“I’m so glad I found you,” his thoughts were elsewhere, you were sure of it, and yet, his gaze remained unwavering, “my eternal love”. Lips stained with bittersweet worship, the words stumbled from them to strike you repeatedly in the heart, forcing it to lose its rhythm. He was regarding you like he had stumbled upon a priceless treasure, a divinity, a paradise. Something far from you and from this planet, but by Seonghwa’s careful selection, etched in your features.

Were you the embodiment of something greater for him? You would not consider yourself to be a model example of a human being, neither were you a pretty statue to display in an exhibition. You were you, but Seonghwa kept on convincing you that it was exactly this that had captivated him and showed him a new beginning. Did you wish to believe that? Of course. But a vampire who was hundreds of years old could keep a grand variety of secrets beyond your understanding, even if he were to exclaim them right in front of you and sketch them out. His eternal love - your version of eternity, or his? A life the duration of a butterfly’s abstract dance to the heavens.

“Love?” he called out to you, eyebrows knitted in concern due to your prolonged silence. You had set your drink down, and were staring at the shine of the glossy chrome silver and pearl on Seonghwa’s necklace. “Talk to me, say anything.”

“I- hm. I think I am just tired. Yeah, that must be it. Tired so I am overthinking, no worries. I’ll just be right here and-”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you tilted your head, noting how Seonghwa immediately straightened out, and instead of attempting to tower over you stepped over to the side to set a protective hand over yours.

“This is a majority vampire bar, full of unfamiliar individuals, this whole deal with the artwork is up in the air and-”

“First of all, I don’t care. Second, you are here with me. And third, I want to trust in the fact that you would not do anything foolish nor harmful. Am I right in my evaluation?” you uttered, still not quite able to look into Seonghwa’s infinite pools of brilliant sienna and dark brown.

“I- I am honoured, but that still does not detract from the fact that we can go get some air and come back. Shall we?”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to. Hell, need to. Let us have a quick wander?”

“...I’d like that.”

In no time, the winter air hit your cheeks and you were wrapping yourself as tightly as you could in your oversized coat. In your ears the pleasant sound of the vampire’s heels rang out, echoed by the stunning road onto which you were spat out by the heavy black front door of the bar. Warm-toned streetlights liberally decorated the sidewalks and painted the night in honey, gold and copper accents. Reflections of an artificial summer in the puddles and winter chill. Downright magical. Seonghwa seeked out your hand, holding it tight and guiding it into the pocket of his own coat, smirking when you raised an eyebrow. 

“What?”

“Nothing at all.”

You were certain that you were walking through a landscape painting, every element captured by your vision falling into its rightful place, harmonising with the rest. The mumbling and music was long gone, only to be replaced by conversation of other late city explorers and the occasional rumbling of a car lazily rolling past. 

“Pissarro.”

“Hm?” Seonghwa kept looking ahead, but squeezed your hand to ask for you to continue.

“Boulevard Montmartre at Night. Painted in 1897, no?” you pointed at the surroundings with a tilt of the chin.

“Ah, indeed! Your perceptiveness never ceases to amaze me.”

“Well, thanks to you I got to see the original, so how could I not make the visual analogy?” you nudged his shoulder, earning a chuckle.

The painting was the only example of a landscape at night from the artist Camille Pissarro, making it all the more special despite it being part of a series of 14 views of the same location. Snow, rain, fog, morning, varying seasons, but only one glimmering night. It was one of the works that Seonghwa had managed to provide for your studies, resulting in a more than impressive academic outcome. Like Pissarro kept on painting the vista, your lover kept on giving, never asking for anything more than for you to share your hours with him, something you did not need to be prompted to do anyways.

“...I’m sorry I cannot reveal more than I do, at least not just yet,” he apologised, as though what he was committing was the greatest crime known to humanity and the supernatural.

As you looked up at the starry night sky, you swore you had heard these words before, uttered by the same voice, the same fingers interlocked with yours. A stabbing sensation in your cranium made you gasp, but you regained your composure quickly enough to not make it a priority for either of you. At the same time, Seonghwa’s expression altered to a semblance of… hope? Longing? You could not pinpoint it, but one of the many glowing dots above you clearly landed in his shining orbs, and he eagerly waited.

Waited for longer than you could realise in your present state.

On their own accord, your lips moved, forcing out a subconscious acknowledgement, previously suppressed. You swore the phrase belonged to another being, but it was as refreshing as the breeze tousling Seonghwa’s locks.

“I know. I can wait too.”

“Soon, my love.”

“I-I know.”

“I miss you.”

“I-” vision growing hazy, you reached to the vampire for support, which he readily provided, “I- too.”

One blink - oil paints decorated your hands, and those alluring eyes were staring back at you from a canvas. Another blink - Seonghwa was repeating your name, pressing his cheek against yours as he shielded you from falling into darkness with his strong arms.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Your office was inviting and offered a secure haven: a collection of neutral and wooden tones, with dashes of greenery to relax the eyes. From a potted ivy plant settled on the top of a large wall-length shelving unit to an indoor palm tree enjoying the rays in its designated corner, the room was a miniature paradise. You ran your hands over the thick birch desk, cautiously avoiding the stack of documents you had arranged for yourself to go through this day. Artwork restoration reports, contracts, exhibition plans for years to come… everything you thought you would never see, and yet it was right here in your palms.

Time moved slower, or at least that was how you began to perceive it now that it was in abundance. A fountain that did not cease to bestow gifts upon you - again, something you would have never imagined prior to the curious series of events that were your previous life unfolding the way they did. One fateful meeting, and you were a changed person, staring into the horizon and labelling it as a continuation rather than as a termination of all you could achieve. The world was your oyster, and loving dedication was the price. But when the price was so sweet, and so easy, who were you to say no? If you had to pick a concern, it would be the bandages and binding on your right arm; friction from the sleeve of the turtleneck and blazer you had worn today applying uncomfortable pressure to the delicate wound concealed within. 

You stood up from the leatherbound office chair, adjusting your clothes and stepping to the window behind you to look out at the garden belonging to the gallery - a recent expansion. Grand, regal, and as the papers had emphasised, now returned to its rightful owner. You wondered just how much of the city had belonged to vampires at least for a portion of time, and you had no doubt that you would be making more discoveries soon, but for the time being, you were happy with the re-acquisition, or as Seonghwa had called it: your ‘turning’ gift. A particularly strong shift of the arm made you wince, and your other hand shot to nurse your sore arm.

“I’m so sorry darling, does it still hurt?” Unbeknownst to you, Seonghwa had slipped into the office, and immediately rushed towards you, concern painting his beautiful face through furrowed brows and a tiny scowl.

“N-no, barely. The sweater is silly-”

“Let’s not disregard ailments, shall we?” your partner gingerly lifted your arm, and after gaining permission through a few lethargic nods, pushed the sleeve upwards to reveal the bandages, “I- really, we need to apply the ointment again, that must be it-”

“Seonghwa-”

“Work can wait, I just need to-”

“My love-” Seonghwa paused his ramblings to stare back at you, puzzled, “it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Literally just a bite, isn’t it?” you smiled, the action instantly being mirrored, albeit with a tinge of remaining worry.

“Mm, perhaps I am overreacting, I can’t help it,” your thoughts were numbed by the silken touch of his lips on the back of your hand, wool against cotton as he pulled you into an embrace, “it should heal well once you get used to your new form, I am sure of it,” his tresses tickled your nose, but you ignored it, instead letting your head fall against him.

You stood almost completely still aside from the rocking side to side that was habitual for you both. A lulling motion, one that either of you revealed only to each other. A secret reserved for intimate, loving moments such as this. You shook your head in amusement and buried your nose in Seonghwa’s sweater, inhaling the aroma of his sweet perfume, recalling ‘Love and Pain’ - the painting that had marked the tightening of the invisible string tying you together. Or was it? Coincidentally, on the wall behind your lover was the real inception of your union, one that you had forgotten from one lifetime to the next. A portrait. The one that Seonghwa had been chasing, and what had been his decades-long mission came to an end.

Signed with your own hand, were initials of your name and the year of completion of the painting. None other than the beloved collector and muse, Park Seonghwa, who had posed for you, or rather a version of you, and ever since then, you were the only one on his mind. You had been the master both of the arts and of his fate.

“Please, I am embarrassed…” your partner mumbled, settling for futile attempts to position you in such a way that you would be looking out at the garden, but to no avail. Poking him playfully at the side, you induce a halt, and question him:

“What is there to be embarrassed about? That’s you. Painted by me.”

“Exactly. And you have it in your office, of all places.”

“Well I can’t exactly have you, in the flesh, on display all the time and I would like a work of art around here-”

“Shh-”

“Don’t shush me, Park. Be grateful I don’t keep the sketches out too.”

In all honesty, He would not mind if you did. You could do anything, and the vampire would adore and honour it. Whether it was in your blood or in his nature, he had never regretted almost losing himself in your favour. In your last life, he had gone against all rules set up by vampires, playing against what he swore was the devil in order to have the sliver of a chance to start again and, this time not lose you. Had his plan not succeeded, it was highly probable that he would have been erased from this planet too. But he would rather call himself a masochist than be law-abiding when it came to you.

“Next, you’ll be threatening me with a showcase of just my face-”

“What if I do?” you quipped, pulling back to boop his nose with yours, “I think it would look very pretty. Besides, now that I remember my apparent mastery of the visual arts, can’t I be a tiny bit proud, hm?”

“I would be terribly disappointed if you weren’t. Now, may I put that ointment on you?”

As if you could refuse those sparkling eyes. Promptly following him to the loveseat, which unfortunately for Seonghwa was situated right under the portrait, you sat down and waited. Your partner rushed to the medical cupboard - another new addition installed exclusively to support you as you were getting used to the vampiric nuances in your day to day. With well-practised motions, the required kit was in his hands, and in a blink, set down on the plush cushioning of the miniature sofa. You held back a chuckle as you saw the pout you so loved appear as he focused on unwinding the bandage with utmost care. Before you could feel any hurt, Seonghwa would already let go, or alter the angle at which he was tugging on the material. As soon as the plaster was peeled, you were met with the reason for your eternity and reawakening.

Two deep punctures, still a little irritated, not quite healed, but nevertheless a marking of your future and something you regarded with fondness. Wounds did not hurt when they were merely physical, especially not when you had someone who had bound their immortality to yours to tend to them. Seonghwa bit his lower lip, discontented with the ache as though he could feel it too, and took numerous pauses while cleaning up the wound to glance at you. 

“I’ll be applying the ointment now, tell me if it stings, okay?”

“Okay,” you knew it wouldn’t. You had never heard a man be so adamant on checking ingredients at an apothecary before following Seonghwa after your first appointment as a vampire. But just to appease him, you followed this small spoken routine. 

“You know… I was scared,” his voice was barely audible, and he could not look at you.

“What were you scared of?”

“Losing you again.”

“Well, I am here, aren’t I?”

Even before you were aware of Seonghwa, let alone the truth behind the portrait, all the roads still led to the same resolution. The arts, art history. Virtually synonymous, for without creation, there would not be the past, and without the study of the past, there would not be the celebration and respect of creation. Finally, you understood the beauty of evolution that Seonghwa had undergone all while remaining the same vulnerable yet legendary figure, dedicated to his vision of the arts, having recollected your own. 

“So many things could have gone wrong,” Seonghwa’s mind was reeling from the sheer terror of possibility. He had taken advantage of his high social standing as an aristocrat and pulled rank to avoid waiting for any ritual guides to step in - it was not the first time, but still only the second. And both cases were related to you. 

The first time might have been a foolish decision in retrospect, but considering the dire circumstances the extreme solution was the only one. With one foot crossing to the afterlife he was combatting the reapers, and was not going to let go of you even if it meant being pulled in. This time, when you had approached him a number of nights ago with your final agreement to his tentative proposal and kissed his ruminations away, he was ready. Years of study were not going to waste, after all. And yet when he studied the same irises as those from a time long gone, when he held the same hands, his blood ran even colder. What a gambling man he had been back then. The procedure to regift life to you had been risky, and Seonghwa, having never practised those elements of the dark arts bestowed upon his kind, had been taking shot after shot in the dark. How dare he play with your being like that? How dare he hold your existence on a sinful scale?

“But they didn’t.”

No they did not. Your confidence in him had aided considerably, he had to admit. The positioning of his fangs was perfect, and he had memorised all incantations down to the inflections. Second time a charm, but much more anxiety-inducing. Turning was not the same as revival, either. He could not stop himself from imagining the many scenarios of where he would have gone wrong, and cemented your identity only as a name on manuscripts, dissertation, paintings and reports. 

“Even the ritual, what if you did not remember-”

“I would love you just the same. Whether I had all my memories or not. That much I can assure you of. That is why I trusted you in the first place, Seonghwa.”

You did not need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. All you could do was suggest a brighter palette, and be by his side no matter what colour scheme he were to decide on. It was an artist’s duty to know when to set the tools aside and consider a painting finished. The luxury of a collector was to live through many paintings, unify the souls contained in each and sustain a chronology of expression. The keepers, the scholars, made to observe change rather than induce it directly. This was why you were all the more grateful for Seonghwa daring to change your mortal fate not once but twice, risking himself and his image in your favour.

When your partner was satisfied with his medical care, he hummed to notify you and began to clear up, at least until you placed a weak hand on his leather-clad thigh to gain his full attention. He searched for a hint in your features, eyes darting across your face at lightning speed. Relief came when you grinned brightly, whispering sincere gratitude.

Impressionism - the movement and path made by legends. A rejection of traditional practice, a new vision and interpretation of the outside world in the hues of the soul. Light, reality, immediate action. A breath that reset the arts, magnificent and radical for the time, and now, much adored. From its conception to its establishment, you were there to witness and fall in love, and now could look back at the beauty that had bloomed. His irises, your favourite colour. The speckles of various shades, your favourite details. You stared into Seonghwa’s eyes and did not dare blink. Your favourite impression.

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[cherryredlove]

☆ you spin me right round ☆

Modern! Record shop owner! au Aemond Targaryen x Bar owner! reader SMUT

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

You're the blooming business owner that owns the chic new bar in town, The Alchemist's Guild. All that's left to do is befriend your sourpuss neighbour, the cool owner of the music shop Targaryen Tracks. Maybe a crisis will do the trick?

Word Count: 1.9k

Themes: SMUT, 18+, rough oral smex, pearl necklace, sex in semi-public place

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

Owning a bar was always a dream of yours, and now that dream has finally come true. The place you purchased is a hidden gem on the artsy quarter of the city of King's Landing, nestled between eclectic shops and quirky businesses, with just enough foot traffic to guarantee interest. You’ve christened it The Alchemist’s Guild, and you hoped it'll become the hottest bar in the area soon.

Every bottle and glass has been carefully selected, and you’ve spent countless hours transforming the run-down space into a chic, cosy haven for anyone seeking to unwind. Edison bulbs hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the polished wooden surfaces and plush seating. The shelves behind the bar are stocked with an impressive array of gins and wines, and the scent of fresh herbs and citrus fills the air.

The only hurdle now? Making friends with the neighbours, particularly the one who runs the music shop next door, Targaryen Tracks.

You’ve seen him a few times, Aemond Targaryen, always dressed impeccably in black, with silver hair and an ever-present scowl etched onto his face. His shop is a world of its own, filled with vintage records and obscure music that you occasionally hear through the walls.

Today, after a couple of good days of business, you decide it’s time to introduce yourself properly. Maybe you can even convince him to partner up for some musical collaborations, adding a unique touch to your bar’s atmosphere. With a deep breath, you step into Targaryen Tracks, the door chiming softly as you enter.

Aemond looks up from behind the counter, his single blue eye meeting yours with a curious, almost guarded expression. He nods in acknowledgement, though his lips barely form a smile.

"Hi, I’m Y/N," you say, offering a friendly smile. "I just opened the bar next door, The Alchemist’s Guild. Thought I’d come by and say hello."

"Aemond," he replies curtly, giving you a once-over before returning his gaze to the record he’s examining.

The shop is a paradise for any music lover, with rows upon rows of records neatly organized by genre and era. The atmosphere is nostalgic, and you can’t help but feel a pang of admiration for the meticulous care he’s put into curating his collection. You too take great pride in organisation and decoration.

You take a moment to look around, pretending to browse. The silence stretches between you, and you rack your brain for something to say, anything to break the ice.

"You’ve got quite the collection here," you venture, picking up a random record and pretending to study it. "I’ve been thinking about hosting some vinyl nights at the bar. You know, set up a record player, get some more out there stuff playing."

Aemond’s eye flickers with mild interest as he raises an eyebrow. "That so?"

You nod eagerly, hoping to engage him further. "Yeah! I think it’d be great to have something a bit more unique than just playlists. It’s a vibe, you know?"

He studies you for a moment, considering your words. "I suppose it could work," he admits, a hint of intrigue in his tone. "What kind of records are you looking to play?"

"Honestly, I’m open to anything that sets the right mood," you reply with enthusiasm. "Jazz, blues, rock, maybe even some classical if it fits."

Aemond nods, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I might have a few recommendations."

A spark of hope flickers inside you. Perhaps this sourpuss neighbor of yours isn’t as aloof as he seems. Maybe there's a chance for some collaboration after all.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

Business at The Alchemist’s Guild is booming. You’ve managed to create a buzz around town, and the place is packed almost every night. The combination of exquisite drinks and the cosy atmosphere has made your bar a go-to spot for many locals and visitors alike. It's become a favourite with the artsy scene in the quarter, putting you firmly on the map.

But tonight, as you’re hosting bustling Saturday evening, disaster strikes. The trusty sound system crackles and dies with a sad whimper. Panic sets in as you realize that without music, the bar loses a significant part of its charm.

As the clamor of conversation fills the air, you frantically fiddle with the cables and speakers, hoping for a miracle. But nothing works.

Just when you're about to lose hope, an idea strikes.

"Hold down the fort for me, Dyana!" You call out to the bartender you employed.

You dash out of the bar and head straight to Targaryen Tracks, where Aemond is about to close up for the night.

Aemond looks up at you as you barge into the shop, mildly surprised to see you so flustered.

"Aemond, I need a huge favour," you blurt out, trying to catch your breath. "My sound system just broke down, and I have a packed bar with no music. Can you help me out?"

He pauses. "What do you need?"

"Your records," you say quickly, hope rising in your chest. "And your record player and speakers. Just for tonight. I’ll give you free drinks for a week in return."

He narrows his eye, contemplating the offer. After a moment, he nods. "Fine. But you handle the equipment with care."

Relief floods through you. "Thank you, thank you so much! I promise I'll be careful. You can even handle changing the records if that's better. "

Together, you gather a selection of records, and Aemond helps you carry them over to the bar. With his expertise, you set up the record player, and soon, the rich, warm tones of vinyl fill the space, transforming the atmosphere instantly.

The patrons love it, and you can feel the tension leaving your shoulders as the night goes on smoothly. True to your word, you offer Aemond a drink on the house as a gesture of gratitude. He graciously accepts your Greyjoy Gin and tonic with a small smile.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

As the night draws to a close, the last of your customers finally trickle out, leaving the bar empty save for you and Aemond. The soft glow of the Edison bulbs casts a cosy light over the room, and the record player softly spins its last tune.

"Thank you again," you say, leaning against the bar, feeling the exhaustion of the night catching up to you. "You really saved me tonight."

Aemond shrugs, a faint smirk on his lips. "It was interesting. Your patrons seem to appreciate good music."

You laugh softly, nodding in agreement. "I owe you. Seriously, free drinks for a week."

He takes a sip of his drink, regarding you with an appraising gaze. "Maybe we can make this a regular thing. Vinyl nights, as you said. I can curate the music."

"That would be amazing," you reply, feeling your heart race a little. "I think it’d be a hit."

As you tidy up the bar, Aemond helps, and the two of you chat more easily than before. You discover that beneath his stoic exterior, he has a genuine passion for music and a dry sense of humour that you find surprisingly charming.

With the bar finally clean and ready for the next day, you both take a moment to relax, leaning against the counter again.

As the last record winds down to silence, an unexpected tension fills the air. The kind that lingers between two people until someone is brave enough to try.

It’s Aemond who makes the first move. His eye locks onto yours, and you see a flicker of something you hadn't quite noticed before. You feel your body light up.

Before you know it, he’s closing the distance between you, his presence commanding and electric. He pauses, giving you a moment to stop him if you wish, but you find yourself drawn in by the intensity of his gaze.

And then his lips are on yours, firm and insistent, sending a jolt down your spine. You kiss him back, matching his fervour with your own.

Aemond’s hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, and you respond by wrapping your arms around his neck, grasping at his hair. His mouth is hot and heady, and you moan into his as his hips grind against yours.

You barely notice as you’re backed against the bar, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat of the kiss. Aemond’s hands are exploring now, tracing a path down your sides, and you let out a soft sigh of approval, urging him on.

The kiss deepens, his touch is confident, and you can feel the hardness of his cock against your tender pussy. Your body reacts, arching into him to relieve your aching sex.

Aemond unzips your trousers, moaning at how wet you are, before gliding his fingers into your soaked heat. You cling to him, mewling, and bit down hard onto his neck. Aemond’s long fingers move inside you, fingering you with a beckoning motion. His eye rolls back as you grasp his cock in your hand, massaging through his trousers.

Aemond hoists you up onto the bar's counter, kissing you roughly before kneeling, facing your soaked pussy. Your hands grip his hair, urging him onto your heat. His tongue flicks out to lick your juices, and the moan you let out spurs him to bury his face.

His long nose is shoved against your clit, rubbing you in the mot perfect way as his tongue laps you expertly. Your thighs squeeze his head tightly. One of his hands grips your soft thigh hard, the other resumes its ministrations inside your tight pussy, making you choke and feel the hot lick of pleasure push you higher and higher. You grind against his face, Aemond sucking your clit with suchbvigour that you cry out, cumming hard on him. You cream against his tongue, and he laps it all up with a deep moan.

Once your head has stopped swimming at the pleasure of your high, you wobble down and fall to your knees. His thick cock sits right in front of your face, and he slowly parts your lips with the red cockhead. It's huge, you run out of mouth room pretty quickly as his hands grip your hair. You moan, the vibration making his hips stutter, and begin to suck him hard.

"Your lips look so beautiful wrapped arouud me baby," he rasps out. "I'll cum if you carry on."

Enthused, you bob your head faster, hollowing out your cheeks and rubbing your tongue right against the slit of his tip. When you fondle his balls with your hands and swallow hard, Aemond releases a strangled cry of pleasure, face-fucking you hard and fast. He lets out an unintelligible moan as he cums. Some of it leaks down your throat, but he pulls out to cum all over your face and neck. You gasp at the hot white ropes of cum that decorate your collar bone.

Panting, he helps you up, swiping his cum off with a finger and parting your lips for you to swallow it. He kisses you gently, salty and sweet.

"Want to come back to mine?" He asks, eye glinting. You nod eagerly, kissing him sweetly. His hands hold you firmly, and you thank the Gods for your sound system breaking.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

AN: save me modern aemond targaryen save me! love writing that so gimme ur feedback and send any requests! if u like this sort of stuff check out my masterlist!

[runningfrom2am]

moon river // part two

summary: people in lincoln county are dropping dead alongside their livestock, the wells are running dry and children are prompted from their beds to wander unconsciously in the night. billy has been hired as a last resort by the lawmen as a bounty hunter, charged with the task of hunting and killing the witch responsible in exchange for a reward and the clearing of his name. how could he turn that down?

pairing: william h. bonney x fem!reader

wc: 2k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: witch!reader x bounty hunter!billy, warning for like,,, witchcraft and stuff i suppose?? mentions of death, minor amounts of gore and animal mutilation. devil worship and other supernatural/biblical tea. also angst. probably.

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // pinterest board // playlist

To you, Billy was a reluctant friend slowly wrapping vines of ivy around your ankles and up your calves. You didn't mind the itch of his constant presence on your mind, especially when the final destination of its growth was your heart. You were too busy setting up the trellis to be concerned about keeping it trimmed, anyway.

He would come and go from your forest home like the change of seasons that turned more and more often as time went on. He'd sit with you while you tended the graves, and spend afternoons with you in your cabin while you baked fresh bread or cookies, willing to eat whatever you made even if he couldn't for the life of him figure out where your ingredients came from.

"You know," You hum one day, sitting on a blanket outside your little cabin that was almost as covered in ivy as you felt. "You are lucky the town isn't really cursed."

Billy scoffs out a laugh from his spot next to you, laid back on the blanket with his hat over his face to simulate a nap in the sun he wasn't truly taking. "Yeah, I'd say so."

"Well, of course, but what I mean is that you folks went about it all wrong." You explain, closing and placing the book in your lap to the side. "With a curse of that magnitude, typically it culminates with the casting witch's death. So if you had found them and killed them like you planned, it would've only gotten worse."

"Darlin', sounds like you're still pleading with me for your life." Billy chuckles, lifting his hat a little bit to be able to look over at you from beneath its shade. He's met with his favourite view, you, with the sunlight dancing off your skin and gleaming with the strength of your smile.

You roll your eyes playfully, gently picking up some stray leaves of grass from the blanket and tossing them aside. "I know you're not gonna kill me," You giggle, "and you know I'm not responsible."

"That I do." He confirms, pushing himself to sit up. He takes in the view surrounding your home, the trees that encase this little paradise made up of a small frog pond and an unsurprisingly extensive garden. You grew nearly everything you ate out here, the forest providing you with a perfect amount of sun to help them grow and rain to help them thrive. That's what he assumed, anyway.

"It is, anyway though. Gettin' worse." He mumbles after a few moments of contemplative quiet, helping you dust off the blanket and peeking casually over at the cover of your book. The Eldritch Arbetorum I. He knows less than nothing about what that means, but part of him wishes he could.

"The crops and such? I'm sorry to hear that." You frown, chewing on your lip while you think about it. Maybe there was something you could do, but you doubted the townsfolk would let you get close enough for a long enough period to try. "What about the animals?"

"Every week, like clockwork." Billy replies with a click of his tongue and the slightest shake of his head.

You chew on your lip, watching him closely. It's weighing on him, you can tell. From what he's told you he's a wanted man, yes, but he has a good heart. You know that much for sure. Even when he came all this way carting a bullet with your name, he was doing it to save people.

"What about..." You start, hesitating on how to ask this. "The local children? All are well?"

Billy scrunches up his nose a bit in thought, still avoiding your eyes. "Well enough, from what I know. None have died, at least. I hear whispers that some are sick."

Your cat, Dante, scurries through the grass and onto the blanket beside you, chirping toward you as he crawls up onto your lap. Instinctively you let your hands find comfort in his fluffy orange fur, taking in Billy's words.

The children are okay, that's all that really matters.

"Good, that's good." You say softly, giving him a reassuring smile. "I'm sure they will recover well. I'll send you back with some tonic, if you would be willing to leave it with the parents. Something that should help."

"Yeah... yeah, that would be nice." Billy's already considering how exactly he would go about that- not many folks liked an outlaw dampening their doorsteps. Especially not to give them something for their kids to drink. He would have to leave it on the porch with a note, or something. Then it would be up to them to decide how desperate they were for a solution to their kids plight. "Why do you ask, though? About the kids."

Your eyebrows raise slightly in shock, and it takes you a second to respond. A second in which Dante takes the opportunity to glare at Billy, a low growl leaving his tiny form. He had yet to forgive Billy for trying to take his mom from him, though it was a mystery how he knew about that. Or maybe it was the fact that he hadn't met another living soul in the five years of his short life in which he had been out here in the woods with you, but Dante made it clear at every turn that he did not like your new friend.

You gently pat the cat's head to get him to stop, which he promptly does, before you come up with an answer.

"I was just wondering." You say, tilting your head with a smile that's mildly dismissive. "You know, if people are falling ill. I was hoping the kids would be spared."

"Yeah, fair enough." Billy agrees, his eyes darting between you and your fluffy orange companion. He tended to become a lot more skittish around Dante, ironically enough- but that likely came from being bit and swatted at by tiny claws one too many times over the last few weeks.

You reach over the edge of a blanket to a nearby flower blossoming from the healthy dirt that surrounded your home, swirling your hand around its unopened petals. Your action seems to encourage it to bloom, and Billy watches, his smile returning and the worried crease in his brow ceasing as you gently pluck the stem from the ground. "For you."

He was in awe of you at every turn, his cheeks flushing as he takes the flower from your extended hand. "Thank you, darlin'." He grins, turning the stem to look at it before looking up at you again. "I ain't ever been given a flower before. That's sweet of you."

He brings it up to his nose to smell its purple petals in a somewhat dramatic gesture before grabbing his hat and tucking it under the black ribbon around the outside. "You like it?" He asks as he places it back on his head.

"Yeah." You giggle, nodding as you look at the new accessory to his hat. It wouldn't last forever, but for now, it was cute. Even as it further blurred the lines of what your relationship was. Though, that was mostly your doing by gifting him a flower in the first place. "Purple is a good colour on you, I think."

"Ah, thanks, sunshine." He chuckles, removing the hat to examine it further. "It suits you a bit more, I'm not much for colours myself."

"You like blue, though." You reply, pleased to move on from the anxiety inducing topic of the problems going on in town. "And that red sweater."

"That's true." He admits, shrugging slightly. "My ma always dressed me in blue, though. She gave me that sweater too, matter of fact."

"A mother's touch, I see. She had good taste. As most mothers do." You say, with that same lighthearted tone that keeps him coming back to visit you. That, among a variety of other things, being just about everything about the energy you exude in waves. A silent battle he's been waging in his mind for a long time now; whether you get your power from the forest or if it gets it from you. Secretly, he's leaning toward the latter.

The topic of his family was something he hated breaching in the best of times, but your voice, sweet like honey in his ears makes it easier. You seem to do that with everything you touch.

When the skies outside of the forest started darkening in the coming weeks, perpetually clouded but never granting the county a drop of its refreshing rain, people got more anxious. It was like a palpable negativity in the air, crowding the increasingly empty main street. It was nearly always quiet, never a direct threat but people were packing up and leaving based on the energy in the air alone- and Billy couldn't blame them in the slightest.

It was noon, around midday, he was sure- when the overcast and dim sky provided enough cover for a break in. About twenty yards prior he'd dismounted to lead her, after she started to get clearly irritated and not want to take the worn path they normally did to get to the edge of your forest.

The sound of glass shattering at a nearby home drowns out the crickets song, making Billy turn his head toward the commotion coming from the ranch home not far off. Then the screaming, a woman's scream- the scream of a mother losing a child, a cry he had heard before and rocked him to his core in a way that made his stomach turn and his feet move in that direction against his will.

Dante alerted you to Billy's near arrival, high pitched meows quickly approaching the porch as he hops up onto the window sill in your little cottage kitchen.

"Oh, hush- it's just Billy." You scold him with a slight laugh, reaching up to ruffle the cats fur. The insistent meows continued, and you could feel the prick of his upturned hairs, which told you something was wrong, this time. It was Billy though, you could feel his energy in the air. The usual dreary grey feeling of loss and loneliness normally overshadowed by his cheerful blue, the weight of his good intentions falling dull to the sadness this afternoon.

You glance out the window, brow furrowing slightly as you quickly hang the last few bits of lavender to dry on the twine to be draped over the rafters this evening. Brushing your hands off on the front of your skirt and hurrying to the door, you're not sure what happened or what you're about to be met with, but Dante follows dutifully.

"Billy?" You call, just as he comes into the clearing, having forced his horse to carry him quicker through the trail he would normally take on foot, through the thick trees and branches that this time parted to let him through.

He jumps down from his horse, narrowly avoiding falling into your little pond and disturbing the family of toads you know don't like to be unsettled during the late afternoon.

You reach out with a slight wince, but relax when he steps over the edge of the water in his effort to get to you, digging into his pocket and holding out his flask with urgency as he grabs your upper arm, startling you away from your relief that the toads would be okay.

Billy's eyes are wide, hair mussed under his hat and breathing slightly shallow as you look up at him with a confused furrow to your brow.

"Can you tell me what's in here?"

no taglist this time around!! my fics usually get over a hundred requests to be added to the taglist so instead i made a library! follow me over on @runningfrom2am-library and turn on notifs to get updates when i post new parts!!

[girlfromflor]

56 DAYS (sjy) | PART ONE

pairing: enemie!jake x fem!reader | read the prequel

summary: after your best friend jay made you share an apartment with jake – “the guy you don’t like” –, you have to decide whether you should or not give into the feelings he makes you experience, something possibly pleasant and definitely memorable.

genre: "enemies" (reader is in denial) to lovers, accidental roommates, summer love, also has a bit of angst

warnings: swear words but other than that, none really (i suggest you read the prequel otherwise this will make little to no sense)

wc: 1317 | playlist: 56 days.

a/n: i decided to post this first, the second part will be the final part ♡ | taglist: @manuosorioh

as you tried to recover from your first college party experience, your brain did what it always does when your peace is threatened: refused to accept whatever happened, as a coping mechanism. it was not like it would work though, since jay didn’t seem like he would let you hear the end of it any soon. you pretty much denied any possibility of understanding between you and jake and did your best to pretend you didn’t even acknowledge his existence – which you did, very much so.

after those special seven minutes in paradise that felt like total hell to recall, you haven’t had any other friendly interactions with jake, always avoiding him with all you had. if you happened to meet, you were always quite cold and sometimes even a bit rude. all things that didn’t faze the boy whatsoever, who kept on getting on your nerves and even risked poorly made plans with jay so that you two would be alone again.

turns out that jay took it to another level and planned out – and very well – a long-term blind date, so to speak. at some point of the semester, jay mentioned a colleague moving out of the apartment he was living in and complained about how hard it would be to get someone else to live with him and share expenses. you, in an act of kindness, offered yourself to move in so you two could pay the bills together. he didn’t think twice before accepting it and, when the time came, in less than two weeks of organizing and moving out of your old place you were moving in with the man you call best friend since elementary school.

you were carrying the last item to your new apartment and everything was perfectly fine, until you came across jake lying on the couch, completely sweaty and untying the laces of his work out shoes, looking very fucking comfortable – almost like he was in his own home, you would dare say. you were in complete shock and a bit disoriented, for a moment you wondered how he was still attractive even though he was so clearly tired, but you soon ignored that thought to try and understand what the hell he was doing there in the first place. because you remembered very well having agreed with jay that you wouldn’t need help moving, there were few things you owned anyway. caught in the possibilities of what could be actually happening, you only realized that you had been standing at the entrance to the living room for a few awkward seconds, holding a box destined for your room, when jay lightly nudged your shoulder.

“what are you doing, standing there?” he asked, grimacing as if he wanted to make fun of you, but opted for a friendly approach.

“what... is he doing here?” it was your turn to ask, pointing – as best as you could while still holding the box in your arms – to jake, who was now paying attention to the two of you and, upon hearing the words that left your mouth, couldn’t help but let a smile form on his face.

“hello to you too, princess,” he said and before you could retort, he kept going, “i thought you’d have more manners with your roommate, but i guess i can’t be optimistic when it comes to you.” his eyebrows wiggle suggestively, his smile widening slightly and his tongue peeked between his teeth only adding to the image of perversion you had of him. because it wouldn’t be possible to associate him to anything other than obscenity, especially with that cocky smile that never seemed to leave his face. 

“excuse me?” you turned to talk to jay, but he was already on the other side of the room, going through the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “hey! jay, come back here. now.” you dropped the box on the floor, your arms crossed and your eyes burned holes into jay while waiting for him to come closer. “what does that mean? may i know?”

your best friend just laughed awkwardly and replied, “well... i thought you knew he lived here too.”

“how–” you stopped, sighed and straightened your posture. when you spoke again your voice was much more controlled, “how am i supposed to know if you never said that to me before?” your anger was still noticeable, but wrapped in a false cordiality that made jake strangle a laugh. this whole thing would be infinitely more fun than he initially thought.

after making everything clear – in the smallest details – with jay and for what seemed like an eternity of putting everything in its rightful place you finally went to your room, took a shower and got ready to sleep. the clean bed sheets that smelled of fabric softener and the fluffy duvet were a warm welcome after such a tiring day. you couldn’t control the thoughts that took you to a not-so-distant jake, who was now only separated from you by a room and, as you felt your eyes grow heavy and your body surrender to the much-needed sleep, you wondered what future reserved for the next few months you’ll be sharing your precious routine with the nuisance that was jake’s presence – ‘but at least i’ll have jay by side’, you thought right before falling asleep.

—☆—

“are you serious?” your voice comes out exasperated in an impulse that startled both you and jay, who was talking calmly to you while leaning on the kitchen counter – wearing his signature Seattle Mariners shirt, which you questioned if he’d ever stop wearing. it was currently 7am and you were having a rather upsetting talk with your best friend. it has been really nice to live with him, even though jake is together almost every time you two do something nice. but after a few days of it, jay seems ready to part ways. in an attempt to redeem your posture and sound a little calmer and more controlled, you say “are you going to travel?” 

and, despite you being his best friend for years, jay doesn’t even try to comfort you like you think you deserve. “it’s only for a few days, i promise you won’t even notice,” he replies. 

but you wouldn’t have that. “it’s not just a few days, jay, you’ll be gone for a month.” your whiny voice softens jay, who hugs you warmly. in the end, he knew you would miss him. “i had made so many plans for us, you know...” 

and with that, jake decides to leave where he was in the living room, walking towards where you were sharing the hug. when he gets to you, he nudges your waist. “don’t worry, princess. i’ll do anything you had planned to do with jay.” his slightly husky voice due to it being early in the morning makes your face heat up along with your body, but you blame the intense sun that shines through the window. then, he winks at you and you wonder if being arrested for murder would be as bad as they say. why doesn’t he just give up?

“tell me you’re not going to leave me alone with this idiot for a whole month,” you say, pretending that jake wasn't even in the room and jay laughs, a laugh that almost makes you forget why you were angry in the first place, but once again he decides to destroy all your optimism. “how silly, girl. of course i'm not going to leave you alone with him for a whole month, i'm going to be away for the whole summer break.”

that’s enough for you to pull out of his embrace, facing jay with all the disgust you could muster, which meant very little – very little indeed. 

and jake's voice is right there to further add to your stress, “it will be exactly 56 days with me, angel.”

[vevobly]

Being Lottie Matthews's Girlfriend Headcanons (Pre-Crash) [Part 1]

A/N: I was thinking about making Laura Lee's first before hers because the lack of stuff with her is a fucking crime. Girl kept everyone's faith together, and when she died; all hell really just broke loose.

Whether it's a surprise to you or not, Lottie isn't overly showy about her feelings in public. It's different in private though, she's incredibly affectionate and gentle with you. Whenever this girl touches you, it's always soft and comforting. I mean, call it an exaggeration or whatever but being with her feels like paradise.

You guys get a lot of these affectionate quiet moments; her just holding your hand during long car rides, she'll brush a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, or rest her head on your shoulder when you guys are together.

Lottie's presence is extremely calming to you. When you're feeling stressed or overwhelmed, she has a way of grounding you. By that, I mean this girl can literally just bring you back to the present with her soothing voice or presence alone. She's your immediate go-to person when your own life gets chaotic sometimes.

(blf'iv z ullo) Lottie is the type of girlfriend who makes everything feel okay just by being near you. She has this way of making you feel like everything will work out, no matter how tough things get (even though you'll think otherwise).

Lottie has this almost instinctual understanding of your emotions (so don't even try anything stupid like shoving it down or whatever). She'll know when something's bothering you before you even say anything and will always be there to offer her support.

It doesn't whether it's through soft words or a comforting embrace from her, she will help you feel better without pushing you to talk about it until you're ready. She'll often say things like "I just felt like you needed this" during it, and honestly? You might as well just die early from how wonderful this girl is. z ullo

Lottie is protective of you quietly. While she isn't confrontational, you can bet this girl will not hesitate to step in when she senses that someone is making you uncomfortable or even treating you poorly a bit. gszg'h dszg blf ziv

She's the type to stand by your side and just make sure you're okay quietly. This part of her shows itself in small ways, stuff like reminding you to take care of yourself or guiding you away from situations that might hurt you (gosh you are completely fucking in love with girl). You always feel safe with her. (But much like a promise, they break so easily, don't they?)

Okay, while Lottie does spoil you a fuck ton. She's all about the small things; leaving you thoughtful notes in your locker, buying you your favorite snack when you're having a bad day, or surprising you with a playlist of songs she thinks you'll love.

Every gesture is subtle but deeply meaningful. Even though her way of showing love isn't loud (I don't know the exact word to use for it), it is constant and sincere. Every small act of kindness from her comes from a place of deep love and care. (Love burns. And if Lottie's love for you burns too bright, will it keep you warm, or will it devour you whole?)

Lottie loves talking to you, especially when you two have these really deep conversations about stuff. Lottie is always listening carefully to you, and making you feel heard (you wonder sometimes how you ended up with such an amazing person like her- it wasn't by luck, that's for sure).

If it hasn't been made clear yet, Lottie is an amazing listener. Whenever you need to vent, she'll be there for you with open ears and comforting you. She knows she can't fix everything for you so she doesn't. instead, she'll give you space to talk and figure things out at your own pace. She always makes you feel so damn understood and supported no matter what you're going through. Sometimes, you think she might have been an angel sent down from heaven. (Is she though?) I mean, she seems like one! (That's just what you think. She's a curse disguised as a fucking blessing, you're a fool for thinking otherwise.)

Lottie values your private time together hella more than anything. Whether it's just sitting quietly while you both do your own thing or having a lazy day in, those moments mean the absolute world to her. She's never bored when she's with you, even when you aren't talking. The simplicity of just being in each other's presence means so much to both of you (you're like oxygen, she needs you to live).

When she's feeling overwhelmed by her own thoughts sometimes, you'll be there for her. Just like with you, you help ground her too; reminding her to take deep breaths and where she is in the present. She's very grateful for how you never judge her for having these moments. (She doesn't know what she would do if you ever looked at her the way THEY did) That instead of being a dismissive dick and whatever, you're patient and understanding with her—you're always giving her love and reassurance when she needs it the most.

Lottie thinks a lot about the future. In fact, she's always thinking about it and including you in her plans without hesitation. Doesn't matter if she's talking about a trip you could take together after graduation or just imagining a peaceful life from Wiskayok, she always sees you there by her side (this fact alone makes you want to marry her, but gay marriage be damned because it's not legal yet).

[pedroshotwifey]

Trouble in Paradise (Part One)

Pairing: DBF!Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Of all the things you thought you might be doing on your summer break, falling in love with your father's best friend in Hawaii wasn't one of them.

Tags/Warnings: Nothing crazy yet! Some kind of maybe tension, pet names, talk of Joel knowing reader since she was small, reader has a dad, mom is not mentioned, yadayada

A/N: Hello my friends! I'm terribly sorry I've been away for so long. There have been a lot of...unsavory happenings lately. Want to say sorry in advance because I know this isn't my best writing, but i'm trying to get back into the groove of things. I'm hoping I'll be back to my scheduled programming (TTF, FB, answering requests) by the time this short series is done. Expecting it to be around 3-5 parts. Thank you so much for sticking with me <3

*******

You’ve been laying in your bed blasting your “chill” playlist through your earbuds since you got home from school around five. The last exhausting day of your freshman college year. Lana Del Rey, Cigarettes After Sex, Hozier, and the like have been floating lazily through your head as you watched the sun go down. 

After a long day, you’d hung your head off the foot of your bed, intent to bask in the golden glow of the evening in a baggy T and your underwear until your eyes shut for the night. You were almost asleep when you were interrupted by a sound that didn’t quite go with “Wicked Game”. 

You yank your earbuds out, sitting up on your bed. You don’t remember it getting so dark. Your cracked window allows the late summer breeze in to gently rustle the curtains framing it. Crickets and cicadas chirp loudly outside, creating a symphony to compliment the stars shining through the inky sky. 

“Sweetheart?” 

Your head swivels to look accusingly at your closed door. The name was shouted from the stairway. Definitely your dad.

You roll your eyes but get out of bed. The clock on your nightstand tells you it’s 8:02pm, so he’s probably calling you for dinner. You’ve told him before that it’s easier just to call your cell, but when has he ever listened? You pad to your door, crack it, and shout back. 

“Be down in a minute!”

Getting no response, you can only assume he heard you. You close your door back and pick up the polka-dotted pajama pants crumpled into a pile beside your bed. You tug them on through a yawn, almost tripping a few times before they’re on all the way. 

You check your mirror before heading down. You look sleepy, not like it really matters. Your door creeks as you push it open again and make your way down the stairs. The soft carpet laid in the middle of the hardwood keeping your steps quiet. It’s about halfway to the kitchen that you hear a second voice to your father’s. It sounds vaguely familiar, and your heart skips a beat. Surely it’s not—

You climb down a few more steps and stop in your tracks at the sight of Joel Miller sitting at your dinner table. You haven’t seen him since at least your high school graduation. You’d harbored a small crush on him then, but that had to have been nothing compared to whatever the hell you’re feeling now. Your entire body seems to glow with some mix of embarrassment and surprise. 

You really thought you’d gotten over this silly little crush. Then again, it’s hard to get over something like Joel Miller. High school boyfriends? Sure, no problem. But the classic DILF next door of a best friend your dad has isn’t so easy. He’s been a constant in your childhood, always kind and there for you even when your dad wasn’t. So, in other words, highly inappropriate for you to be so attached to. 

It’s easy to say the years have been kind to him. He’s a few years older than your father, so probably about mid-forties now. He’s started to gray, a fine amount of silver peppered into his mousy brown hair. That beard of his has taken the brunt of it, though. That beard you’ve imagined between your thighs so many times. 

His dark eyes seem to have become kinder thanks to the crow’s feet carefully etched into the corners. He’s wearing his signature T-shirt and worn jeans, his brown leather jacket and work boots likely disposed of near the front door. 

He smirks as his brown eyes fall on your disheveled form, halted on the bottom step. You, in contrast to the god-like figure he’s sporting, must look like an absolute mess. Despite that fact, he looks at you almost in a different way than he used to. More intensely. It makes you resist the urge to squirm. 

“Joel,” you finally manage to choke out. “Hi.” 

Smooth, you think. 

“Hey, trouble,” he returns, light amusement lacing his tone. It makes you nervous, like he’s clocked your little secret. 

He gets up from his seat, and you can tell he’s going for a hug. You shock yourself into action and take the few steps to reach him. He envelops you in his strong arms just like he used to, and you take the opportunity to breathe in his scent. Smokey pine, whiskey, and a hint of mint—just like you remember. 

You’re smiling like an idiot despite yourself as you pull away. Luckily, your dad makes an appearance before you say something embarrassing. 

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” he teases. “You remember my buddy Joel, dontch’a?” 

Joel scoffs before you can answer. “‘Course she remembers me, Scott, known her since she was damn near in diapers.” 

Your dad rolls his eyes. “Well, just to ask,” he argues. 

You shake your head. Same banter between those two for as long as you can remember. They’ve been friends since your dad’s freshman highschool year, and Joel’s senior. Everyone who knows Joel and Scott considers them to be brothers as much as Joel and Tommy.

Cheeks heated, you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up while they’re distracted. You shut the door and comb through your hair with your fingers, straighten your tank top, and wipe away the smudged mascara you didn’t care to wash off earlier. 

When you look half-decent, you wash your hands and walk back to the dining room, choosing to ignore the fact that you just tidied yourself for your dad’s best friend. Totally normal thing to do, right?

Joel is sitting back in the same spot as you found him the first time, your dad in the seat opposite of him. There are three bowls of spaghetti served, one in front of each man, and one beside Joel. You’re not going to complain about that. 

You slide into the seat next to him, flashing him a quick smile when he turns his head to acknowledge you. You swear his gaze lingers for a second, but it’s probably just wishful thinking. 

You look away and dig into your food, zoning out as Joel and your dad talk about work. Joel’s presence beside you fuels your daydreaming, his deep, drawling voice keeping it running. You wish so badly to lean into him, feel the comfort of his embrace. Maybe more. You wish, not for the first time, that he would look at you the way you looked at him. You wish he would—

You jolt when you hear your name in conversation, your spaghetti-filled fork halfway to your mouth. 

“No, I don’t think she’d mind at all, would’ya, honey?” 

Your dad looks expectantly at you. Your eyes dart between him and Joel. 

“Uh, sorry, what?” You ask, your cheeks heating for the second time tonight. 

“Helping Joel out. I know it’s been some years, but it’s just basic stuff. Plus, it’ll be in—” 

“Really, Scott, you don’t have to volunteer her if she don’t want to—” 

“No, no,” you interrupt. “I don’t mind at all.” 

In all honesty, you didn’t think your answer through. You have no idea what you just signed up for. Though, if it’s with Joel, it can’t be too bad. 

“No, really, sweetheart,” Joel interjects. “I wouldn’t wanna have a pretty ‘lil’ thing workin’ away on her summer vacation.”

You turn to look at him, flashing him your sweetest eyes. He called you pretty—you feel like you might explode. “I really don’t mind.” 

He waits for a moment before he clears his throat and turns back to your dad. “Alright then,” he says before taking a sip of his drink. “We leave for Hawaii next Tuesday.” 

You just about choke on your dinner. Your dad laughs. 

“Told you, Joel, she doesn’t listen to a damn thing we say.” 

*****

Hawaii? For two weeks? With Joel? What do you even pack?

You stare at your suitcase, waiting for your closet to help you out and throw something in there. Should you bring sundresses or work clothes? Both, right? Probably both. Maybe more work clothes. You said you’d be helping, after all. But with what? 

God, you should have just paid attention to that damn conversation. 

It’s late Monday night, and you haven’t been able to pick up on enough over-the-phone conversation to get the gist of it. You need to stop being such a wuss and just ask. But that would mean calling Joel. Do you really want to call Joel? 

Well, yes, of course you do. But do you really want to sound awkward around Joel? No, no you don’t. And you know that’s exactly what would be happening over the phone with a man you’ve never talked over the phone with. 

You groan, flopping yourself onto your bed to stare at your ceiling and overthink. You don’t want to overpack, because you don’t want Joel to see that you overpacked. But you also don’t want to underpack, because you don’t want Joel to see that you underpacked, either. This really shouldn’t be that hard. You’re about to get back up, say screw it, and throw a mixture in there, when you hear a knock on your door. 

“Come in,” you call, unmoving.

“Hey, honey,” your dad says as he creeps in. “Just got off the phone with Joel.” 

You sit up at this. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, he figured you might want some advice on what to pack.” 

Oh thank God. 

“Said he’s gonna be puttin’ you to work, but to bring some pretty clothes if you want. There’s a pool at the place you’ll be workin’ at, and a beach nearby.” 

You nod along, thanking all that is holy that Joel had the idea to give you some input. 

Your dad eyes your empty suitcase and raises a brow in your direction. 

“He’ll be here around 4:00am, so be ready by then.” He looks back at you. “I love you, sweetheart, I’ll see you when you get back.” 

He gives you a hug and closes your door. 

You take Joel’s advice and pack mostly for work—with a few pretty things just in case. 

*****

As expected, Joel’s truck is in your driveway at 4:00am on the dot. You’re in the passenger seat and headed for the airport by 4:03. 

The ride is less tense than you thought it would be, mostly because the two of you are so tired. You’re practically in a coma against the window, the dull classic country music playing quietly from the old truck’s speakers lulling you to sleep. Joel is in about the same mindset, the lazy drumming of his fingers against the wheel the only thing convincing you he’s still awake. 

Buildings pass in a dark blur, everything mushed together into one big half-dream. Joel’s scent fills the cab, sealing the state you’re in. You glance at the clock: 4:48. You blink, and it’s 5:20, the truck is stopped at the airport, and Joel is gently nudging you awake. You squint at him, the cab light rudely intruding, and you can just barely make out the faint smile on his lips. You have a strong urge to lean forward and kiss him, but thankfully you’re conscious enough to not make a complete fool of yourself right now. 

“C’mon, darlin’, we got a plane to catch.” 

You nod, trying to get your bearings. Joel slides out of his side of the truck, and you follow out of yours, getting a good stretch in before leaning back into the cab and retrieving your suitcase from the narrow backseat. When you make your way around the truck to Joel, he gently grabs it from your hand. 

You look at him, mouth open and ready to argue, but he gives you a look that makes you shut it just as quick. Your stomach flutters at the gesture, and you kind of want to slap him for it. Or maybe yourself. Either way, you keep close to him until you’re entering through the sliding doors out front. 

It only takes about an hour to get through TSA and in line to board the plane, but you’re wide awake by then. And hungry. 

“Hey Joel,” you whisper. He hums at you but doesn’t look down. 

“I’m hungry.” 

Now he looks at you. “I don’t think we got time to grab anything now, darlin’, but we should have a layover at LAX in about three hours. Think you can hold tight ‘till then?” 

You nod, trying not to overthink the conversation. It was literally a few words exchanged between the two of you, but it might be the first time you’ve conversed alone outside of your dad’s house. It felt domestic to you in a way that makes you feel like an idiot. It was one conversation. 

Of course, you have to ruin the moment by humming “Party in the USA”. I mean, it’s Joel’s fault. He was the one to mention LAX. 

He laughs and nudges you. “Quit that,” he commands, though you can tell he thinks it’s funny. You giggle but indulge him. 

“Fine,” you draw out. “Somebody hates fun.” 

He scoffs another laugh, but says nothing. 

Finally, the two of you are next to board. You stop around the middle of the plane, and Joel hoists your bags into the compartment above your seats. Then, he moves aside to let you in first. 

“By the window, darlin’,” he says.

You smile with excitement and settle in, Joel sitting next to you a second later. 

“Your dad said somethin’ about it bein’ your first time flyin’, so I figured you might want a window seat,” he explains. 

Your heart warms at this. Why does he have to be so thoughtful? 

“Thank you, Joel,” you say genuinely, flashing him a smile. It may be the lighting, but you swear you see his cheeks pink up just a little before he nods and faces forward. 

The flight goes by relatively quickly. Joel does some sort of paperwork on the little desk in front of him, and you pop your earbuds in and listen to a downloaded playlist while you read. The light romance you chose was cute, but it failed to distract you completely from the hunk of man beside you. 

You’re not sure how many times you caught yourself staring at the flex of his wrist as he wrote whatever down. It was maybe once or twice that your eyes found their way up to his bicep, possibly a few times that they landed on his lower lip, his teeth bitten into it in concentration. You definitely got heated more times than you would’ve liked. And as your book started heating as well, you had to put it down. You really hope it’s not just you that feels this new tension.

For the last twenty minutes or so, you’ve been looking out the window, content to listen to your music and watch the land go by. For the last five, you’ve felt Joel’s eyes on you. You refuse to look back at him, though, just in case it’s your imagination. 

But you swear you can feel the weight of his stare. You fidget, trying to ignore the feeling as you stare out the window and at the clouds. Then you hear a sharp sound from the speakers 

through your earbuds. 

You take them off and look back at Joel as the pilot informs you that you should be landing in about ten minutes. 

He was staring at you, and he didn’t look away. You don’t look away now, either. You don’t say anything.

“Thank you for comin’ with me, darlin’.” 

You’re taken aback. Of course you would go with him. 

“It’s no problem, Joel,” you say. He gives you a short smile. “I mean, really,” you joke. “You’re the one taking me on a free vacation.” 

He smiles fully this time and rolls his eyes. He tends to do that a lot with you. It makes you smile too. 

The speaker dings again:

“Should be some light turbulence, but we’ll be on the ground soon, folks.” 

Joel looks away after the announcement, gathering his work to put back into his bag. You shake yourself off and choose not to acknowledge whatever the hell that was. 

******

You knew LAX would be busy, but. Holy shit. This place is insane. 

You keep close to Joel as he navigates the two of you through the crowds and to your next gate. He keeps slightly in front of you, and you keep getting the urge to grab his hand to keep up, but you don’t. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this many people in one place—and you thought the Austin airport had been overwhelming. 

There are a million shops and restaurants and gates as you make your way down the massive hallways, up and down the escalators, and through trains. It takes an hour and fifteen before you can even see the sign for your gate. Your legs hurt from walking, and your head hurts from all the noise. 

You keep an eye on some of the closer restaurants you pass so that you can backtrack to them and grab a bagel or something before you have to get on your plane. You catch a glimpse of a Burger King when you’re suddenly slammed into. 

You gasp as you’re sent flying onto your ass by a man who couldn’t be bothered to glance your way to see if you’re alright. Joel whips around and sets the bags down, quickly helping you up. 

“Shit, are you alright, darlin’?” he asks, a deep concern in his eyes. Your cheeks are burning with embarrassment even though it wasn’t your fault. 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” 

Joel looks you up and down to make sure as you stand on your own two feet. He turns around, trying to scope out the man who bumped into you, and turns back when he finds that he’s long gone. 

“I’m sorry, honey,” he finally says. “People don’t give a rat’s ass here.” 

You nod, smiling at his choice of words. “I’m alright, Joel.” 

He sighs and picks his bag back up, slinging the large weight over his shoulder, and then picks your suitcase up in one hand. WIth the other, he grabs onto yours. His hand is rough but warm and comforting. 

“Just stay close ‘till we get to the gate.”

Practically glowing, you hold onto him and let him lead the way. It only takes a few more minutes before he’s telling you to sit down at the waiting area. 

“I’m gonna grab you somethin’ to eat, ‘nd I’ll be right back.” 

You decide to read while he’s on his errand, picking your book back up to a particularly smutty part. You’re not going to pretend like you aren’t picturing the characters as you and Joel as he eats her out on a countertop. You bite your lip, consuming each word with fervor.

You’re just finishing the chapter when Joel strolls up with two breakfast sandwiches, a coffee, and an orange juice. He hands you a sandwich and the latter drink, and takes the seat next to you with a groan. 

“Probably have at least thirty minutes,” he grumbles. 

You nod as you thank him and unwrap your sandwich. It’s silent for a few minutes, before you can’t bear it and break the peace. 

“What all are we going to be doing?” 

Joel looks at you, almost flustered. He must have misheard you. “Huh?” 

“Like when we get there, what are we going to be working on?” 

“Oh, uh,” he clears his throat and takes a sip of his coffee. “Mostly flooring ‘nd some drywall, but there should be somethin’ to do in the kitchen if I’m hearin’ right.” 

You nod and take a bite of your sandwich. Joel continues. 

“Should have a few days to relax, though, if we get everythin’ done in time.” 

Your stomach flips at the thought. A few days to relax with Joel. 

“Sounds easy enough,” you say. 

Joel nods again. “Atta girl.”

“Flight 332 is ready to begin boarding.” 

You and Joel take the last bites of your sandwich in silence and stand up to get in line once again. This flight is going to be longer, about six hours. 

Joel throws your trash away and comes back to grab your bags. Same as last time, you have a seat by the window. Not like it matters much in the long run, because just after Joel takes his seat and the plane takes off, your head falls onto his shoulder, and you promptly fall asleep. 

******

Thank you for reading!! Part two should be coming soon.

Itty bitty mini taglist: @callachloe @kewwrites @casa-boiardi @pastawench (love you guys)

Pls let me know if you would like to be tagged in pt. 2!

[kkxrmx]

ripples ౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

SYNOPSIS  : things skz hyung line love about their chubby partner PLAYLIST : ripples - beabadoobee ; touch tank - quinnie PAIRING(S) : boyfriend!skz hyung line x gender neutral reader WARNING(S) : mentions of insecurity, skirts ( not necessarily feminine in my eyes ), i think thats all??

note : ah hi !!! sorry this took so long to get out, a maknae line version should be up soon as well ! i hope you enjoy !! ( and to the others that sent in reqs, those should be up soon as well, this week has been crazy for me ( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;)

channie:

— loves coming home to you already asleep and all cozy. you’re the best thing for his insomnia, your cute little snores lull him right to sleep. after washing up, he’ll slide into bed next to you. his hands naturally find the soft skin of your thighs and plush tummy. rubbing down your soft skin till he reaches your knee and back up again. he’ll trail up your arm to your collarbones until he reaches your jaw. brushing stray hairs from your face, he leaves kisses in their wake. you slowly stir awake.

“ channie? ” your voice is so sweet, a little hoarse from the sleep. it’s only now you realize you fell asleep while waiting for him. you hate how late he stays in the studio, perfecting and nit-picking his already beyond-perfect work. you’ll always admire how hard-working he is but that doesn’t take away from how desperately you wish he was home more.

“ mmm, hi my love, ” he giggles. words can’t describe how lucky he feels knowing he gets to love you.

— he loves how you’re almost oblivious to how much everyone adores you. you just have this energy that seeps into other people, you’re so unapologetically yourself and it’s sosososo attractive.

— loves buying you new clothes that match his so when you go out, everyone knows his pretty baby is all his <33

minho:

— he is the thigh guy ever. he loves to lay with his head between your soft thighs while he does something mindless like scrolling on his phone, turning his head to leave soft kisses on your skin. sometimes he’ll get too much cuteness aggression from hearing you recall your day and leave a gentle bite in place of the kiss, soothing it with a peck when you squeal.

“ minho! ” your voice cracks a bit but he just starts laughing, smoothing over the bite mark with a kiss.

“ ‘m sorry, you’re just so cute. “ he puts his head back to look up at you admiring your features, despite them being upside down from this angle. you’re so pretty, his personal paradise. whenever work and his mind becomes too much, you’re his getaway. his escape.

“ anyways, so then she- “ you continue to talk about the girl at your favorite coffee shop and he just watched you, love practically seeping from his eyes. you’ll never grasp just how much he adores you but he can hope you understand at least a bit of it.

— he loves how cute you look with his initials around your neck or on the bracelet he bought, pressed against your pretty wrist. he would probably pass out if you ever wore thigh jewelry, a little m adorning his most favorite part of you.

— always has his hand on your thigh while he drives, squeezing along to the music or whenever he needs to remind himself that you’re all his. he gets to have you like no one else does. ( what did i say, he’s the thigh guy ever. )

changbin: 

— hear me out, your arms. he’s so obsessed with how they wrap around him, grounding him and protecting him from all things stressful.

“ oh, hi bin- “ your sentence is cut off as he lifts you into his arms, burying his sweaty face into your neck before leaving a kiss there that makes you squirm. he had just got done at the gym. it was obvious he couldn’t wait to see you by the way he practically tackled you.

he’ll just laugh into your neck before pulling back to look at you, still holding you in his arms. his hair is curly and his cheeks are flushed. you’ll never get over how perfect he always looks, especially now. it feels like he’s reading your mind when he says,

“ you’re so perfect, you know that? “ he praises. something you’ll never know is that he thinks about you the way you think about him. you’re so flawless to him, everything about you is worth worshipping in his eyes.

“ …okay, i love you binnie but you’re sooo sweaty “ he finally breaks out of the trance you have him in but only to sulk.

“ ahh, why doesn’t my baby love me!? “ he exclaims and once you finally get out of his tight hold, it’s not for long. he’ll chase you around your shared apartment and once he finally gets his hands on you, prepare for endless kisses littered across your face <3

— he would LOVE it if you were stronger than him. he finds it so attractive if he could go head to head with him in the gym, his competitive side on full display. but he also loves being stronger than you, picking you up like you weigh nothing, and having you in his lap. he knows you might worry about being too heavy but you are such a big reason why he works so hard in the gym. he just loves being strong for you.

— he’s honestly such a show off. he just likes the idea of you never having to lift a finger, and doing everything for you without you ever having to say the word. you want water? it’s already by the bed in your favorite cup. you’re hungry? he’s already in line at your favorite restaurant before you can even text him. his acts of service love language is coming on strong.

binnie bonus!!!

— he’s another one who loves to see you in cute outfits, he adores your fashion sense so you usually do the outfit picking for the two of you. whether it be a skirt on a cute pair of shorts or some plain jeans, he’s so in love with how it all fits you. 

hyunjin:

— everything about your body. just the way you move and the way you fit against him perfectly is enough to send him into a rant about his adoration for you. to him, your body is art, perfectly constructed and molded into something that not even the most time-consuming sculptures can replicate. you are art, so of course you make your way into his.

“ hyunjin, i’m starting to cramp. ” you whine. he has so many doodles of you that he’s done from picture references but now, it’s time for the real thing. despite your complaints, he takes his sweet time.

“ just a little longer love, i’m almost done. “ he whispers, making small strokes of his pencil in his sketch pad. it really shouldn’t have taken him this long but he keeps getting distracted. you’re posted all pretty for him, holding the flowers he bought you. you’re just such a sweet sight and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you, even if it is for a few seconds.

before he can tell you he’s done, he’s getting up and planting a kiss on your lips. having to resist touching you for so long should be a crime. just watching you be so effortlessly beautiful and not being able to show you that he’s thinking that was torture. you’re made to be loved and he’s made to carry that mission out. 

— couple pictures!!! loves taking cute pictures on your dates or going to especially pretty places to snap especially pretty pictures of you. he loves simple outfits that look good on both of you, blue jeans and white button-ups. some of his favorite pictures are of the two of you in that exact outfit, playing in fields of flowers or walking around the pretty streets of a new part of town. his wallpaper is actually of you lying in the flowers <3

— he loves to hold your waist when you’re cooking or washing dishes. whenever he’s teasing you he’ll pinch you softly. it always ends in him being splashed with water and forced to flee the kitchen to escape your playful slaps.

note : thank u for reading !! again, please send me any feedback or critiques you have !! this was so fun to write <3 my skz masterlist !!

— @kkxrmx ᧔o᧓

[burinazar]

I've been giving some thought to "what is the best way for a person in 2024 to get into/get back into Sound Horizon" as I reconnect with it myself (the more I do so the more I realize how massively and almost ridiculously influential it was to what i like in storytelling...)

I'd like to post more about some options now and then. Lately I've enjoyed these Youtube uploads by QueenoftheHorizon of the album Elysion, which are bundled with not only translations but tons of additional notes and information.

Elysion is, like certain others of Sound Horizon's albums, a series of interconnected stories with tragic thematic elements in common and a general framing device in the form of one story that connects them; in this case the framing story is that of a father and daughter -- an assassin and his sickly albino child El, both of whom pass away in the events of the first song. The child hopes they will somehow reunite someday in Paradise. After death, the father's soul begins to wander, seeking a person conceptualized as 'Elys' (representing the longing for his lost daughter), and we see the tragic stories of various other girls that his soul perceives, wondering if they are the one he seeks...

Elysion was probably the first Sound Horizon album I heard (i'm 70% sure a stage show video of "Ark" was my actual intro to Sound Horizon; since it was like 15 years ago and I rapidly watched as much as I could of them in the ensuing hours and days the memory is unclear haha.) This channel and playlist first went up in 2010 so, and thus wouldn't have been around when I first got into Sanhora in idk ~2008, which is a pity, because they're a wonderful entry point for a canon that can be inaccessible to those who speak little or no Japanese -- in addition to the English translations themselves in each video, the uploader has packed the video notes with explanation and analysis of each song's associated story.

If you are interested in "Elysion" as an entry point to Sound Horizon, I highly recommend watching the videos on this playlist and reading both the video descriptions and the pinned comment for each list, for both translations and a wonderfully detailed explanation and further analysis of each story. For example, the one for Ark elaborately lists out not just the events that are likely to have transpired within the song but also alternative explanations to the common fandom interpretation as well as highlights of extra material (ex. a two-chapter special manga release) that support the ambiguity of interpretation.

Also, definitely check both the video notes and the top comment, where the uploader put translator notes. Here are some of the uploader's translation notes for "Baroque" -- they really are amazingly thorough and interesting, and are a can't miss if you are a language learner yourself who wants to connect with and understand the original wording as much as possible:

Elysion also has music videos and stage shows (ex., Ark stage, Stardust stage, El no Rakuen MV. 'Probably-scary doll' warning for that last one-- in fact the use of BJDs in their shows and videos is how I first heard of Sound Horizon lol, they were being discussed on Den of Angels.) This is material that I think is wonderful and, as mentioned, this kind of thing is the way I personally first experienced the tales; anyone who enjoys these uploads will hopefully go on to look them up. However, the stage shows and MVs are targeted at existing fans and often assume the audience already knows the story (or at the very least speaks Japanese!), so for anyone who doesn't speak fluent Japanese and wants to get the meaning of the songs, their plot and theme and characters, this is really an unbeatable way to enjoy the music for the first time.

[juniperdugong]

Perfection {Teaser}

No one has looked at you like that. With such admiration, such kindness. Taking in all your details and intricacies. Playing with a piece of paper and through it piecing together what was meant to be you. Eyes glancing back and forth with a smile. Oh god, why did the mortician have to have such a sickly sweet smile as he looked at your corpse? Why did your soul not leave when it was meant to?

Pairing: mortician!mingyu x corpse!fem!reader

Genre: Mortician!au, Horror!au || Fluff, Crack (simply bc this concept is not normal in the slightest babes), Romance, Angst(?)

Warnings: Mentions of death, corpses, and gore (Nothing in depth and nothing intended to disturb) || Necrophilia(?), It's more like Necro-romance, aka romantic attraction to a corpse. || Nudity || {Please let me know if there are other warnings you would like me to add}

Teaser WC: 518

Songs that inspired this fic

A/N: Hey, people...First fic and it's one based on all the different renditions of Frankenstein...Because of course, I would. My incessant need to write stories with insane premises is shining right now. If you listen to the playlist I hope you don't mind the mix of goth, rock, and folk. Oh lord, in my mind I just feel like Mingyu would be the type of hopeless romantic to fall in love with a dead person. I hope y'all enjoy!

Not proofread!

Series Masterlist

He was oh so gentle with you. The way he was careful with his movements as he heaved your stretcher onto the table. Your eyes followed him as he went ahead and gathered various things from around the room. Setting them on a table near you. A deep breath settled in him as he scanned your body. You felt vulnerable in this state, not much you could do about it but still. He got a clipboard and read through it. As he did he circled you, tapping gently at different parts of your body as he went along. Assessing your situation and what he would have to make "presentable" no doubt. Then he stopped. Pausing as he made his way back towards your head. Another sigh as he gazed at you. "You were so pretty. I wish we had met under other circumstances y/n." If a heart was in your body it would be beating so fast right now. His hand reached out and grazed your forehead. Is he moving the hair from your face? If you had working veins you would be blushing wildly. This is crazy. You've decided that this is crazy. Your soul for some reason has decided to stick to your body instead of following the heavenly trumpets towards the pearly gates of paradise. And here you were, prisoner in your own skin, unable to move or speak or do much of anything. And the only thing on your mind is the man who is preparing your body??? Oh, Christ. What the actual hell is happening? Also, why does it seem like the mortician is just as invested in you? Are morticians supposed to have organ jars in their preparation rooms? You suppose they do take care of those sorts of things, plus he's the professional in this situation, right? "The more I look at you…The more I wish…What am I saying?" he shook his head with a huff. Your eyes were open, not like you could willingly close them, but you were somehow able to see in this state. You could see the way the protective gown fell on his arm, very faintly outlining some sort of muscle. The way his breath caught on the mask, not shallowly at all either, a heavy breath. Almost like when he looked at you you had taken it away and he was grasping to get it back. The gloves that held snug to his big fingers, his warm hands, the ones that graced you gently with every touch. So caught up in memorizing his features you hadn't noticed that he was tracing your inner arm and staring right back at your lifeless eyes. "Actually, you might be perfect and these might just be perfect circumstances y/n…" he tilted his head as he said those words, gazing deeply at all of you, taking you in like some person at the other end of the bar. Why was he walking away? What did he mean by perfect? Is he walking over with one of those jars right now? Lord, you should've followed the trumpets…

{Right on time, just minutes after voting closed, let me know what you think, love you all!}

[villainofmyownstory]

Hi! I'm V (Villain or Vi) | she/her

!!!!!!!! 18+ only! MDNI (nsfw + dark content) !!!!!!!!

writing fat reader characters | my native language isn't English

WIP updated 07/30/24

Day Zero

apocalypse AU - ongoing - chapter 7

Simon "Ghost" Riley x plus size fem!reader

masterlist | taglist | AO3 | playlist

Ghost and his dog Riley regularly patrol the city. A man has his own routine, every day, for almost 2 years, has to look the same. The man knows that he cannot change his behavior because deep down he still feels that someone will answer his radio signal. He doesn't lose hope. However, exactly 730 days after "Day Zero", no one shows up at the transmitter mast. Just when you finally get there. You've been trying to get here for weeks, seeing a tower in the distance. You needed electricity, and the tower had a source of light every night. And so each of you, individually, still thinks that you are the only one alive.

______________________________________________________________

Three copies and some signatures

part 1 part2

Simon/Reader/(Johnny)

You and Simon are married. A deal, a contract made only to avoid being deported. However, not everything can be predicted, lies are slowly consuming everyone. You, Simon and his real partner - Johnny. Feelings are stronger than words written on paper.

______________________________________________________________

click 'keep reading' to see more of my works

Blurry

exhusband!Captain John Price x fem!Reader

ongoing - part 2

You visit your ex-husband, in your once shared home. The memories are painful. But only for you. Unfortunately, after that one bloody mission, John doesn't remember you. The memory of your life together, blurred in his mind.

______________________________________________________________

GIF by adultstim

part 1 Blindsided part 2 Anyone Else

for Cali’s Nameless Challenge

nameless COD member x fem!Reader

You can't get over the breakup and the fact that you were left alone. You keep coming to the place where you last saw him. To, perhaps, finally get some kind of answer. Some solace.

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Light years

oneshot #GhostChallenge

Simon “Ghost” Riley x android/hologram!Reader

Many decades of longing. A lot of years of waiting. Hundreds of light years away from an Earth that no longer seemed like a memory, but a fictional story. A fairy tale written by poets. Earth no longer existed, and life on Zeus 2 went on as if the years of intergalactic war had never happened. As if the destruction of most of humanity had never taken place. There were still a few people on the new planet who remembered their lives on Earth. A past that was a memory stinging under the ribs. A small personal utopia for the last living people. Paradise lost.

______________________________________________________________

Incapacitation

König x plus size fem!reader

| AO3

You and König contact each other every day. Literally, you talk all the time. As soon as you open your eyes you see or hear him. König accompanies you in every activity. But you are no longer together. Despite the distance between you, you still hope that he will come back to you. One day you find out that König has fallen in love with another woman. Something inside you breaks. Once again. You will not let him decide about his life again, not this time. You know better what is best for him. You know König very well. After all, you talk to each other all the time.

______________________________________________________________

Zultanite

Poly TF141 x plus size fem!reader

masterlist | AO3

After inheriting jewelry from your dearest grandmother and one visit to a fortune teller. Your life is changing. Not once, not twice…. but four times.

[ironboyxs]

Let me take care of you

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Male Reader

Word count: 912

p.s. this was a request from the lovely @megamonstermuffin, I'm sorry it took so long, I'm in a bit of a creative block, but I plan to write a lot next month! in fact, I want to post a list of which fandons I write for, so stay tuned. and always remembering REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!

They were tired, but Y/N particularly was exhausted. Being an Avenger was definitely not an easy task, especially when you're not a super soldier with enormous stamina and strength greater than most people.

Y/N knew how to handle himself of course, Doctor Strange didn't take him in as his apprentice just because the boy was kind, he took him in because he was very skilled with magic. But magic can be tiring, and very tiring.

Y/N and James opened the door to their newly rented apartment, they had been living together for a month. And almost two years they were together as a couple.

Him and Bucky together was something no one predicted, not even themselves, but it was one of the best things that could have happened to both of them. Y/N was lonely, he had already learned to fend for himself on the streets of New York for some time when Stephen Strange found him, Bucky was a man out of his time, and the recent “loss” of his best friend, Steve Rogers, it made him feel even more out of place.

The two were people who didn't fit into society very well, but they found the perfect fit in each other.

"Are you okay magic boy?" - Bucky asked as soon as they arrived home.

"You know I hate that nickname" - Y/N said.

"But you're really magical" - Bucky said giving his boyfriend a kiss

Y/N liked that side of Bucky, the side of him that flirted with the boy, that was romantic, flirtatious and playful, Bucky didn't show that side to everyone.

'But seriously, you look very tired, I know today was difficult for all of us." - Bucky said again.

"Well, I may be magical but I don't have the physical resistance of a super soldier, my love."

"Come, I'll draw a bath and make our dinner."

"Bucky, there's no need, I know you're tired too".

Bucky looked seriously at his boyfriend and placed his hands on his face.

"Let me take care of you, please?"

"How can I resist those big blue eyes? Alright, let's go."

Y/N was still getting used to having someone take care of him, he had forgotten what that was like, he spent so much time taking care of himself that sometimes when people offered to help him, he felt like he was bothering them.

Bucky smiled as he looked at his boyfriend, recognizing Y/N's reluctance to accept help. He knew that his boyfriend was used to taking care of himself, but he also wanted to show that he was there to share the burden of the difficulties.

While preparing a relaxing bath, Bucky took out his phone and connected a device to the speaker, his playlist of relaxing music started playing. Soft music began to fill the apartment, creating a serene atmosphere. After a while Bucky called for his boyfriend.

"Y/N, I know it's hard to accept help sometimes, but you're not bothering me. I want to do this for you. Let me take care of you today." - He asked once again with his big, asking blue eyes.

Y/N sighed, feeling the warmth of Bucky's words. He allowed himself to accept that affectionate gesture, something that was still new to him, even after so long of the relationship.

The bath was prepared with scented salts, creating an aromatic cloud that hovered in the air. Bucky helped Y/N undress and gently led him into the hot water. He sat next to his boyfriend, gently massaging his shoulders as the water washed over them.

"Relax, my love. I'll take care of everything tonight" - Bucky said, kissing the back of his boyfriend's head.

There was another thing that Y/N couldn't get used to, in the best way possible. Whenever he felt Bucky's touches it was like he was being transported directly to paradise. His boyfriend's lips were perfect against his skin, and the mixed sensation of a flesh arm and a metal arm was incredible.

Y/N allowed himself to close his eyes, leaning against Bucky's chest. The soft music and gentle touches helped soothe his tired mind and body.

After the shower, Bucky prepared a comforting meal, something simple and delicious that they both loved. They sat at the table, sharing laughter and conversation, enjoying each other's company.

After dinner, Bucky took Y/N in his arms and carried him to the couch. He covered them with a soft blanket as they watched a movie, cuddling and exchanging subtle touches.

As the night came to an end, Y/N snuggled into Bucky's arms, feeling loved and cared for. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips, silently thankful for having someone like Bucky by his side.

That night, Bucky took care of Y/N not just with gestures, but with all the love and affection he could offer, promising to be there for his beloved, no matter the circumstances.

[lunarw0rks]

Old Bones | Epilogue

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): mild angst & language

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: The long-procrastinated final chapter of this series. Thank you for all the patience and support, for those who wanted this resolution.

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ˖⁺‧₊˚ ask box ˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | ao3 ver. | playlist ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Epilogue

It wasn’t paradise. It wasn’t heaven. It wasn’t an excursion.

But it was all there, right before your eyes. The void of civilization — the tranquility of nature; both cruel and unrelenting, yet the closest to nirvana a human eye can see. The images you viewed through a screen were nowhere near as breathtaking as the sight in front of you.

The quaint lake house was nestled within a dense forest, the trees caked in bitter frost that traveled its way to your warm and exposed flesh. Then there was the lake, the breathtaking centerpiece in your irises. Shimmering hues of aquamarine and sage, swashing and dribbling across the rocky shore with every pass of its mellow waves. The body of water stretched for miles, farther than your eye could see. It was trees, dirt, moss, the lake, and the azure sky encasing it all.

This is what you needed, what you craved whilst cooped up in your torn-up residence. Not solitude from fleeing, not this time. Voluntary isolation was all it was in its purest, most natural form. Though you weren’t alone on this getaway, you wasted hours gazing at the unparalleled allure of the wilderness.

You had no ties anymore. No thorned ring on your left hand, no financial strain keeping you overworked until a hopeless retirement. Freedom was the newest taste on the tip of your tongue, passionate and liberating. Most significantly, Simon found a close second on that list of novel freedoms.

The lakehouse itself is charming; too charming for this type of funereal retreat.

Updated, almost completely modernized on the inside with spendy furniture and new fixtures. The wooden exterior that stretches to the inside is its only peculiarity, aside from the backwoods you’re staring at. Stained with warm, earthy tones that have weathered for who knows how long. Whoever renovated the land must’ve seen the same character in it that you did — how its very appearance hints at an enduring history with the land.

On the wooden porch, you nursed a mug and maintained your deliberating gaze. Behind you, the screen door creaked open, “y’ alright? Bloody freezing out here.” Simon spoke, and you turned around with a disconcerted jerk. In truth, you had forgotten how long it’d been, and time had escaped you.

You had spaced his presence completely. Ironic, considering you were the one who urged him to accompany you. Although it was understandable, considering the burly man was as stealthy as a mouse.

“I’m okay.” You muted, giving him your best attempt at a smile. “Thank you, Si.” That was a new one. But it felt right when you said it.

His boots hit the wood with soft thumps as he approached, as quiet as a brute could be on a creaky deck. As the door closed behind him, the loose snow built up on the overhang scattered and fell. Simon dusted off the lounge chair parallel to you and seated himself, taking in the same sight you were currently. “Don’t know why you bother. The view is the same from the window.” You turn your head, spotting the natural bounce of his leg, as if he was always in a state of unrest.

You shrug your shoulders, unsure of the reason yourself, “guess I’m savoring it. Can’t stay here forever, can we?” He responds with a whispered scoff, showing his agreement. Isolation wasn’t what he wanted, despite how he loathed humanity.

He needed the sounds of the people, the city, to feel even an ounce of being a part of them. Whether he knew it or not, Simon himself wasn’t sure either. “Suppose not. It’s too… peaceful.” His speech wavered whilst looking for the right word.

“I think we deserve some peace.” You reply, despite the irony of all the blood and grief it took to get here.

Simon fell silent again, for several seconds. The hand on his thigh began twitching a bit, his fingers stimming in a patterned motion — the way they always did when he contemplated. You had been looking at the view again until his stillness was noticeable.

“You do, sweetheart.” He affirmed before you opened your mouth again, fingers going motionless with relief.

In your chest, you felt a tinge of resentment. Questions began to buzz again, pertaining to the twisted connection you two had gotten stuck in. What the hell were you doing? Where was this going? What did he want? All those pesky answers far, far away in the distance — with no promise of ever catching up with them.

But you felt it. Every atom and bit of what you had been through with him, and what it meant. It wasn’t analytical. It was human, this need to never part with him. To think, when this all began, you envisioned a life of recluse and romantic aversion until your wrinkled body went cold.

You weren’t corrupted, or if you were, it didn’t trouble him. For that, you were plunged into the constant unease of feelings. It was the closest experience to hell on Earth; being in love with him felt worse than fearing the man you thought you were.

“What do you want? After this?” You forced out the words, despite not wishing to speak another to him. It wasn’t a series of questions — they were accusations. Perhaps pushing him out would be better than letting him in, but that didn’t seem so easy. Your heart couldn’t differentiate love and hate; they were synonymous.

The change in tone didn’t phase him. It couldn’t, it was part of the bargain, and he knew it. “Don’t know.” He huffed, standing up from his chair with a grunt.

You weren’t satisfied with the answer. How could you be? Two words? There weren’t enough in all the languages to express how you felt. The mug in your hands was set on the outdoor table, followed by a shuffle of your footing.

Now, you stood in front of him with furrowed brows. “You don’t know? So, what? I go back to the city, live in that damn house, and forget everything you did for me?”

“If that’s what you want.” Simon unquestioned, hands stuffed into the pockets of his bomber jacket. His nonchalance was going to be the death of you.

You rubbed your temple and let out a hefty sigh, expecting to see him gone when you looked up again. He wasn’t; he was still there, a doleful demeanor written all over him. “What does that mean, Simon? You, wandering around the city until you get yourself killed? I don’t want to forget you or remember you that way.”

“Then don’t.” He snapped, yet didn’t take on a stance of annoyance. “You want me in the bloody city with you? I’ll go. You want me to piss off? Say the words.” Your mouth hung open slightly, lips wavering as you sputtered.

His brows furrowed, the same as yours, but his feelings were different. It wasn’t a mix of love and hate; it was yearning. A complex, agonizing yearning that he had ceased in fighting. “I hate the bloody city, but I don’t hate you.” Simon added, sending the conversation into silence again. For him, it was the closest you’d get to those three words. Though, they might as well have had the same meaning.

Instead of retorting, your tense shoulders relaxed, as did your parted lips. You finally had your answer — still complicated — but an answer. It was the future, the path you knew you were coming back home on.

To be followed back into the city, having another half to fill the empty space of the lonely house. And how it’d eventually be furnished to your liking, dazzled with the selections you’d circled in the catalog. Put together and posed by Simon himself, and thanked with a kiss. Breaking in the fireplace, spending holidays as if they weren’t holidays at all, preventing any reminder of the sour memories you both had.

The chest you rest your head on, steady and synced with the putter of your heart. The organ isn’t healed, forever cracked and pumping to his rhythm. The hand resting on your shoulder, scarred and twitching while he contemplates what you’ll have for dinner. His pressing thoughts are trivial, coming a long way from war and life-or-death.

Of all the lives impacted by those hands, the one he’d saved mattered most.

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