#early mornings on sand dunes are A+

[cpleblow]

Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes

Death Valley, CA

©cpleblow (2016)

[alteredstatesstuff]

how big is this beach anyway

[vultursvolans]

— ★ 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when being assigned a joint research project with a very attractive haravatat student proves to be more distracting than you ever anticipated

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: akademiya!student alhaitham x akademiya!student reader, afab!reader, established relationship (early stages), secret relationship, sex in the desert, flirting, playful banter, casual nudity, no preparation, rough fucking, multiple positions, creampie, not proofread. obv they are adults. 2.1k wc MDNI. 18+ ONLY. | masterlist

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The heat had already taken hold of you this morning.

Even before you opened your eyes, the desert sun had crept into the makeshift tent, meandered across your skin, and clung to the bedding beneath you. Outside, you could hear the wind humming in a lulling rhythm but the air inside was still heavy—scented faintly of canvas, sand, and Alhaitham.

Officially, this trip was sanctioned by the Akademiya to catalog ruins and decipher inscriptions long buried in the dunes. Your joint project culminated in months of preparation but between your academic pursuits, you and Alhaitham fell into the trap of proximity, lured by the temptation of wandering eyes and coy smiles exchanged over the rim of coffee cups. 

Long nights spent under oil lamps became less about studying and more about the rush it gave you when your knees brushed beneath low tables. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on reading when Alhaitham sat so close that his scent clouded you entirely. 

Wandering eyes turned to coy smiles turned to lingering touches turned to… well. 

Such distractions would be frowned upon by the Akademiya, yes, but how could you resist when Alhaitham treated you like you were the most fascinating discovery he had ever encountered? You both agreed on discretion to save yourself from the mortification of other scholars and seniors. They didn’t need to know about his sweet confession and the many other things you both got up to when nothing but the stars could witness you. 

So unofficially—this trip was the perfect excuse to stay tangled together despite the sweltering heat. 

You blinked against the wedge of sunlight, rolling over to a very bare Alhaitham sprawled beside you, one arm tucked lazily behind his head, the other resting just centimetres from your waist. 

“Morning,” his voice was thick with sleep but when your eyes met, you saw that his expression was immensely not.

“What’s got you so focused?” you said groggily, propping yourself on your elbow as you faced him. “Already thinking about all the hard work waiting for us today?”

Your clothes were still discarded from the night before, sitting in a crumpled heap near the corner of your bedroll. Perhaps the events of last night were why he was looking at you with that slanted smile. 

“Do you always think about work the moment you open your eyes?” he replied, tracing small circles on you. 

“Someone has to keep us on task,” you shot back, raising a brow.

“I didn’t realise I was sharing a tent with a Matra.”

Of the 20 languages he knew, the same mouth rendered him incapable of completing this project in a timely manner—what should have been done two days ago was instead spent with his tongue on your skin. 

Not that you had many complaints.

“Mm,” he added. “And here I thought mornings were for recharging, not nagging.” 

“For someone who implores efficiency in all things,” you said, poking his nose, “You spend a suspicious amount of time lying around. Observing me isn’t going to help your thesis.”

“Observing you is a worthwhile distraction actually,” his hand began to slip onto the bare curve of your hip, “In fact, I think you’re my most compelling subject.”

“I would pay you sacks of mora to include that in your report,” you retorted, clicking your tongue with false annoyance, but you were too focused on something else to actually care.

“I’ll pass,” he tipped his chin at you, “Instead of mora, another thorough exploration should suffice.”

“You’re avoiding work.”

“I prefer to think of it as redefining priorities.”

“Oh? And what’s at the top of that list now, Mr. Alhaitham?” You felt wrapped in warmth but you weren’t sure if it was from the desert or his fingers settling between your thighs.

“Must you know?” He pressed his body against you, “It seems to me you don’t think we can afford to delay.”

Suddenly, the tent felt smaller, and something familiar coiled low in your belly. You let out a soft sigh, shifting closer to him, “Enough.” 

The word felt hollow, even to your own ears.

He not only decided he wanted a repeat of last night (and the night before) but also the right to brag about passing with flying colours even when he was buried inside you during the most crucial part of the research. 

It became a cycle—he apologised for keeping you distracted and you forgave him by moaning his name. 

Never one to be so sexually inclined but now he understood why men sculpted monuments to their obsessions, why poets spilled ink in worship of carnal desires. Lust was not a sin because it was tempted, but because it was consumed. However, the way Alhaitham consumed you was completely intentional. 

You were no different from his books. He spread you open, studied you, and read every inch of you all the same.  

“I personally think we have plenty of time,” he leaned forward, slowly grazing his lips across your neck before kissing your pulse point. “Trust me.”

And trust him you did.

The world outside was quickly forgotten after he turned you on your back. Your words died in your throat as he hovered above you, capturing you in a careful kiss that tasted of salt and skin. 

There was plenty of time in the way his fingers coveted pleasure out of you. 

There was plenty of time in the way he mapped your jaw, your neck, and your collarbone with love bites. Like you were something so desirable to him.

Beads of sweat rolled down your temple as the tip of his cock shallowly pressed your entrance. Your mouth fell open—the friction was maddening, and every inch of you clung to him. Even when his lips ghosted the swell of your chest, he was lucky your skin was there to swallow his quiet grunts each time his hips moved against your tight hole. 

“Patience,” he said when you instinctively arched your back, though his own breathing was uneven. Already, his hair was tousled and damp from the heat of your bodies mingling and you felt his length throbbing on your thigh. He was so hard, you couldn’t help but wonder if the one who actually needed patience was him. 

You couldn’t hold back a giggle. “Speak for yourself,” you said, swiveling your hip upwards. A groan left his lips so quickly you saw a blush spread across his cheeks. “You’re barely holding it together.”

He grumbled in response. “You find joy in others’ misery.”

“Not at all.”

Although, your teasing wasn’t for naught. Alhaitham wasn’t exactly famous for bedding women so seeing you stripped of everything that made you prim and proper left him craving you that much more. “You should take it as a compliment that I—”

“So I’m the problem?” you laughed under him to mask the flutter in your stomach. 

“Precisely.” You were glad he remained obstinate even when he so lewdly towered over you. “You’re in such a hurry this morning. If you want to be reckless, I won’t be blamed for the consequences.”

Then a strategic purse of lips followed suit, “I thought you enjoyed my patience.”

Patience. That damned word again.

Screw patience. Whatever consequence he was referring to was burning away any semblance of patience you might have had left. Thus far, he had taken his time with you but he had only taken his time with you. If he could be more crude, you wanted to see it—feel it. 

“Alhaitham,” his entire name rolled off your tongue. Quick and demanding. Your tone only fueled the fire in his seafoam eyes. “Stop talking.”

The end of your words dissolved into a gasp as he thrust into you, hard and sudden, stretching you with a fervor you hadn’t felt before. 

His muscles flexed while you dragged your nails down his spine, closing your legs around him for even an ounce of stability. The rhythm he set was already so relentless that his hands gripped your thighs, pulling them higher around his waist to drive himself deeper, and the change in angle made all sound catch in your throat.

“Haitham—!” a cry rippled from how hips were snapping against yours with a pace that was anything but patient. He had accepted your unspoken challenge so quickly, that nothing would have prepared you. 

Your head swam.

The wet, sloppy slaps of skin meeting skin filled the tent, blending in with your jagged moans and his lower grunts. No part of his brain wasn’t thinking about how soaked you already were, how you welcomed him so easily before he slipped—no—pushed it in. 

His hair clung to his forehead, every movement felt tight and addictive. When he leaned down, his lips brushed the shell of your ear, “Is this fast enough for you?”

You could only whimper in response, feeling your toes curl as his hoarse voice and your own pleasure consumed you. 

He shifted, pulling you onto your side and hooking your leg over his shoulder. The new position sent another shockwave through you, and your priceless whines filled the small space as he drove into you over and over again.

The heat of the tent seemed endless, but so did the hunger between you. Alhaitham’s pace never truly slowed—each time your whines softened, each time you thought the storm of his touch subsided, he just tossed you into a new position, kindling the fire all over again. 

“I want to hear you,” he growled while his chest was flushed against your back. Reaching to lift your leg so his heavy cock could invade you deeper, you tried to muffle your moans into the bedding. But he grabbed your chin, tilting you to look at him, “Head up.” He half-chuckled, “You were so mouthy before. What happened to that?” 

Before you could answer—or think—he shifted again, this time unsteadily pulling you onto his lap. Your knees dug into the bedding but at that point, holding yourself upright proved difficult. His hands gripped your waist, guiding you to ride him as his mouth leisurely latched onto the peak of your breast. The combination left you shuddering, clinging to his shoulders as his fingers pressed bruises into your hips. 

“Did you know,” he slurred against your skin, “that you’re terrible and incredible?” His praise made your cheeks burn but terrible? Terrible was the way he fucking you so hard you could barely roll your hips. 

“Y-You might want to refresh yourself,” you chewed your bottom lip from yet another hard thrust, “On the meaning of ‘terrible.’” You could feel the remnants of your previous orgasms dripping down on him, “Because that’s you.”

Time blurred. You lost count of the positions, of the way he had you on all fours only to have you back in his arms moments later, of how many times you greedily begged for more. Every touch was electric; if only you could clutch him closer. The noises were shameless and the scent of filthy sex and sweat was nothing shy of erotic. 

When he pinned you beneath him again, you felt him stiffen. Every inch that sunk into you felt more desperate and even the way he called your name sounded huskier. You could have sworn the tent walls were ruffling in sync from his losing control. 

Your lips parted in a silent scream and with a final throb around his cock and a deep drawn-out groan in your ear, he released inside you for the first time. Your body drew out his pleasure as his forehead pressed against your shoulder. His laboured breathing told you everything about the ecstasy he was experiencing, like his body and brain were struggling to stay connected. Finally, he pulled out, trembling and sensitive, and collapsed beside you who was still panting. 

Ultimately you got what you wanted: unfiltered crude sex with your insufferably hot research partner. Your pulse ran wild.

A hazy silence settled, broken only by his stroking your hand to check if you were okay. Part of him wondered if he went a bit too far which you wordlessly answered by rubbing him back. He held you, and like last night (and the night before), you lay glistening and tangled together in the aftermath. 

It was a perfect system, a hopeless, delirious cycle.

“Well,” he said as he returned to tracing circles on you, “I think that concludes this morning’s exploration.”

You rolled your eyes, still dizzy and breathless, “Do you think the Akademiya will accept that as your final thesis?”

His lips quirked into a rare, little grin. “Hard to say. Who knows which of the sages might secretly be perverts?” 

“Alhaitham,” you groaned, swatting weakly at his chest. 

But then his arms tightened around you. And you didn’t mind. You didn’t protest. You believed you might have even loved being clad in nothing, lying in a cramped, too-warm tent that reeked in the musk of what transpired.

There was, as he said, plenty of time to finish the project. And if this was part of the process, you weren’t in any hurry.

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

a/n: idk if i love or hate this but it’s so hot where i am rn and the only thing i can do to distract myself from perishing from the heat is to pretend i’m here!!!

dividers by @/adornedwithlight

[controld3vil]

sand walking?

pairing(s): dune 2 cast x actor!reader (platonic!!)

synopsis: requested by this ask!

⤷ alt: how to seduce someone walking on sand.

notes: there hasn't been confirmed for dune 3 yet but denise villeneuve has said he's writing for it to happen. ill patiently wait for the day it's confirmed :) ALSO there are fictional/made-up mentions of the novel for the sake of the reader. they're made to be gender-neutral!! and this includes platonic flirting between cast members. i MAY have gotten carried lmaoo

“I mean- what do you think of the character? Do you think they deserved more screen time?” The clip starts off with you comfortably conversing with the interviewer. To say you weren’t deflecting their curiosity. In actuality, you were eager to learn what others thought about your performance and take on the character. The only other interpretation had on-screen was from the classic 1984 film by David Lynch.

The clip that has been widely retweeted back is of a cute moment you had from the first film of Dune (2021). Before release, little was known about your character’s potential. Apart from the enthusiastic book lovers, film viewers were clueless about what role your character would play after the first movie.

Denise Villeneuve didn’t reveal much to you in person. He wanted to keep ideas confidential until he was 100% on board making the project come to life. Still, rumors sparked through speculation and interviews with the cast members of Dune. Including an infamous short, that you forgot about, of yourself boasting about your hopes and wishes for your character.

“Yes! How could we not!” On the opposite side, the interviewer exclaimed as they leaned forward from their chair, closing into your proximity. Their hands clenched, tightening their grip on the flash card, full of questions. “The movie left us on such a cliffhanger. I think everyone would want to know what happened to Nerre,”

“That’s for Denise to decide,” Nodding you gave a relaxed smile while lifting one leg over the other. Your shoulders relaxed, feeling content and ecstatic about their response. “I can’t confirm anything until he gives me the green light to say anything,”

“I’ve also talked to Timothée this morning,” A shift in gears as the journalist flipped over another flashcard. You two had just fussed about the finale and its dramatic cliffhanger. “And all he had to say were the sweetest things about you,” At the mention of your costar compliments, you felt your skin heat up. Your eyes soften, expressing only fondness for the lovely message. A soft awh escaped your breath. “He’s very sweet. Timothee's always been fun to be around.” A fervent chuckle from the interviewer sends them into a feverish excitement. “And- he said- you had great flirting skills!” It was then your face morphed into complete shock and giddiness . “Really?!” The camera pans up on your initial reaction, eyes popping out in surprise and a bubbling laugh slowly erupting. “I’m glad someone appreciates my talents!”

Without context, the short clip seemed harmless. Your sheer reaction to Timothee's comment emphasized the fun chemistry the two of you had on set. Mirroring much of Paul and Nerre's friendship, you both complimented each other well in the first film, being the youngest surrounded by well-renowned actors. But the reason for the recent spike of interest was partially from Dune: Part Two and their interviews.

Fast forward to the debut of Dune: Part Two, it made success at the box office. Even surpassing the first film altogether. The entire cast of Dune was proud of the work they've made. The introduction of new characters played by wonderful actors and actresses all around.

Weeks after the early IMAX screenings, press interviews were being published amongst of the young cast members. A particular interview by IGV Presents brings together Timothee Chalamet, Zendaya, Florence Pugh, Austin Butler, and yourself.

This would be considered to be one of your first interviews with the Dune cast after the box office release. You felt nervous yet overjoyed at the same time to be meeting your co-actors again after the conclusion of filming had taken place.

The spokesperson of IGV, Simon Harkness starts off the interview strong with a pleasant greeting. "Congratulations on an incredible movie. Uhm it is the definition of a sci-fi blockbuster and is absolutely phenomenal, so huge congratulations to you all!"

"Thank you!" The five of you all politely cherish his kind words.

"It's so lovely to talk to you. Um- Timothee, Zendaya, I'm going to start with you. This is probably the hardest question I've ever asked in an interview so you've been warned." An endearing giggle can be seen from Zendaya before allowing him to continue. "Sand walking, who does it better?"

Timothee immediately lifts up his microphone. "I'm going to give it to Zendaya here." Without glancing at her, you could tell Zendaya was happily smiling at his compliments. How quick he was to answer made it seem how well connected the cast was even given the amount of time spent together. The main lead continues very swiftly, diving more into how cinematic the shot was from an outside perspective, "I think it's the most- one of the most cinematic shots in the movie and she really has it very precisely down but it's the nature of the movie too that she's supposed to be better than Paul,"

"Is that what it is?" In return, Zendaya who sat next to him gave him a teasing look.

Quietly from afar where you sat, next to Austin Butler, you whispered. "He acted like he couldn't do it but," Soft snickering can be heard across the room.

"In fairness to me, I was going 65%- 65 to 70 too hard," Chalamet reasons justly as he glances in your direction before looking back to the interviewer.

"You dumbed it down," Harkness nods in a high-spirited manner. Right after, Timothee reluctantly agrees, keeping the mood light-hearted.

"I had to!"

"Just how committed you are!" Austin steps in, joining in on the joke.

"Zendaya, you can take that crown. I love that," The brown-haired man reassures as she recuperates with appreciative laughter. In truth, it was a beautiful scene between Paul and Chani you were lucky enough to witness behind the camera. And contrary to their light banter, you thought both actors did well at accomplishing what it was meant sand walk. Truthfully you had no scenes beyond walking through the desert but understanding the mechanics and traditions of the Fremen was as fascinating as it was watching it up close.

Suddenly it was Florence's turn to speak, "Zendaya taught me the other day and I had to just stop to stare at her feet."

"The swoopy swoop?" You asked in a cutesy tone, with furrowed eyebrows. You couldn't help but remember the few instances you witnessed your costars practice the sand walk to be one of the more adorable rehearsals you've seen on the sand.

"Yeah, her feet were so pretty! She was doing the swoopy swoops," The blonde acknowledges, waving her hands in a zig-zag pattern. As the replication of water and how her feet moved.

The interviewer's eyes light up, "Honestly I tried to swoopy swoop at home- um because we have a carpet in the bedroom."

"How did it go?" The mixed actress puts forward.

"Awful!" An assembly of bewilderment is seen between Zendaya and Florence as they quickly question why. However, they reassure him in the end that they would practice together in hopes of him archiving the sand walk.

Talks with simple questions went down the row. Florence discusses her experience from her beginnings, starring in Little Women, comparing those scenes in terms of royalty to Dune. In both films, she's worked with well-known actors and now Christopher Walken as the emperor and her father. She raves about how it was a dream come true. A dream she had when she was little. From this experience, Florence emphasizes the concept of learning and observing her fellow actors.

Another intriguing topic follows Austin for his experience between learning choreography fighting and Elvis's iconic rubber legs. In a sense, as you leaned forward on one of your seats, you became fascinated by the Elvis actor's comparison of it all. While Elvis's moves were televised and had to be precise for the camera, being a Harkonnens gave him more leverage in the freedom to move. It was a captivating question that you couldn't help but want to listen to more.

Comparisons aside, you didn't have much to note for your upcoming question. Which is exactly why you felt unprepared for what he was going to ask.

Harkness brings up your name for the finale. "You have done stunt work before. For the first and now second film, I've heard you compared it to rather- dancing. Is that what you think your relationship with the choreography has been?"

You gave a content hum, "You see it with the Fremen or Harkonnens right? Everyone moves so differently and for the course for me, I've had to adjust my choreo little by little. And I think that analogy you mentioned really does relate back to dancing. I don't know if it's because I was once a dancer or that I'm a visual learner," You shrug your shoulders, "But I see the choreography as a dance routine. You're moving alongside people, doing hits and jabs. Both are very hands-on so I would like to approach it as something I can always work on." Satisfied with your answer, you clapped your hands together.

"Kind of like sand walking no?" It was then that Zendaya swerved counterclockwise to face you.

Bringing back the conversation they had in the beginning about sand walking, your eyes instantly brighten. "Exactly like that!"

"I feel like you would be great at sand walking," Florence puffs, mindlessly shaking her microphone back and forth. "You- You already got the moves." Even Timothee came into agreement, humming and commenting you worked well with the choreography.

Austin Butler raises his microphone. "I think you gotta learn with me because I don't think I could,"

"Nonsense!" You give him a silly glare. "If you can do a killer rubber leg, I think you can sand walk." Florence and Zendaya both mumble their support and your male costar leans to have his arm around the back of your chair, warmly.

"Is that an open invitation I see?" The spokesperson, Harkness giggly pokes at than the rest of the cast turns to look at you. Your scowl morphs into an innocent one.

"Hm?" As you squint your eyes in hesitation.

"I feel like you could have the potential to sand walk but just with the right partner," Timothee chimes in, spreading his arms over his chair as well. Your brows furrowed accusingly, as if wanting to clarify what he meant by his comment.

And the French actor gives you a look, one you became so sure of. "Mm right!" A slight eruption of laughs before you straightened your back with proper posture. "With just the right partner,"

There were also hints mentioned in your interview with Timothee surprisingly not. This was one of the more recent ones to be published, as you finally were able to pair up with your favorite co-star (besides Brolin) from the first film. The two of you had strong chemistry despite having less screen time together in the second film.

The beginning of the video cuts to a clip of you answering an innocent question. "What I think about every day, is Timothee going to send to me a meme today? Uh, I hope so!" You give a sarcastic look to your seat partner as he latently laughs in front of you. "Or when is he going to text me you know?"

It then transitions to an interviewer from Heart commercial radio as he shouts out your names. "How are you both?"

"I'm doing good!"

"Going great!"

The radio show was more relaxed than you would've expected as the spokesperson was very down to the earth with his conversation starters and contagious warmth. Timothee was able to catch up with him from his last interview when he premiered his Wonka film. Eventually, the interview became more casual discussing working together, cooking, and trendy topics.

Timothee and you both went back and forth on favorite memories you had of the first film. And talking about the new cast members and new elements it had brought to the table for the film itself.

"Cool new characters this time," As you played around with the fuzzy microphone the camera crew gave to you.

"Yup lots of new people to meet," Timothee adds on, nodding.

The interviewer proceeds with the question, "And also you have seen- there's a clip about of you running around actually." He signals to you, "Of your reaction to something Timothee said about your performance in the first film,"

"Oh! I've seen it," Almost instinctively, your co-star raises his hand. "I was supposed to send it to you but I forgot." As he turns, to finds you looking lost at the topic at hand.

"Really what was it?" You almost looked concerned, seeing how you didn't understand what they meant.

Luckily for you, the Heart radio spokesperson managed to get a hold of the video from his phone, "It was a little callback of Timothee raving about your flirting skills."

As it plays, the camera zooms in on you and your co-actors reaction. The French actor couldn't help but look slightly embarrassed but smitten when the timing of your reaction came on screen. While you held an intrigued stance, arms crossed and a content grin.

"I am pretty good at flirting,"

"You really are, huh." At the same time, you both turn to make eye contact.

"I also heard Tim- that you thought that they would be your love interest initially?" At the radio speaker's inquiry, you couldn't help but in mid-sentence, finally, swerve your head suddenly.

"Yeah well, fun fact actually," The male actor tries to reason, sitting up. "In the novels, Paul and Nerre almost did become a couple!"

It was a well-known fact of that in the first novel, there had been slight changes to the story. Initially, it was said that the author, Frank Herbert had planned for Paul and Nerre, the character you played to have a romantic connection after the fall of House Atreides. Nevertheless, it was later scrapped for another plot, that of instead having Chani as the love interest. But even decades later after the novel’s release, it was something fans still fuss about.

"Oh, I heard about that!" Almost in awe, you nodded, your attention fully on Chalamet, wondering how far he was willing to go beyond spoilers.

"Do you think Nerre would ever meet someone then?" The afro man questions, adjusting his microphone. "Since- Paul has Chani, I feel like if we ever get a potential third film, that could open some doors!"

"If a third film could happen," You start, fiddling with the lining of the mic cover, "I hope so! I mean I got the moves, I got the skills!"

"Keep practicing your sand walk and we'll see," Timothee cutely chimes as you proceed to blow a raspberry at him. Only for him to lightly swat you away.

Despite your failures to have scenes of sand walking, your cast of a crew were more than happy to show you. Javier Bardem and Jessica Ferguson were quite supportive in your interest for something you did not have any part-time. A few behind the scene videos show the actor demonstrating from afar the slower version of the walk.

Though your back was facing the camera, viewers would pick up and recognize it to be you. Jessica as well was off to the side, in her luminescent costume of a million robes, clapping from side to side.

Another later pans to you taking long strides across the sand in the background. In front of the camera are Josh Brolin and Javier having their turn in the video, to discuss their relationship and the previous they have worked on together. However, viewers couldn't help but pinpoint your figure alongside the frame trying to master the patterns of what Javier taught you from the previous clip.

[monster-disaster]

[orc] Örök 1/4

orc!Örök x human!Reader

Good to know: yearning, age gap (no mention of number), curvy!Reader.

Summary: Örök meets you on his vacation.

Örök's story // Main Masterlist // Monster March on my Patreon

He shouldn't look. He has better things to do than ogle a stranger, and yet, none of them come to mind as his gaze betrays him. The orc tells himself it’s just a passing glance, but it isn’t. He scans and lingers, drinking in every detail as if committing you to memory. Maybe it’s the way the morning light pours through the tall windows, warm and soft, highlighting the smoothness of your skin. Or maybe it's the bikini cover-up. The delicate thing leaves little to the imagination with its see-through fabric. Underneath, the deep red swimwear does nothing to hide the shape of you. Your breasts strain against the cups, threatening to spill over, and the thick waistband of the bikini bottom only serves to show off the curve of your waist and the soft, irresistible pouch of your stomach.

Fuck

When he finally forces himself to lift his gaze, his breath hitches. You are staring right back at him.

Oh, fuck

The soft smile curling your lips makes your cheeks round even more as you nod in his direction, and before he can stop himself, his hand lifts in an awkward wave.

Smooth. Real smooth.

Then you turn, returning your attention to the long breakfast buffet, and it’s almost cruel how the sheer cover-up flutters with the shift of your hips, offering him the perfect view of your ample ass. His fingers twitch in the air before he lets his hand drop, reaching for his coffee just to distract himself from the fire burning low in his gut. And on his cheeks.

When he finally forces himself to look away, he shifts his focus to the world beyond the tall windows. Outside, the Resort glows under the early sunlight. The bright blues of the pools shimmer like liquid diamonds, and around, the huts dot the landscape with tall sand dunes in the background.

"Excuse me?"

The sudden voice jolts him out of his thoughts, and when he snaps his head back, the orc finds himself face-to-face with you. You are still smiling with a plate in your hands piled high with colorful fruits and pancakes drizzled in thick, glistening strawberry sauce.

"Yes?" His voice comes out hoarse, rougher than intended.

"Can I sit here?" you ask, shifting your weight slightly. "I'm afraid every other seat is taken."

You glance around, and he follows your gaze. The hall hums with life, filled with chatter and the soft clatter of cutlery. Almost everyone is here to enjoy the morning hours and the breakfast the Resort has laid out.

"Of course," he says, standing so quickly his own chair scrapes against the floor. He reaches for the other one beside him and pulls it out for you without thinking.

Your lips curl into a wider smile, and something warm flickers in your gaze. "Thank you."

As he pushes in the chair, your scent fills his nostrils; a heady mix of sun, coconut, and something lightly floral. Fresh and soft. It sinks into his senses before he can even process it.

"My name is Y/N," you say, meeting his gaze again.

"Örök."

"Örök," you repeat, his name rolling off your tongue in a way that makes his grip tighten around his mug. It sounds foreign on your lips, yet oddly sweet. His ears twitch while you offer a warm smile, brushing away that brief moment of hesitation in your eyes.

"It’s beautiful here, no?" you ask, gesturing toward the window, where the sun casts golden light over the pools and swaying palm trees.

Your voice still lingers in his ears as he nods, forcing his focus back to the conversation. "Beautiful," he agrees.

"How long have you been here?"

"Just a few days," Örök replies, trying, and failing, to keep his gaze from drifting to the way you dig into your breakfast. You eat with unabashed enjoyment, humming softly as you take a bite of the syrup-drenched pancakes, then follow it with a piece of pink, juicy fruit. The flick of your tongue over your lips threatens to do things to him. His voice comes out rough, forced. "You?"

"I arrived yesterday," you say between bites, pausing only to lick the remaining strawberry sauce from your lips again. The motion makes them glisten, and Örök has to lean back in his chair, gripping his coffee for dear life to keep himself from leaning closer, from wondering how you might taste. "My family surprised me with the trip," you continue, oblivious to his inner battle. "They said I needed a break from work."

"What do you do?"

"I edit videos for YouTubers."

Örök arches an eyebrow, hoping it doesn’t come across as judgmental, but you only laugh.

"You do know what YouTube is, right?" you tease, tilting your head.

He exhales, shaking his head. "I'm not that old."

"Okay," you giggle. The sound, soft and playful, curls around his ribs and tightens something low in his belly. "So yeah, people send me their raw footage, and I edit it into something watchable."

"Sounds interesting," he replies, mostly because he doesn't know what else to say, but you see right through him anyway. The knowing, mischievous glint in your eyes makes his cheeks warm, and he curses his own reaction.

"And you?"

Örök hesitates, then answers. "Retired. My kids sent me here to relax."

His kids, who are probably around your age, he reminds himself. He doesn’t say it out loud, though.

"That’s sweet of them," you say, smiling. "And how do you like it here?"

"It’s... good," he hums, but the way you raise an eyebrow makes him chuckle. "I’m not used to this… doing nothing all day." Ever since he stepped away from work, he’s always found something to keep busy. Sitting idle still feels strange for him.

"What did you do before retiring?"

"Had a car repair shop," he replies. "I mean, I still have it, but my boys took over a few years ago."

You nod thoughtfully. "How many kids do you have?"

"Three. Two boys, one girl. The boys stayed in town, running the shop. My daughter moved to Meriad. She is a nurse."

A soft smile spreads across your lips as you wipe away a smudge of fruit juice from the corner of your mouth before he can go crazy about it. "I’m sure you are proud of them."

"Very."

There’s a brief pause before you ask, voice gentler, more careful this time, "And your wife?" You glance around as if expecting to spot a woman who could be his wife. There’s something deliberate in your question, but he forces the thought away.

"Widow," he says. The word drops like a stone between you. "Almost ten years now."

Your brows knit together in sympathy. Then, before he can wave it off, you reach out and place your hand on his. The warmth of your palm contrasts sharply with the roughness of his callused fingers.

"I’m sorry," you say, thumb grazing the back of his hand.

He nods. "Thank you." Then, straightening slightly, he shifts the conversation. "And you? Are you here alone?"

"Yeah," you nod, pulling back your hand from his. Örök presses down his palm on the white cloth of the table so he doesn't reach after you. "The plan was to come with one of my cousins, but she couldn’t make it. We couldn’t change the date, so… here I am."

Örök hums in acknowledgment, but his mind catches on a small detail even if he hates himself for it; you don’t mention a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.

A few seconds of silence settle between you before you push back your chair and stand up with an easy grace. Out of habit, Örök rises to his feet as well.

Your eyes flick up to his in surprise before your reaction softens with another smile. "Well, I better go. I’ll see you around, I hope."

"I'm sure," he says, his voice steadier than he feels.

You linger just a second longer, tilting your head slightly before flashing him one last grin. "Bye, Örök."

And just like that, you turn away, walking toward one of the archways leading out of the dining hall. He doesn’t mean to watch, but his gaze follows the sway of your hips and the effortless confidence in your steps.

At the last moment, you glance over your shoulder, catching him staring. There’s a teasing glint in your eyes before you disappear around the corner, leaving Örök dropping back into his chair, running a hand over his face.

It feels like he has just run a damn marathon.

A whole day passes before Örök sees you again, though he is aware of the way his eyes have started to scan his surroundings more than usual, almost unconsciously, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of you. He tells himself it’s nothing, just a passing interest, nothing more, but even as he walks around the Resort, taking in the sun-drenched views, he is aware of his gaze flickering toward any movement, any flash of red that can be your bikini or the flutter of your cover-up. He tries to busy himself with the little things around him; a quick dip in the pool, or a good book, but nothing captivates him more than the sight of you the next day.

It’s at the front of the Resort, where the buses line up to take guests into the city. It's still early in the morning, but the air is already heavy with heat. You stand a little apart from the group, typing something on your phone while the orc finds himself drawing closer before he even realizes it. His feet are moving on their own, and he can't seem to stop until he reaches you.

Your eyes light up instantly, and his name rolls off your tongue in a soft, effortless melody. "Örök."

"Good morning," he replies. "Are you going into the city too?" He gestures toward the line of vehicles.

"Yes," you nod, shifting your weight slightly. "I thought I’d buy some presents for the others at home before I forget."

Örök nods in understanding. "I thought the same."

The conversation flows easily after that, quiet but comfortable. There's no rush, no need to fill every second with words. Just the occasional exchange, the soft warmth of your voice, the way your lips curve ever so slightly when you speak. It’s… easy.

As the line in front of you thins, he lets his gaze sweep over you. You wear a simple white dress. The neckline dips just enough to hint at the curves beneath, and when you turn slightly to glance toward the bus, the fabric shifts, giving him an unfair glimpse of the smooth skin of your cleavage.

He clears his throat, dragging his gaze away before he lingers too long. "After you," he murmurs, stepping aside at the entrance of the bus to let you go first.

The ride passes in a comfortable mix of conversation and silence. Every now and then, laughter bubbles between you, carried by the gentle swaying of the bus as it rumbles over the desert roads. The barren landscape stretches for miles with golden sand rolling under the blazing sun until it changes into the edge of the city. Buildings rise, glimmering.

The air outside shimmers with heat, waves rolling along the streets as the bus slows and pulls to a stop at the heart of the city.

You step off the bus together. "Where do you want to go?" you ask, turning toward the orc. Your gaze scans over the lively streets, the rush of people weaving between each other, the small stalls lining the sidewalks selling everything from handcrafted jewelry to colorful fabrics that ripple in the light breeze.

Örök follows your gaze, taking in the movements, the sounds, and the pulse of the city alive around you. "How about there?" he suggests, nodding toward the crowd of people and the long rows of boutiques.

You grin. “Looks perfect.”

Without thinking much about it, Örök offers you his arm, and just like that, the two of you fall into step together.

The next several hours pass in a sun-drenched blur of exploration, laughter, and fleeting touches that neither of you fully acknowledge, but don't stop. You weave through the bustling streets together, passing vibrant storefronts and stopping at every boutique that catches your eyes.

At some point, Örök finds himself carrying more than a few bags. Most of them belong to you, but when you offer to take them from him, he just shakes his head.

"You know I can carry my own things, right?"

"I know," Örök rumbles, adjusting the bags effortlessly. "But it doesn't mean I can't be a gentleman."

The moment the words leave his mouth, he cringes. He suddenly feels older, more aware of the years that separate you, and he braces himself for some lighthearted jab about his age, but instead, you tighten your grip on his arm and lean in, brushing a soft kiss against his cheek.

"You are the sweetest, Örök," you murmur, warmth dancing in your eyes.

He grunts, shifting under your touch, more flustered than he would like to admit. "Well," he clears his throat, "let's keep going. What do you think of that shop?" He nods toward a boutique with long, colorful dresses swaying in the warm breeze at the entrance. The fabrics are light and airy, embroidered with delicate patterns.

Your eyes light up instantly. "Oh, they’re so pretty!"

Without another word, you tug him forward until you find a dress that catches your attention; a flowing white piece adorned with light blue designs.

"What do you think?" you ask, holding it up against your body. "Too long?"

"Not with high heels," Örök reasons.

You nod, humming in agreement. "I’ll try it on."

The orc follows you into the shop and watches you disappear into the small changing area, the curtain swaying slightly in your wake. There is a faint rustle of fabric, a soft hum, and then, your voice.

"Örök?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think?"

And then you step out.

The breath leaves Örök's lungs in a sharp exhale. His wide eyes take you in, lingering over every detail; the way the soft, airy fabric drapes over your body, skimming your form just enough to hint at the curves beneath. The sleeves dip low on your arms, baring your shoulders, while the bodice meets in a delicate heart shape over your cleavage. But it's the skirt that really tests him. The long, flowing material parts at your thigh, revealing glimpses of smooth skin with every shift of your weight. It’s long enough to graze the floor, but he can already imagine how the high heels would change the look, making you even more-

Fuck

"So?" you prompt when the silence stretches too long, turning slightly to reveal the back and the delicate curve of your spine.

Örök swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry. "It's good," he grunts, rougher than intended. "It really looks good on you."

Your eyes glint as you tilt your head. "Do you think?"

"Yeah." He clears his throat. "Yeah, I do."

You nod, satisfied. "Then I’ll buy it."

The rest of the trip goes on smoothly, filled with easy conversation and the occasional brush of hands as you walk side by side. By the time the bus rumbles back to the Resort, the sky is ablaze with warm hues of orange, pink, and gold, the last remnants of daylight stretching lazily across the horizon.

Lingering just outside the entrance, you turn to Örök with a smile, the glow of the sunset making your features even more radiant. "I had fun today," you say, shifting the weight of your shopping bags in your hands.

Örök nods. "I did too," he admits. He hesitates, rolling his shoulders as if bracing himself before he continues. "Would you like to join me for dinner?"

Your face lights up instantly, eyes gleaming with delight. "I would love to."

[sunboki]

⎯ boy of the forest. ⟡ featuring yang jeongin

🦌 : Greek god! Yang Jeongin x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. Greek mythology! au, Son (unofficial since Artemis swore to celibacy) of Artemis! au, mortal! reader au, slightly sheltered Jeongin (he’s so respectful i wanna cry), fluff fluff fluff, best friends to lovers, slight angst, so soft

WORD COUNT. 8.7k words ☆ 40min read

WARNINGS. usage of arrows, dubcon kiss, mention/heavily focused on greek gods/goddesses, mention of animal bones, inclusion of a venomous snake, playful fighting

AUG'S NOTES. this wait has been going on for too long! so glad to finally present this fic, it holds a whole lot of my heart in it :) pleas enjoy!!

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Since you were a child, both tales and encounters with the children of the gods became a prevalent pattern in life. Friendship with Hermes’ son, those early morning by the water allowing interaction with Poseidon’s child. And yet, your intrigue upon hearing word of the unofficial offspring of Artemis, sired under her teachings and oaths in a forest most avoided drew you infinitely closer. So what happens when curiosity gets the best of you?

or alternatively :

How quickly one can turn from a stranger to a beloved.

“I— I forfeit!”

Shouts Han, smacking the skin of your thigh repeatedly for you to loosen your death-like grip around his head.

Either of you furiously tussle on the muddy ground of Sokcho’s eastern coastline as if routine, where utter delight in each of the messenger-to-be’s visits end in a few new bruises and a judgemental eyeball from your father when you trudge through the door.

With him being the son of Hermes, your daily visits from Han Jisung had been shortened to weekly once he became more and more occupied taking up his role as the messenger god’s offspring, so you truly give it your all each time his face comes into view.

Which usually means bowling the boy over the moment his winged-shoes touch ground.

Of course, all in good fun. You’ve known the kid since you were a child, listening with wonder as he explained all about his life in Olympus, his father, Hermes, his abilities.

Upon first glance he appears a normal, awkward teenager, but gold coloration swimming within his irises and superhuman reflexes, stamina, and speed, you knew better than to believe that.

Luckily, he gives you a fair fight whenever you spar, ensuring no foul play leads to unfair victories. 

Meaning: you win, every time.

Breathing in a huge gasp, the both of you collapse onto sodden soil, chests heaving to replace expelled air. Of course, getting kicked in the stomach and returning the favor with a solid punch to his jaw didn’t help with that factor.

“Three… Three weeks,” You pant, the equally grimy back of your hand swiping strands of hair from a sweaty forehead. 

Han mindlessly grunts from below you, body refusing to move even a mere centimeter.

“Yeah yeah, I get it. I’m nothing against you, rub it in.”

You croak a laugh at the sheer exasperation in his tone, accustomed to your feigned gloating antics.

“No– That’s not it Sungie, I just wanted to say.” Using your arms to hold you up while surveying the similarly battered man whose head rests on your stomach, you tip his chin upwards with a finger, forcing those irrevocably hypnotizing eyes to meet yours.

Never sunken, tired.

Han Jisung was a marvel.

And for a moment, he begins to think you’ve grown soft after these years.

“I still won.”

Nevermind.

Whining with dismay, he takes the hand you extend out to him upon standing, earning a playful smack to the shoulder whilst collecting the shoes so carelessly discarded up by the dunes.

Feet sinking into the warm sand below, you’re offered a moment to spare a glance back to the lapsing waters, tumbling over themselves with morning’s ferocious tides. 

This is the only time you usually get to see him, and as if a mere memory, he’ll disappear all the same.

Townspeople were never fond of children of the gods. They spoke of mischief, ill-doing in response to their appearances. 

A long-lived grudge, one from ancestor after ancestor. And yet, most chose to live ignorant to the swirling deities all around. Those more gracious sunny days when someone mentions Helios, or the subdued waves compared to that of merciless plunder ashore by Poseidon.

As a result, Han never stayed long, leading you to arrive by this peculiarly isolated portion of the beach at dawn for his quick stops before flying off.

You didn’t mind. It was worth it in the end. 

Early wake-ups, that is.

Arriving randomly and becoming a part of you habitually. Like an old cut turning into a scar, commemorating happenings of the past.

It didn’t take your father long to grow curious over what his daughter rushed off to every day. And so, about a year ago, you told him. All about Han’s sudden presence, then developing into a friend–a best friend.

Fortunately, he wasn’t upset in the slightest. Initially disbelieving, perhaps, but not angry nor discontented.

In fact, the man seemed more interested than anything, asking you abundant questions about what he looked like, his features, aptitude.

You didn’t blame him, for it wasn’t every day news of an interaction with the ancient bloodline was spoken of.

Instead, you indulged in those child-like curiosities just as avidly as he inquired, resulting in frenzied conversation at the dinner table for a multitude of hours that night.

“Jisung!” 

Having called his name after the harsh knock back into reality, you fish through your pockets before he leaves in recollection of something you’d been wanting to give him.

The boy’s face deadpans, obviously awaiting another one of your tricks.

“If you flick me off, I’m never coming back.”

Fretful shuffling dulls his mumble inaudible, merely humming in acknowledgment and successfully clutching the metal between your index and thumb after panicked searching.

A pin, like that attached to tote bags, jeans. 

“For you to put on your bag, so you can think of me all the time.” 

The wink of yours causes him to wrinkle his nose and stick out his tongue at you, and you can’t help your smile from growing bigger and bigger the longer he investigates the apparent pin you’ve placed in his palm.

“Is this… a pigeon?”

Out of all the birds you’ve been teaching him about in your realm, he had to pick the most pitiful one.

“No! We studied this one! It’s a hawk, y’know since you’re kind of like a bird?” Flapping your arms to sell the idea, he huffs in exasperation, nonetheless fitting the pin to his satchel overflowing with envelopes.

“Alright alright.” Laughing at the pout tugging at his lips, it’s almost instinctive when you press a sugary sweet kiss to his cheek, soaked up gleefully by Hermes’ son like always.

Han Jisung is very much adoring of your affection. Frankly, any affection overall.

“Think it’s about time you get going, delivery boy.”

Flying into your arms (both figuratively and literally), he places his own kiss to your opposing cheek, grinning that irritably charming grin ceaselessly worn.

Guessing what he’ll say next comes easily, but you still entertain the remark anyway.

“Now our kisses complete each other!” He predictably exclaims, beginning to levitate as the miniature wings on his sneakers beat tirelessly. “See you soon Y/N! Stay safe!!”

Waving in response while he drifts further and further into the atmosphere, you wait until his figure is officially gone to move, stepping toward the dock. This way, you can secure the best view of the sunrise peering above clouds without any interruptions. 

Ideal.

Truthfully, it never irked you being a mortal amongst your assortment of acquaintances.

You enjoyed it, actually. 

Freedom without responsibility to save from evil left you plenty of time to explore, to exist. Not that you didn’t respect them, but the experience seemed too tasking for your liking.

“Back again?”

Speaking of acquaintances.

More specifically speaking of Poseidon as a pair of calloused—though gentle—hands fasten around your calves dangling off the dock’s edge, dragged into the chilly depths below before you can reply by none other than Chan, or, using his birth name, Christopher Bahng.

Son of Poseidon.

Ironic.

Not to mention are there any daughters of the gods..? Jeesh.

Anyway.

You half expected him to tap your shoulder and say hello when hearing him approach from behind as he normally did, the creaking in the dock’s wooden panels enough indication your friend was present on most occasions.

Although unlike Han Jisung, Chris was sporadic in his visits. An old friend from school, he chose to keep his identity a secret, allowing the eccentric father of his to care for the seas while he led a human life teaching kids how to swim at your town’s aquatic center.

Upon finding you speaking to Han in his natural form, a year or so ago, the man eventually found ease in your company as well, comfortable revealing himself and oftentimes showing up to simply converse without turtle necks or high-collared swimsuits concealing the set of gills right below his ears.

In actuality, a part of you was happy he had to hide his gills—meaning that swoon-worthy mop of curly blond hair could grow out, curling behind his ears and furling into wild strands atop his head. 

It didn’t take a genius to note how attractive Christopher Bahng was, and you certainly weren’t immune to the effect.

Careful grasp of your hips reminding you you’re safe, mere moments prevail before breaching the water’s surface, complaining about the cold while the bear of a man practically suffocates you in his arms, twisting side to side in a tight hug despite your ingenuine anger swallowed beneath laughter.

“Seriously, you can’t just do that! I might die of shock one day.”

“Well you’re definitely not that weak from how beat up poor Han looked,” He giggles, gliding with ease through chilled waters no matter your weight, courtesy of his bloodline (and whatever hell of a workout regime he followed).

About to retaliate, you pause, contemplating.

“Hey! You should’ve told me you were watching,” Stubbornly insistent, you allow the gentleman to lift you back onto the dock, his own gill-retaining form remaining in the water beneath your faux glare.

Something he grows sheepish in regards to before pointing to a blanket behind you.

So your near-drowning experience was pre-planned. 

Jerk.

Although you don’t deny the goosebumps littering your arms and legs, hurriedly wrapping the warm fabric around yourself.

“Nah,” He smiles, fingers carding through unbearably endearing locks. “I wanted to see how it played out. You’ve improved a lot.”

Reaching his hand upward where you can return the fist-bump, you nod at the compliment, referring to the fact Chris taught you how to fight in the first place after your many losses against Han’s sneak attacks, something the latter still moped over to this day. 

“Thanks to you,” You add, not missing the dimples dipping into his skin when he grins. 

So. Very. Attractive.

Both turning to witness the fullness of today’s dawn, you can’t help but soak in the sight, carving each detail into your memory. 

How lucky you are to get to see something this striking, the sky painted in innumerable streaks of warm hues.

“Say,” Redirecting his attention back to you, you balance your jaw on your hand, the pretty view provoking a bit of thinking.

“Are there any other god’s here? Or like, children of the gods?”

Assessing your question, Chris’s eyes surf his surroundings thoughtfully, wracking his mind for anyone he can think of.

“Hm,” A decisive grunt sounds where a tugs a plush bottom lip between his teeth. A sight as easy to get infatuated with as the sunrise.

“Han’s an exception since he pretty much drops by everywhere, and I’m over here because of the ocean and the location but uh… there might be? From what I’ve heard there’s likely at least one other here. You might have better luck asking Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin being the son of Eros, god of love. 

Someone you’ve never met, but both Han and Chris relayed he’s the epitome of beauty.

Coming from them, that’s a feat.

You deflate.

“In Seoul?”

Yeah, no way you’re finding a way to Seoul for that. Bus fees, subway fees, coming up with an excuse to your dad? Not happening.

Chris, realizing the unrealistic circumstance, deflates along with you, expression apologetic that you hope to condole with a reassuring smile.

Noting the rate in which your clothes are drying thanks to the warmth of the sun’s rays, you gather your things, stalling when your friend—now drying off beside you—speaks up again.

“Ah, right! There is one! I’ve only met him a few times before at meetings and gatherings, but he’s the son of Artemis– well, not by birth but that’s a long story- and his name is… Jeong? Yin? No no, it’s Yang, Yang Jeongin! Yep, that’s the guy. He’s a little shy but a real cutie.”

Cringing back from the sly manner he nudges your shoulder, the high, mischievous lift of his brows indicate nothing but trouble. 

If this is the mischief the townspeople mentioned, you’re starting to understand now.

Who knew the son of Poseidon was turning into a figment of Cupid?

Then again, you don’t think you’ve ever heard the name before. 

Waving goodbye and thanking him for the help, your hike toward the road fills with nothing but wry banter and playful insults from the older one until dividing separate ways.

Him to the aquatic center to prep for class, you back home.

Routine.

Not-so-gracefully peeling frigid clothing from your body, the warm water of your showerhead after sneaking through quiet halls to the bathroom is greatly welcomed, mind racing while attempting to focus on sudsing shampoo into your scalp. 

But when you close your eyes, reevaluation of past events and retrieval of a specific memory breach the forefront of your mind.

Yang Jeongin.

He’s giving you something to think about.

The Saturday market beckons superior business to any other day of the week, town square amassed in bustling vendors and the clink! of cash deposited into registers alike. As usual, the Bahng family hones the most fish sales (a matter the both of you chuckle at, with Poseidon’s family as the town’s greatest fishermen, ironically).

However, most locals, like yourself, steer clear of wandering customers, often relocating towards the outskirts in search of things to do.

As for today, you spend your time entertaining grandmothers with silly stories, one hand reaching to soothe the ache in your back from arduous strawberry picking. 

February’s harvest is always abundant, Demeter’s grace within the plentiful yield. 

“Alright alright, all I’m saying is keep your eye out, yeah? ‘Could be Hermes’ son delivering your daily mail, you never know?”

The sly smile tugging at your lips is met with conjoined hackling from the elderly crowd, dispelling your tales as nothing more than a jest—ignorant to the truthfulness of the statement.

And yet, having begun a decent distance from the group, your steps in dropping off the strawberries falls still, a sharp, barely perceptible silhouette rushing past rendering whatever earlier thoughts forgotten.  

The forest. 

No, you aren’t superstitious, but the near glow of eyes from those darkened shadows remains unmistakable.

Truth be told, most were advised not to enter these forests. Never had there been an outright reason, simply that it was dangerous and uncharted. 

If uncharted, how could it be dangerous? 

…Right?

Internally shrugging off your logically hesitant thoughts, you maneuver between haggard branches and hawthorn brambles, watching the surroundings forestry darken the further you venture, limiting visibility. 

So green, so alive. As if a new world had opened the moment you stepped inside.

Or, in other words, a new domain.

Someone’s new domain.

The feeling is almost serene, hidden from the outside, lost amongst endless expanses of oak and fern in every direction.

No sign of the eyes.

Hm.

As a precaution, however, you leave an evident mess nearest to the entrance, not planning to go too far in order to make it back before nightfall.

Just.. curiosity, right? You’ll be out and back in no time.

The crackle beneath your shoes of twigs indicate an obvious inexperience towards exploration, each sound contributing to the lift of your head, quickened surveillance trying to take in each and every aspect. 

Birds above, the skittering of animals in trees.

Most notably, no sight nor sound of another human, as if disproving your prior observation.

Just where were those eyes? 

“..Hello?”

If there was, in fact, anything dangerous in this forest, you’ve certainly made yourself noticeable with the volume of your voice.

No response.

A part of you mentally berates the child-like wonder spurring you on, the yearning to discover any spectacle in close radius.

However, of the many things you’d like to quell, getting lost in your thoughts seems insistently stubborn.

It’s a sharp hiss, source easily detectable, that shakes you from the daydream-like headspace, watching the snake begin to lunge as if in slow motion.

A pit-viper. 

This is what makes the forest dangerous.

A sharp gasp on your part, but yet to be faster.

Is this how it ends?

How pathetic.

What brings the air back into your lungs, nonetheless, isn’t the stinging sensation of a venomous bite, but the whizz of an arrow flying right past your cheek, landing in the dead-center of the reptile’s head and gluing it to the leafy underbrush below.

Attention immediately flickering over your shoulder does the oxygen escape your being for a second time, this occasion more awe-filled than terror-stricken.

Those eyes.

Like emeralds where they peer down at you, partially covered by a messy head of hair, tipped in silent inquisition. The savior of yours pays no mind in introduction, adjusting his quiver and bow into its coordinated position where he crouches on a branch, like that of a leopard surveying its next meal.

And although you don’t know how, his name comes to you in minutes, legs like jelly upon finally moving, placing distance between yourself and the now-deceased snake.

“Jeongin? Yang Jeongin?”

His head proceeds to wordlessly tilt, almost uncanny in the owl-like resemblance before he becomes a mere flash of motion again, appearing behind you and earning a choked inhale in return.

Perhaps mute? 

Or maybe not a people person, who knows.

This forest doesn’t seem to have many visitors, anyway.

Yet, he pays you no mind, alternatively focused on retrieving the utilized arrow embedded in the snake’s skull before rising to his full height.

Tall, fits the description well enough.

Yeah. This guy isn’t human.

“Could.. Could I touch you?”

He speaks!

Though, the request was a bit strange despite the man honing a quieted, surprisingly kind voice.

Then it hits you. The familiarity with the name Artemis back during Chris’ introduction.

She’s of the many chastity goddesses, not to mention a hunting and a maiden goddess—meaning she never had children nor married, which explains the complication when Chris was explaining him a few days ago.

Seems you were too enthralled with the news of her son, not necessarily the origins.

Also explaining his hesitation when regarding you, as if you were a being he couldn’t dare lay eyes upon.

It made you want to laugh, honestly, imagining his stubborn goddess of a mother scolding the boy before you.

“Sure,” Comes your reply, observing as Jeongin investigates your arms, apparently searching for bites. He wears this blank expression, but you can see the curiosity hidden within dark, albeit gleaming eyes.

“You’re not smart.”

Oh, thanks.

“Huh?” Craning forward to ensure you heard him right, you’re once again met with a thoughtless face—one that doesn’t seem to understand what those words entail by the lack of guilt visible there.

Yet, it doesn’t seem he means poor. Nor that he understands the complexity of his words.

“The forest.” He waves his hand around, bringing awareness to the rustling in shrub patches and the sound of wings fanning in the distance. “Is not safe for you.”

You only nod, finding the manner in which he speaks to you sweet. 

Not meaning to sound offensive, no, simply observant, informative.

His statements are blunt and quick, lacking emotionality but containing inklings of concern regardless.

This one hasn’t met many mortals, apparently.

“Why?” Pushing further into the topic, you bite back your cough of surprise, blinking rapidly when he links his finger with yours, thumb smoothing over the top of your hand like a caress of consolation.

“Soft,” Jeongin murmurs, oblivious to his actions as you come to understand what he’s talking about, pointing to his own hand opposing yours.

“Rough.”

Ah.

You get it now. 

His way of saying you aren’t fit for the forest, considering your hands being soft compared to his own rough ones, an almost immature way of explanation that you find yourself charmed by.

Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to heed to it.

His warning, that is.

“But what if I don’t want to go?”

A quick blink, gaze fluttering down, then up, then back down.

Thinking face. 

And he pouts. Pouts.

Maybe it’s because of his status, his divinity, how incredulously handsome he is. 

Or maybe it’s just that you’re already smitten.

“Then.” He lets go of your hand, pinkies intertwined for a moment longer than necessary. “Stay close.” 

Immediately after, Jeongin starts off, obviously anticipating you to follow him by the manner in which he glances behind him. 

Somehow, he managed to miraculously end up in a tree, deemed supernatural with the ease in which the action was performed— a perfectly almond-shaped stare investigating your unmoving frame below.

“Afraid?” 

More like surprised. 

“No, you’re just.. different from anyone I’ve ever met before. This is different from anything I’ve ever done before.”

Sparing a few seconds to process your sentence, he wets his lips, maintaining a comfortably balanced squat.

“Who are the people you’ve met before?”

Just when he asks the question does the town lights in the distance flicker off, and you’re reminded of the minimal time you have to stay here.

“I..”

The words die on your tongue. 

You don’t want to go. There’s so much you want to know, so many questions to ask.

“I’ll tell you all about it another time, but I have to go home now,” Reluctantly began, an index is pointed toward the direction you had come from. Or, more accurately, where you thought you came from.

Instead, your once lit path is shrouded in darkness, unable to see exactly where you’re headed, where you even entered initially.

“Home?” Again he tips his head, failing to help the responsible side of your mind force you home.

Cute.

Gosh, Chris wasn’t kidding.

“Yes, home. Outside of here, outside of the forest. Could you,” You internally debate, chewing your bottom lip in contemplation. “Could you take me there?”

Way to put the guy to work.

Save my life, now take me home, please.

Luckily, your brewing guilt is staunched as hastily as it rises with his mere nod. Perhaps you could add that to the assortment of reasons why you like him, honesty making for easy decisions, conversation. 

Extending a hand for you to take, you dutifully keep pace wherever he leads, rather impressed at his awareness, watching his attention swivel left and right, assessing the sounds, sights. 

He certainly belongs to the forest.

Occasionally he’ll stop, holding his arm out in front of you and fetching the wooden bow, firing it into the distance only for a chortled hiss to respond. 

How does he see these things?

“How do you live here?” Thinking aloud, Jeongin hums in response, shaking his head.

“Not here. I live in the center, it’s much safer there.”

No, it must be the other way around. The forest belongs to him. 

And with that, you continue onward till the fading glow of streetlights peeks through leaves and trees, a sign you’re close to home.

“Were you-“ More hesitation, inked in the hitch of your words, the glance over his shoulder. “Were you watching me?”

A foot before he reaches the edge does Jeongin stop, granting you another peek returned with a sheepish smile. 

“I heard voices,” Comes his monotonous reply, hand reaching to gently smooth a bit of your hair between two fingers. “And I like this.”

Your hair, he ambiguously compliments.

I like your hair.

A part of you could have laughed at the hilarity, but instead, you merely grin like an idiot.

A happy idiot.

Your heart nearly stops when he tries returning the action, lips pulled awkwardly high, teeth bared like a feisty cat.

He’s trying to match your smile.

Jeongin is stupid cute. 

Guess you can’t be mad at Chris anymore.

“Bye bye!” Shouted a ways away, one hand lifts to wave to a confused Jeongin who, once again, attempts to mimic you, something you’re placing in your hall of fame of favorite moments.

“Good.. bye.”

His own hand lifting in a makeshift wave remains the single memory left in your mind that night, cursing Hypnos for failing to drag you asleep, instead accursed to roll left to right sleeplessly until dawn allows some shut-eye in its early hours.

And when you close your eyes, the gleaming of emeralds dancing beneath your eyelids betrays all that lies in your mind.

“Jeongin! Jeongin!” Shouted from the edge of the forest, minutes pass squinting at dense foliage before a curious pair of eyes becomes noticeable within the greenery.

From familiarity comes something habitual, like with Han, now with Jeongin. 

Daily visits, hoping to satiate your interest that never wanes. 

That is, under the excuse you’ve gotten into hunting as an explanation to Han, Chris, and your father. Yet, the knowing glances from Chris says he already has an idea of the truth behind your story.

It’s not that you necessarily want to hide your association with Jeongin, but the minuscule thrill gained each step through dark underbrush feels as if some deep secret hides behind the trees, your secret, together.

Plus, the last thing you need on your head is a new target for Jisung’s jeering. 

“I brought snacks, want to try some?” 

Lifting the hand holding a plastic bag of goods, you shuffle closer towards the man, granted an ultimately confused stare at said bag. 

Silent, but expressive enough you don’t require a word to understand his response prior to stepping into his territory.

Immediately, as if he were some treat-adoring puppy, he’s practically breathing down your neck to see inside the bag, chin resting upon your shoulder as you lift the contents, brows furrowed quizzically.

“Banana milk, Gimbap for us to share, and– Honey Butter chips,” You hum, lips curving into a breathless smile watching his fascinated expression simply heighten with each discovery.

“I… was thinking of Soju, but knowing your mother, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Soju?” He echoes, earning your nod as you glance back at where he props his head upon your shoulder.

“Hm,” A nod, reaching up to pat his cheek with a small huff of laughter.

Like a child, this one.

“Alcohol.” 

His small hum of acknowledgment resounds, and you can’t help but choke on a giggle where he presses his nose into your shoulder, seemingly intent on smelling the fabric. 

“Ocean,” Jeongin observes, swift to nod where he wordlessly slips from his place beside you, coaxed into your usual position whenever led to the center of the forest. 

A few weeks back you mentioned your other “godly” friends, namely Chris. That, and the weekly visits to meet Jisung by those same shores, a matter he acknowledges with the dip of his head, taking position in front of you.

Usual position being his hand in yours, always going ahead to scout. …And those repeated glances that leave your heart stuttering in your chest.

Doting, in his silent way of doing things. Those times he’d save the last piece of bread you’d bring from the market solely for you, or listen intently when you’d speak, eyes never straying from yours. 

The tiny crack of a smile tugging at his lips when you’ll tell him about some funny run-in with a grandmother, or the nearly innate sense of knowing he holds, able to detect your fatigue in ample time and beckon you to a carefully arranged bed of furs you find yourself napping in too many times to count.   

No less, he was right that first time you met. The center of the forest is peaceful. A home hidden from the rest of the world.

Compliant streams sifting past aged pebbles, old stone pathways you can’t help but wonder the age of, and the grasses under your feet, soft like a blanket when the both of you flop down after venturing for hours.

Rainy days, when everything is dark and mysterious. And mornings, heat subdued beneath leafy branches.

Wolf and bear-skin, he’s informed the furs as, along with a fox-pelt, fasten over his arrow quiver to salvage throughout winter. 

Skillful, in all manner of things. Utilizing his hunts as food, jewelry, or fertilizer for an ecosystem more abundant than ever imaginable, all seeming to flock around Jeongin like a forest prince.

A good title: Forest Prince.

Like now, where you sprawl on the forest floor, plastic bag ransacked of its contents that Jeongin investigates thoroughly, each item brought to his nose to smell.

Apparently either ignorant or immune to the twitter of a bird having taken perch on his shoulder. 

“I’d say.. these things are kind of like Onigiri, but you’ve never had Onigiri, right? Ah, then it’s like.. seaweed, with rice and meat filling. This one has..”

Continuing on and on, consciously, you’d like to apologize for your neverending chatter, though at the moment, his acknowledging nods and patient gaze fixed your way with each bite you hold to his lips keeps you ignorant, savoring.

Because the thought strikes you how separated he’s been from the world despite residing mere miles from a mortal like yourself, and you don’t want to take advantage of it, take these interactions and teachings with that of the world outside of the forest for granted. 

Not to mention the world inside the forest you learn more of each waking moment, almost well-versed enough to lead to the center of the forest yourself.

Of course, the sweet narrow of his eyes usually keeps the cocky offer at bay most days. 

Most days. 

After receiving his scolding glare upon getting ahead of yourself, the small furrow of his brows where he patches up your scraped knee, the cuts along your forearms from sharp shrubbery patches. 

Learning, growing. You teach him, he teaches you.

An exchange the both of you have grown rather accustomed to, something looked forward to. Day after day, hour after hour. Like children, frolicking in the wooded expanse with an fervor unable to be quenched. 

“Catch me!” You’d call from afar, watching his face alight, ignorant to the matter you were, in fact, his first friend (aside from plenty of forest acquaintances, such as the visiting robins).

And that, that smile curving at his lips became one only you could provoke. Saved just for you. 

Clouds scatter the atmosphere, dousing Sokcho in an endless gradient of grays and blue, hinting at an incoming storm from the low rumble here and there. 

However, your attention has long since been occupied. Located within the forest as if a second home, a focused gaze settles upon the scavenging rabbit scampering along fern-filled underbrush, each careful, apprehensive flicker of its tall ears keeping your breath bated.

“Elbow back.”

Concentration on the rabbit, and simultaneous acknowledgement to the man standing just behind you, pressed to your frame. 

Easily would you have lost focus if not for the grounding hand grasping yours, helping steady your hold on the bow’s grip and ensuring a precisely crafted arrow balances upon the nocking point, aimed directly at the fluffy creature.

Today, Jeongin is teaching you how to wield his bow. 

He’s also dangerously close to you, strands of inky hair tickling your cheek when he leans to murmur pointers in your ear, shifting so the toned bit of his chest presses to your back.

A skillful foot adjusts your own foot’s position, offering a small click of his tongue in assurance towards the clench of your teeth, straining to hold such a massive bow in waiting.

“Now.”

The words are a facet of relief, drawn elbow allowed rest, opposing eye closed for better focus opening to catch sight of your kill.

After weeks of practicing, it seems the rain brought in a meager portion of luck.

Thank you, Artemis, comes your internal thanks, scampering down after Jeongin towards the puncturing arrow, peering over his shoulder as he utters the ordinated eucharistia and gathers the animal to bring back.

And yet, halfway there, he pauses, peering over his shoulder back at you.

You’d like to think a ghost of a smile resided in his eyes, and the slight crinkle in the corners seems to further prove the assumption.

“You did well.”

Ah.

Like those moments by the fire, the quiet times he’ll be there when you awaken from your nap only to find him right there, staring down upon your form with what you’d scorn to call affection.

Getting your hand caught in the brambles, when his gentle thumb wipes away beading tears, smoothing to cup your cheek, shushing the slight sniffles too gently for your heart to bear.

And now, those prolonged irises, fixated upon you as if uttering a prayer. 

Hm.

You want to kiss him.

Momentary, as risky as his earlier closeness back when hunting do you peek down, surveying the near perfect skin of his lips.

A russet brown upper lip seated atop the lighter pink of a dashing bottom lip, glossy from his tongue having rushed across seconds prior.

Quietly, you scold your struggle to swallow.

All the same, it appears you underestimated his aptitude for observation, falling into the learned pattern of rinse and repeat, ignore and move on, while trekking back to the forest’s center.

That, and the same manner his gaze flits to your lips too.

The first time you find yourself imprinting on him is during a regular conversation of yours, sharing strawberries, sparing words here and there between mouthfuls.

Expectantly, a joke comes spouting from your lips, one you watch with pride that earns the upward quirk of his lips in silent amusement, lightly smacking a hand across his leg as if laughing. 

Well, what you do when you laugh, and it takes you a moment before you begin giggling(this time audible) yourself, unable to keep the bubbling sound from pouring out. 

He’s adorable, in almost every way. Exhibiting your habits, mimicking your expressions like a curious babe. 

The expectant manner he studies your expression, as if debating on whether or not that was the right reaction, or the way the slight plush of his cheeks causes his eyes to disappear while still learning to smile, searching your own smile as a blueprint.

He teaches you, you teach him.

Nevertheless, the hunting incident was never spoken of nor added to conversation. His eyes on your lips, yours on his, left forgotten.

A matter you were thankful for, no matter the temporary fix.

Something left unspoken, for as long as the silence would last. 

. 

. 

.

Then again, veracity would poke itself from ignorance in due time, so you savored the quiet even more, kept your eyes clearly glued to his face and his face only.

Not his lips.

Certainly not.

Taken up activities to pull your mind from the temptation, the urge. Hunted more, learned simple skills in healing, tactics in fighting. Day after day, growing stronger, more well-versed with your surroundings, abilities.

Some days called for peaceful tasks, like finding the correct berries or leaves for herbal salves, detecting those of foul intent and the best way to dispose of them. 

Others sweat-inducing, leaving you to heave for your breath and clamber back to your feet.

If Chris could teach and Hermes could bow to your fighting prowess, Jeongin could battle. Effortless in the manner his footsteps pound on grassy terrain, wielding a dagger as if a maestro—leading an orchestra to a haunting finale down to the depths of the Underworld.

And for once, you hate ever being cocky, inviting him to “try his hardest” despite remaining blindsided to the utter depths of Tartarus you feel your head being dipped into with each practiced swipe of his hand, sharpened dagger narrowly avoided for an eight time.

Trembling legs force yourself stable, the quiver of your thighs betraying the cruel, human need for rest, recuperation.

But no, determination beckons another outcome, lights a fire in your veins. Knowing of the sensible outcome being his victory, unwilling to back down.

Perhaps it was that fire, that anger and frustration when you glared at him from across the clearing that kindled his own bonfire, one crackling, with blue flames licking a smoky sky where a usually monotone expression seems to glow.

The potential of a god.

“Cut me,” He’d said an hour or so ago, towards the beginning of your sparring. Logically, you laughed off the offer regardless of his seriousness—for gods were immune to the inflicted agonies.

Right about now though, the offer is tempting. That, and the irritation with both yourself and him continues to take life, rooting itself into your chest like the enormous cypress in the forest’s center.

In a flash of will-power, your legs are rushing forward, each thump of your heartbeat divisible within your eardrums, battering against your ribcage as the Minotaur to his Knossos labyrinth.

The weapon of choice in hand, your own dagger, comes rushing outwards, knuckles a ghastly white with the tightness of your grip.

I move left, he’ll swerve below then back. Or right? Or—

The pivot of his left heel, and you know this movement, body reacting without thinking to counteract.

Slice!

“What..” Both heaving for air that seems too slow in entering your lungs, feeble words manage from your lips.

“What color does a god bleed, Jeongin?”

And looking up, you aren’t met with an Olympian’s wrath nor cry for vengeance, but a grin, toothy and amused. His grin of satisfaction, and you feel your breath catch in your throat, chest aching from the cough elicited in return.

Red. Red rivulets spill from the thin slice across his cheekbone, curving down the sculpted expanse of his neck and disappearing to stain his clothing.

His true smile, proud and satiated.

“Same color as you, we just don’t run out.”

Snide remark met with a short snort of yours, you find the camera of your mind shuttering, capturing this moment as one of a kind, a new side to the man you thought you knew all angles of.

Though it seems he is more than three-dimensional. Today proves that.

His thumb reaches to swipe at the stinging infliction, quieting your apology with a sidelong glance and noiselessly kneeling down in front of you, back facing the confused tip of your head.

“Get on.” Jeongin grunts, and you would have laughed if not for the worsening ache in your legs, the way your body feels of lead after much exertion, prompting no trace of protest where you flop atop his spine.

Silence, a common occurrence when with Jeongin. Never uncomfortable, especially not as you press your nose into his shoulder, inhaling that signature, earthy scent of petrichor, savor the warmth his body always seems to emit, the gentleness of his hands in supporting your thighs around his waist. 

Not to mention the intermittent squeeze of his grasp upon your skin, as if to assure you of your approaching distance back “home”, or, what you now call your second home.

Like a sleeping spell enacted by the sweetest of voices, you’re asleep instantly, your last glimpse of life coming in the form of soft furs enveloping your body; kind, calloused hands cradling your cheeks for a moment longer before allowing solitude.

By the time your lashes dust remnants of slumber from view, the majority of your ailments: cut knees, arms, have been tended to, the nap providing ample recovery time.

And in front of you, a pile of plucked day-flowers and Jeongin’s hunched form, braiding the stems.

“Mmh..” The sleepy hum pulls his brow-knitted-concentration awry, and you’d like to cry watching the sharp narrow of his eyes soften simultaneously, arm extending to run a delicate palm over your forehead, brushing stray bits of hair from your eyes.

“I’m making bracelets,” An invitation in the lilt to his tone, the division of his pile towards you.

“Would you like to make some as well?”

Ah. He’s too much and never enough all at the same time.

Taking to braiding the twines as well speaks on your behalf, the afternoon’s quietness interrupted by a shrilling warbler and the wisp of wind rustling branches, swirling leaves into miniature tornadoes.

“Hm…” A bit of your humming breaks up the stillness, careful to avoid delicate petals amid the process. “My friends and I used to make these for our crushes, or just between friends, yeah?”

Across from you, Jeongin sits, his legs crossed, lips puffed in thought whilst slender fingers intertwine the three bits of vine together.

“..Crushes?”

The paling of his features upon peeking up at you indicate he certainly had no clue about the figurative meaning of “crushes”, and you have to pretend to cough to keep from snorting with giggles.

Day-flower bracelets and talk of crushes after nearly battling to the death, apparently.

“Like, um, people you like. Lots of people call them their crush,” Patient, no less, where the boy nods, his clumsy fingers growing acclimated to weaving the flowers along string, the delight evident in his expression after completing a bracelet a sight worth remembering.

What you hadn’t anticipated was being handed the bracelet once he finished it, speaking so matter-a-fact despite the words leaving parted lips.

“For my crush.”

Now it’s your turn to pale, white as a sheet.

Huh?

Then it hits you, slow to ease the finished bracelet over your wrist.

“Ah, I meant “like” as in, uh,” A pause, wracking your mind for a decent definition. “Are interested in, romantically.”

That usually indifferent gaze of his transforms into eyes wide as saucers, the nervous tightness of lips and redness of his ears making you want to squeal.

Cute.

It’s scary how often you think that about him, every little thing swoon-worthy.

“I apologize.”

No, no.   

“No! I didn’t- you didn’t understand, Jeongin. ‘S okay, seriously.” Exhaling wearily, one hand lifts, giving his hand an encouraging squeeze of reassurance. “Thank you. I love the bracelet.”

“Good.” A small sigh you’d assume of relief slips from his lips, chortling to himself before returning an identical squeeze of your hand, falling into a shared cloak of silence.

Not awkward, however. Just quiet. Giving you time to lift your intertwined fingers and marvel at the fact you feel you’ve known him forever, not mere months. 

The plentiful veins stretched across the pale back of his hand, so alternative to the sunlight seeming to blaze past the canopy’s leaves, able to sear your skin tan in a matter of days.  

From a passerby’s point of view, perhaps he would appear normal, if only slightly.

You know better.

Unconsciously, your thumb smooths over the bumpy veins, behaving as if able to feel the rush of immortal blood through blue, green, and purple channels connecting to a perpetually beating heart.

“Same color as you, we just don’t run out.”

So why wait, when he’ll have eternity and you’ll have a lifetime?

“I think you’re becoming my crush.”

And other times, the truth would be announced before it could announce itself.

“I’m sorry if that’s confusing.”

His failure to flinch away calms your nerves, for now. Weakened courage, nonetheless, keeps your eyes averted.

“Similar to your hair,” A pause, your gaze flickering up to his as if to translate the expression prior to his reiteration, prior to the agreeing nod and two fingers fidgeting with a tress of your hair, just like the first time you met him in these woods.

“Similar to your hair, I like that too.”

And he goes back to bracelet-making, as if speaking about the weather and not returning feelings you once believed were one-sided.

So this is love.

Is it the truth that every tale of love leads to tragedy? 

Orpheus’ madness leading to abandonment of his beloved Eurydice back into the Underworld, his true love never to be seen again but instead remembered in his laments, his lyre? 

Or is it just a coincidence that the center of the forest is empty this time? That his quiver of arrows has gone amiss?

Hunting, maybe.

Then again, he’s always been first to detect you—the sweep of a bird or a rush of air indicating his impending arrival.

Today, stillness of the wind sends goosebumps littering up your arms, cupping your hands over your mouth to shout his name.

And no one replies.

Not a soul.

Jeongin may have grown more sly, more confident while in your company, but no such joke like this would be played, that you knew.

Which is why, in a panic, your feet thunder towards the closest confidant of yours other than the Forest Prince and a soon-to-be Messenger god, storming past nagging thorn patches pricking your wrists and off towards the tides.

“Chris!”

A sharp shout, the unevenness of your tone apparently evident, for Chris looks rather disgruntled, concerned where he pokes his head from the waters at the end of the dock.

An overreaction, possibly. However, an absence after nearly seven months of routine attendance can’t help but twist your gut the wrong way.

“Yes? Hello? What’s wrong, sweetheart? You hurt? Innie hurt?”

‘Innie’, his nickname for Jeongin that, in your normal state would have gathered a laugh.

This time excluded.

Quick hands fumble to gesture your discontentment, scrambling to unearth comprehensible sentences.

”I don’t- I don’t know where he is and- what if he’s hurt? Or maybe he’s in trouble with Artemis? Could I have gotten him in trouble? What if I never see him agai—“

“Y/N.”

Salvation in his grounding hands, human legs having sprouted without your acknowledgement to join you on the dock. Meanwhile, your frenzied disposition establishes ignorance to the water droplets clinging to his fingertips, mending the thorny cuts while trying to level the pound of your chest.

“Breathe with me, okay?”

Focusing your eyes on his lips isn’t something you haven’t done before, but this time it’s different. He’s steadying, a low tide receding the worries from your brain as you follow his breaths.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Another.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“First off, the most likely cause behind his disappearance would be his mother, we both know that, hm? If that’s the case, I have no doubt in a day or two he’ll be back. You know how I have my duties with m’ dad, yeah?”

Though, he’s faster than you in catching the telltale signs of your recurring worries, clicking his tongue as if scolding a student of his in his swim-class.

“And when Jisung stops by tomorrow, I’ll ask him to bother his dad about it, okay? Leave it to Hermes to hear every conversation in Olympus.”

His face lights up seeing your meager smile, index brushing your lashes of their bubbling tears.

“There’s that pretty smile.” A soft coo, and you playfully swat at his hands, the second-long eye-contact a wordless “thank you” he assures back with a wink, pulling you into a tight hug before separating.

“And don’t go worrying, alright? He’ll be back for the forest, sure, but he wouldn’t leave your side too, and I think we both know that.”

An affectionate pat to your cheek and he vanishes like an apparition, the splash of water a ways away his only source of detection and your last chance to scold his insinuations.

But, for all you know, he could be right.

Jeongin wouldn’t leave your side, and a part of you knew that from the start.

Nonetheless, while Chris badgered Jisung into asking his dad about Jeongin, you spent your days—four, exactly, since Jeongin had disappeared—scouring the forest.

No trace, and Chris was still waiting for updates come Jisung’s next return.

Pick some berries, hunt a bit, your mind hounded, futilely attempting to quell the emptiness, the lack of excitement without him by your side.

A dependence you used to dread ever having when it came to someone, now like second instinct, something craved when deprived of.

A week later, you’re first to the beach, the flutter of winged sandals barely drifting to a stop before you’re pouncing and leaving the poor boy choking on his words, letters of his satchel scattering about.

“Any-“ A choke on your own breath, eyes wide, grasping onto a waning hope like a person crazed.  “Any news?”

“Yeah, lovebird, if you gave me time to land.”

Jisung is not amused, though he does give a tiny smirk intelligently kept silent, cautiously evading your wrath.

“The boyfriend of yours should be back by tomorrow. His mom’s—“

A clear of his throat, nervously glancing at the sky as if awaiting Zeus’ lightning bolt to strike him. 

“Miss Artemis wants him to learn his hunting in Olympus, the kid said how he likes the forest better, blah blah, real cute. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

Feigning sarcasm, you take your turn in surprising him for a second time with a hug, one Jisung begrudgingly mirrors after a grumbled insult.

“You uh.. You gonna invite me to the wedding or what?”

A smack against his shoulder brings back much-needed familiarity. 

That, and the fleeting hope the face you’ve fallen for will come into view by tomorrow, that this nightmare you’ll awaken from.

.

.

.

The most anticipation you’ve ever felt for the next day usually came in the form of Christmas morning, once awaiting the presents, now awaiting a different sort of Holiday.

Him.

Hurried footsteps linger by the forest edge, hoping beryl irises may glimpse past the bushes, crinkle into a smile, his smile for you.

Foolish, it must seem. Treating his arrival like a set time, expecting his presence at the very crack of dawn.

But you’ll wait. Wait and wait.

What’s a day to the five you waited through?

Although, pacing and searching becomes a bit dull after four hours, and as the evening sun begins to fall, you feel a sense of dread like never before.

Hermes hears gossip, yes, but does that mean it’s always correct?

Damn it all.

“Jeongin!”

An angry shout to no one, nothing. A shout to the warblers once peeking down at the two of you, now soaring off in alarm.

“You jerk!”

A long time, truthfully.

.

“A what?”

Whipping around so fast you fear injury, you fear you might be hallucinating catch onto where he stands a few feet away, doused in the shadows of the looming cypress signature to the forest.

Real, breathing.

And.. who you just called a jerk.

Well, announced as a jerk to the whole forest.

So many questions, thoughts.

Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? Is there a forewarning when it comes to seeing your godly parents?

Most of all though, slipping through the fissures of confusion and awe, happiness lies.

Bright and brilliant and ah, you want to scream.

Who knew love was so exasperating, painful just seeing his face.

Relief, in its utmost form.

Running to him, it’d be downright embarrassing if not for the smile on your face, making your cheeks ache with its ceaselessness where your arms wrap around his in a tight hug.

“I’m sorry, I love you,” Is all that’s mumbled upon pulling back, and perhaps you ran upon the same wavelength in those few seconds, with his head tipping in perfect alignment with yours to welcome a slow, savoring kiss you want to spend forever in.

And, unfortunately separating, it appears your sensibility also returned, clearing your throat and synonymously scorning the heat of your cheeks, avoiding his fond gaze observing your face—painting it in his mind.

Tender thumbs smooth over your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours and dragging your attention back once more from previous fluster.

“I wouldn’t leave you, you know that. I wish I could’ve left a note but,” A chaste halt, chewing at his bottom lip. “I’m still memorizing the letters you taught me.”

Pausing again, he gathers his words.

“And I don’t know why you apologized,” He chuckled to himself, pressing too-short of a kiss to your lips and gathering you close by the loop of your day-flower bracelet, matching the one on his own wrist.

“Because I love you too, and this,” A tug at the bracelet, firm vines keeping from flimsiness. “This keeps us together.”

Another peck, and you fight the urge to giggle at his silliness, noses bumping.

“So whenever you feel alone,” A single tug at your wrist, at the dayflowers. “Just know I’m right beside you. Always.”

“He’ll be back for the forest, sure, but he wouldn’t leave your side too, and I think we both know that.”

In the end, Chris was right.

He wouldn’t leave your side, and that was a promise.

Summer, and blackberries laid out on a picnic blanket consist of your afternoon snack. That, and your curiosity over his obedience to Artemis’ chastity guidelines regarding your relationship—interested in whether he wished to follow in his mother’s footsteps.

“I will honor her oaths, but I am not obligated to follow them, hm?”

A sly lilt to his reply, perhaps in his words, maybe in the momentary shift of his attention from the bitten blackberry to you.

“And right now,” 

The confidence in his words, the emotion, so opposed to the blank, indifferent precursor of his speech, courtesy of your influence.

Even more so when he leans forward, the soft exhale of satisfaction through his nose something you’d swoon having heard if not for his lips on yours, failing to finish his sentence for a moment.

Soft, unhurried where he drifts down, top teeth gently nibbling at the skin before ushering the plump of your bottom lip in his own lips.

“I want to kiss you. And I don’t think any force of Olympus could keep me from it.”

A summer afternoon, and Jeongin tastes like blackberries.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[comic-sans-chan]

Fic I'll never write where Dukat decides the biennial Cardassian Festival of Whatever the Fuck (it is never actually specified) should be hosted on Deep Space Nine as a way of bridging the gap between the Cardassian and Bajoran peoples. Sisko and Kira are both Ehhhh about it, but Dukat is obnoxiously persistent until finally the Bajoran government and Federation higher ups are like “K”, on the condition that no Cardassian military (or Order) personnel be allowed. All security for the event will be handled by Odo and Starfleet. Dukat is suspiciously cool with this, which puts everyone on alert, but soon Cardassian vendors and decorators start showing up and they turn out to be pretty chill people, so they let it happen.

While the preparations for the festival are underway, another operation has started. A motherfucker from Garak's past is doing typical motherfucker things on the station. One of these things is scouting Garak's quarters, learning the layout, tracking Garak's routine. It becomes clear very quickly that the rapidly increasing number of Cardassians on DS9 is putting Garak on edge, though, because he seems to be fiddling more with his security protocols, so the motherfucker realizes they need to make their move and they need to make it fast.

They succeed. Sort of. With the circumstances as they are, they had to get a little... creative, but it should do the trick.

By early next morning, every PADD, screen, and computer system on the station is streaming seventy-two different poems on a constant loop. Love poems. Ardent, anguished, often utterly indecent love poems, all with the central theme of being about one Doctor Julian Bashir.

Quark is one of the first to notice the problem, being the type of asshole who opens early despite this only increasing his bottom line by a fraction of a fraction. At first, he's furious that his systems have been tampered with, but after reading a few lines of what his normal menu and advertisements have been replaced with, he's laughing, and by the end of the third poem, he's on the floor.

"Odo!" he shouts, banging on the bastard's door twenty minutes later. "Odo, open up! We've got a problem!"

Odo slinks under the door and slips up between it and Quark's pounding fist with a glare. "Quark! I'm not on duty for another hour. What could possibly be so urgent?"

Quark's sharp little rat teeth are splitting his face clean in half as he holds up the PADD. "Take a look."

Odo scrolls through a couple poems, then squints and scrolls through several more. "Erotic love poetry? I didn't peg you for the type."

"To like erotica? Hoo, I thought you paid better attention than that, Constable."

Odo returns the PADD with a dry expression. "To read."

"Oh, you're hilarious." He taps Odo's chest with the PADD. "The whole station is filled with this stuff. My bar, the Replimat, the Celestial Cafe, the promenade. Someone's either desperate to make a statement, or we've been sabatoged."

Dramatic sci-fi music swells and we get a close-up of Odo’s eerily hairless face and nasal cavity.

The next few hours are dedicated to trying and failing to seize back the servers and briefing the bridge staff on the situation.

"Are we sure these are all about Doctor Bashir?" Sisko's voice booms across Ops. He's on his second cup of coffee and a pile of useless PADDs lay beside him.

Julian has remained stoic throughout the discussion and he remains so now, avoiding eye contact with anyone who's smiling a little too wide. Like Jadzia. "Oh, definitely," she says. "He's mentioned by name in three of them, and several others make a point of highlighting the subject's 'golden sand dune skin', 'aristocratic' features, and 'voice that never stops singing.' Sounds like Julian to me."

A few snickers break out, but Sisko is taking the matter seriously. Thank fuck, Julian thinks. It actually looks like it's giving him a headache, which would make two of them if Julian was capable of having headaches. The captain's rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "And the source..."

"There's a clear data trail back to Garak's quarters. Whoever did this, they wanted us to know where it came from," Kira reports. A muscle jumps in Julian's cheek.

"I tracked Garak down for his statement on the issue," Odo says, gruff, "and he told me he had nothing to do with the virus. In fact, he denied ever having laid eyes on the poems in his life. He's claiming he's been framed." He rolls his eyes.

"Okay," Jadzia says, "we all agree he's lying, right?"

"But which part..."

"Oh, they're Garak's. I've read enough Lloja of Prim to be familiar with traditional Kardasi meter and syntax, and that isn't even going into all the parallels drawn between our doctor and Prime. Sand, heat, rainforests. Bit of Romulan imagery in there, too, if I'm not mistaken. A lot of flowers and vines. Wasn't Garak a gardener?"

"I see no reason why anyone would want to embarass themselves like this," O'Brien cuts in before Jadzia can make it worse. "Even if he is trying to distract us or something, this seems counterproductive in the long term. Everyone’s watching him now, not just us. The rumor mill is running rampant. Not exactly a spy’s MO."

"He did blow up his shop once."

"Because someone was trying to kill him," Julian pipes up for the first time, looking concerned. "Do you think this might be another cry for help?"

"Oh, it's a cry for something," Jadzia quips, and Julian shuts the fuck up.

"Dax," Sisko snaps, like the good benevolent Wormhole Alien Jesus he is, and Dax shuts the fuck up, too. Sisko gives them all the stink eye. "Constable, you're nearly as familiar with Garak as the doctor is," he says, and holds a hand up before any jokes can be made. "What do you think?"

"I don't think he's behind this, sir. None of the pieces add up, and he seemed genuinely agitated when I spoke to him, in his way. At present, I believe he is as much a victim here as the rest of us."

Sisko sighs. "All right. Do we have any idea who is behind this?"

The room is silent for a time, before Odo reluctantly answers for everyone, "Not yet, sir."

"Find out," Sisko demands, "and Chief, get these damn poems off of my reports. Dismissed."

Julian is out of the room before anyone else has stood up.

The rest of the day is spent ducking in and out of his office, only treating those who ask for him by name and keeping all conversations strictly professional. Any mentions of poetry, the festival, Cardassians, or Garak are firmly sidelined, and on a couple occasions, rewarded with a none-too-gentle hypo. He skips lunch altogether and extends his shift by two hours to avoid the dinner rush.

By the time he's leaving the Infirmary, it's late. Unfortunately for him, not late enough that the halls aren't still speckled with observers to his personal soap opera. With the Festival of Frank’s Hot Dogs less than a week away, DS9 is becoming increasingly crowded with tourists, mostly Cardassian, but a surprising amount Bajoran, too–apparently this festival was a rare bright point during the Occupation, when their oppressors were not only lenient with them for once, but generous with food and drink and freedoms. It doesn't hurt that the only Cardassians on board are civilian rather than military, so the atmosphere is rather more colorful, courteous and conversational rather than cold, dark and aggressive. It would make Julian smile if he wasn't so busy being gawked at.

"I don't see it," one Cardassian man grumbles and Julian's accursed augmented ears pick up. "He's even smoother than a Bajoran."

"Oh, yeah," his companion replies, "just think of how easily he'd slide around."

"Tanett!"

"Oh, hush, Grandpa. You're just xenophobic. He's cute."

"Well, you be careful who hears you say that. That Garak fellow is in the Order, you know. Ears everywhere. You don't want to know what things a man like that is capable of."

"Wasn't he exiled? Hardly intimidating now. Apparently all he's capable of anymore is whimpering over an alien like a pakrela."

Julian covers his ears and walks faster.

But that just brings him within range of a cluster of Bajorans. "Oh, there's the doctor now," one is saying, up on the balcony. 

"The one the Cardassian tailor wrote about?"

"That poor fool. He thought they were friends, but here this whole time it was perverse. I can only imagine how much that hurts."

"Happened to my friend once. He thought a glinn was being kind because he was having a crisis of conscience and wanted to help him escape. No, he just wanted to–"

He could go to his quarters, but a flash of memory - Garak's bright eyes at the end of his bed, his figure encased in shadow - sends him in the opposite direction. Before long, he finds himself on an oft-unused Observation deck, since it offers no view of the wormhole or either Bajor or Cardassia's suns. It's blessedly empty, as usual, and Julian settles on a bench and stares into the dark nothingness of space for a long time.

At some point, he finds that his hand has retrieved the PADD from his medical bag, and the screen is lit up automatically with the first poem.

He reads well into the night.

—

The next morning finds Garak with a tall glass of rokassa juice and two eggs, staring intensely into a mysteriously operational PADD at the far end of Quark's bar. Quark pops out of his backroom like a jack-in-the-box.

"Ha! Well, if it isn't the man of the hour himself, gracing my fine establishment so soon after nearly destroying it. Do you know I've had to have menus printed, like we're in the dark ages? Do you have any idea how extensive my menu is? I ought to sue you for damages." He catches a glimpse of the PADD's screen and its decidedly unpoetic contents. "Hey, you fixed it? How?"

"It was just a simple virus. Viruses can be purged," Garak says without looking up. He barely seems aware of Quark's existence.

When no other words are forthcoming, Quark huffs. "Well, can you purge it from the rest of the station, then?"

"I gave the program to the Chief last night."

"And he didn't immediately come here to fix my bar? I'll have to file a complaint.”

Garak offers no reply. Just continues to stare into his PADD.

There are other customers he could be seeing to, but Quark can't pass up this golden opportunity. He's known Garak a long time and known of him even longer, and now that he has the guy's guts all neatly lined up on several dozen isolinear rods, he's never felt closer to the man. He makes a point of knowing things about his customers, but before yesterday, the most he knew about Garak was that he was an assassin, a tailor, a mean, weepy drunk, and friends with Bashir, Odo, and a smattering of other shopkeepers. That was it. But now...

He leans over the counter, closer to Garak's unblinking face. "You know," he says, with a smile rising slow on his cheeks, "if it's humans you like, I have a couple holosuite programs that might be just what you need."

Garak's gaze ascends as if on a motor, smooth and mechanical.

Good. He’s considering the bait. Now he just has to get him to bite. "All completely customizable. Skin, eyes, hair. You like long legs, they've got long legs. Scrawny, they're scrawny. Whatever you want. Although if you're really hung up on the one face, that can also be arranged. For the right price." When Garak just looks at him, Quark switches tactics. "Or maybe it's the uniform that does it for you? I've got 'em, but I'd suggest something out of my lingerie databases. I've still got some little Cardassian numbers filed away that I think even a man with your discerning tastes could appreciate. Just imagine, Doctor Bashir in a–"

He doesn't see the hand coming until it's already crushing his windpipe. Quark claws at it for several long, desperate moments while Garak continues to look.

Leeta scuttling over and yanking him away is what ultimately puts a stop to it, and it's while Quark is gasping in dramatic bursts of air that Leeta says in a rush, "Garak, please! Whatever he said, he didn't mean it!"

"Oh, I meant it," Quark coughs out with a high, strangled laugh, "he just didn't like it."

"Whatever conclusions you've drawn in the last twenty-six hours, allow me to dispel them," Garak says primly, as if he hadn't almost committed murder in broad daylight. "I am not a xenophile and I do not have feelings for Doctor Bashir. There are no less than two-hundred Cardassians currently aboard the station, and I assure you, none of them like me. Those poems were obviously planted."

Oh, but Quark is a little pissed now, unwise as that is. "Please, Garak," he says, "who has time to write that many poems about Julian just to mess with you? Two or three, maybe, but over seventy? If you're going to lie, at least don't insult our intelligence."

Garak's eyes flash and Quark ducks behind Leeta, repentant. Leeta sighs. "Garak, what's so bad about loving Julian?" she asks softly. "I thought the poems were really touching. It’s sweet how much you care for him."

But he's already staring into his PADD again. "I'm sorry, Miss Leeta, but I am a bit busy. Perhaps we can discuss my hypothetical feelings for your paramour another time."

"Julian and I have never been serious," she tries to assure him, but he's engrossed again, or at least pretending to be. Her and Quark share a look and leave him to it. Lesson learned.

"Let the bastard be pent up and miserable, then," Quark grumbles from the other end of the bar as he pours Table 3's drinks. A prickle on his neck has him looking up and there Garak's eyes are again, piercing, and Quark rushes off to deliver the drinks.

The three young Cardassians there are much more friendly. One has their nose stuck in one of the useless poetry PADDs while the other two smile at Quark while he sets out their orders.

"Three Raktajinos, extra bitter," Quark says, and is thanked. Polite. One even praises the drink's exoticness. Klingon coffee, exotic. Heh. "Your food will be out in a few."

Before he can finish turning, though, a hand is touching his arm. "What is the title of this anthology you include at every table?" the young man asks.

"Oh, that's not..." He sighs. "It's new. I can't remember."

"Find out for us, please," he says. "Works like these can be hard to come by on Prime and we make it our business to collect them. Whoever this author is, they're very unique."

"If these aren't banned on Prime already, they will be soon," his friend comments with a giggle.

"No doubt."

"'In my desolation, I am as weeds: Cut my roots and Let the waters take me, To drown and bloom anew, in You,'" the one with her nose in the PADD reads aloud, and shivers. "They'd burn the whole Central Archive down just for this one. It's so explicit."

"Let me see that," the boy demands, as the other one is already surging over to read over the girl's shoulder. Watching them fight over the PADD has Quark thinking back to the isolinear rods in his safe, and he hums thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder.

Garak isn't looking.

—

Glinn Halon Duvur. Former underling of Gul Dukat. Out of uniform, vacationing on Deep Space Nine with his wife and nine children. Spends his days gambling while his kids play unsupervised in the holosuites and his wife visits old friends. 

Beloved uncle sent to trial by the Obsidian Order in 2356 and executed that same day for crimes of attempted sabotage against Cardassia.

Garak watches the man wander down the promenade sans his proud lineage, jingling a fat little bag of gold-pressed latinum and yet-unconverted leks. He wanders out of range, so Garak switches to the next camera and there that unfortunate face is again. He drums his fingers on the desk. It won't be long now.

An alert rings in his ear and he almost initiates the shockfield on impulse, but the flash of smooth, brown skin on a monitor stays his hand. The knocking comes, and that haunting voice calls out, "Garak! Are you there?"

Garak rests his head next to the surveillance screens.

Predictably, the doctor tries to input his override, but the door remains shut. There's a long pause.

"Garak..." Julian sounds irate. Garak hums. "Did you deprogram my override code? Nevermind how illegal that is, that's dangerous! What if you're injured? Or fall ill?"

He says this just after attempting to abuse his station privileges for personal reasons. Infuriating hypocrite.

"Oh, my barging in at random, odd hours is no less than you deserve, Garak," Julian says as if in response to Garak's thoughts. "You set that precedent in our relationship yourself."

Terrible man.

"Fine. I'll give you some more time, since you want it so badly, but I'll be back and when I am, that override had better work. If it doesn’t, I promise there will be hell to pay, my friend."

Beautiful man.

"Goodbye, Mr. Garak."

Goodbye, Doctor.

Glinn Duvur dies two hours later of alcohol poisoning while his wife is in bed with Gul Rilimn's wife.

—

“I just can’t believe it,” Kira is bitching. Jadzia smiles and sips her drink, looking out over the Replimat balcony at all the happy brunchgoers. “A Cardassian writing poetry about something that isn’t conquest or the wonders of dictatorial rule or, at best, the pride of the traditional family nobly bowing and scraping. I’ve never seen it.”

“It would certainly seem to run counter to Cardassian values.”

“And about Julian!” she shrieks in her inside voice, slapping her hands down on the table. “Garak the spy, writing love poetry about Julian. Going on and on about his–his...”

“Ass?” Jadzia offers.

“Eyes. His eyes! Ohhh, I knew he wanted to have sex with him, everyone knew that, but to write about his eyes like... like that? It’s practically Bajoran.”

“That’s true.”

Kira stops long enough in her tirade to eye her, and presses her lips into a thin line. “How are you so calm about this?”

Jadzia takes another sip. “I’m just fascinated,” she says. “I’ll admit, I’ve been looking at this more through Tobin’s eyes than my own. Have I ever told you that he met Lloja of Prim during his exile?” 

“He did not.”

“He did, and Lloja flirted with him outrageously. It was embarrassing, looking back. Of course, nothing ever came of it, because Tobin was always hopelessly blind to those sorts of things even without the language barrier, but his children liked to joke that many of Lloja’s poems were about him.”

Kira’s jaw is hanging. “Were they?”

Jadzia grins and shrugs. Kira laughs.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Perhaps,” Jadzia allows, “but I do wonder... Being able to call nervous, asexual Tobin the lover of Lloja of Prim would have been quite the notch in my belt. Think of the stories I could have told! And now here Julian is with the opportunity. I know it’s not the same, I mean, it’s Garak. But, you have to admit, to write about him like that...”

“He must really love him,” Kira finishes for her, stumped. “I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

“I didn’t see it, either,” Jadzia confesses. “I was still wrestling with the idea that they were actually friends. I thought their association was strictly professional and all the books and flirting were just a front.” She cradles her head in her hands suddenly and sighs. “Ugh, but those poems. The poems are so good! Kira...”

“I know,” she moans. “They’re heart-wrenching. Which one are you on now?”

“Thirty-nine. I came back home, but I came back gone.”

“Ouch.”

“I know.”

A shout from below interrupts them and they both shoot out of their seats. Below, a Cardassian man has just had a beam fall on top of him. Jadzia and Kira bound down the stairs to him, Jadzia already slapping a hand on her comm badge. 

“Dax to Infirmary, a man has just been crushed, possibly impaled. Send a medical team to Replimat and be ready for emergency beam out.”

“Acknowledged, we’re on our way,” Girani says, but already Kira is looking up at Jadzia helplessly, the man’s wrist laying limp between her hands.

“He’s gone.”

“Shit!” Jadzia hunches over, hands on her knees. “That’s the third one today. Are Cardassians always this accident prone? No wonder you won the war.”

“No,” Kira says. “They’re not. You don’t think...”

“I don’t know,” Jadzia says grimly, and looks around at the crowd that’s formed. All Cardassian, all terrified. “But we need to find out.”

—

A Cardassian is sitting at the bar. This isn’t an unusual sight now, with the Festival of 90s Funk and Beyond coming up, but seeing one so young and looking so hunted is odd. Quark approaches him casually.

“What’ll you have?”

The Cardassian’s eyes dart. “Uh...” He leans over suddenly, cups both hands over his mouth, and whispers, “E. G. Special.”

Christ, these kids are going to kill him. “Coming right up,” he says in a normal person voice, and reaches under the bar for a glass. A little drink-mixing magic later, a beautiful fizzy blue drink is sitting between them, with an isolinear rod tucked neatly in the straw.

The Cardassian takes the drink between both hands excitedly, and Quark snaps his fingers in front of him. “Oh! Right,” the kid stutters, and all but launches the latinum at Quark’s face. “Thank you!” And off he goes, out of the bar with the glass still tight in his grasp.

“Idiot,” Quark mutters to himself, crouching carefully down to pick the latinum up off the floor without dirtying his expensive pants. “You’re supposed to take the straw, not the entire glass. That’s it, I’m switching to plastic. These little rebel brats don’t deserve my ni—Oh, hello, Constable! I didn’t see you there. What can I get you?”

Odo looks as unimpressed as ever. “That’s a funny question since last I checked, I don’t drink.”

“Ah, right, because you’re a liquid. How could I forget. You know, one of these days, I ought to serve you up with a little umbrella, see how people like it. I’d bet you taste bitter.” Odo harrumphs, and Quark makes himself busy with wiping down the counter. “Well, out with it then. What nefarious scheme am I up to now? I love to hear your little stories.”

Four isolinear rods drop onto the counter, right where Quark was just cleaning. “Hey now,” he says, throwing a performative glare at the changeling. “Careful. If you shatter glass in my bar, you’re cleaning it up.”

“I just had the most interesting conversation with the Tokal family,” Odo says, steamrolling right over him. “It seems their four darling children had somehow come into some questionable reading material. They tried searching for it in the Central Archives and yet, despite it being clearly Cardassian in origin, they could not find it. And I don’t need to tell you that when a piece of Cardassian reading material isn’t in the Central Archives...”

Quark, from his plastered position on the floor, stares up into Odo’s face directly horizontal to his and smiles. “What?”

“It’s illegal,” Odo sneers, stretching his body even further over the bar and nearly sending Quark starfishing. 

“Okay! Odo! I get it! But what does that have to do with me?”

“Quark!”

“Okay, okay! Whatever it is you think I’ve done, I’ll stop! I’ll stop, okay?”

“I know you’re going to stop, because I am going to confiscate every copy of Garak’s poetry that you have absconded with and destroy them.”

Quark gasps. “Book burning? In this day and age?”

“Garak did not give his permission for you to sell his work! He didn’t even want anyone to see it in the first place! Those poems were stolen. Now, I expect a list of every person you sold a copy to and a full and complete refund to be issued by tomorrow morning. Do I make myself clear?”

Quark glowers. “You’ve made yourself something, all right.”

“Quark...”

“Okay! All right. Consider it done.”

-

Turora Lumok. Obsidian Order operative and old colleague. Usually in deep cover in the Organian sectre, but has abandoned post to explore the space station. Barren, unattached. Cold. A model agent, if you ignore her unfortunate habit of going rogue and eliminating civilians on a whim. 

Recruited into the Order by Enabran Tain’s former right hand, Euluk Bucun, who was assassinated by Elim Garak in 2341 under orders from Enabran Tain for suspicions of treason. Turora Lumok disciplined shortly afterward by Elim Garak for complaining that she had wanted to be the one to kill that bitch.

Garak watches as the woman pretends to touch up her makeup while scouting for cameras. “Oh, Lumok, you always were woefully obvious. Have you been expecting me? I wonder why.”

Satisfied with the positions of the cameras, she puts away her mirror and strolls out of sight.

Garak shakes his head. “Fool. You forget how long I’ve lived on this wretched station. I don’t need to see you every second to know where you are.”

But then, the smell of antiseptic. Starfleet issue soap. Herbal shampoo, unique, robust. Gels. Oils. Sweat. 

He’s near.

Forcing calmness with a deep, measured breath, he takes off his eyepiece and slips it into his sleeve. He pays for the food he barely ate. He stands. He turns.

And is promptly thrust into the dark, deep woods of Julian Bashir’s eyes. “There you are, Garak! I’ve been looking all over for you,” the doctor says as if it’s just a regular day on Deep Space Nine. His hot, mammalian body caging him tightly in place against the table betrays the ruse. “Who was it you were talking to?”

Garak tries to step around him. Julian steps with him. “Oh, only ever myself. Forgive me, but you’ve caught me just on my way out. I have a strict appointment at 2.”

There’s Julian’s hand now. On his shoulder. Garak is calm. This is normal. “Well, why don’t I walk you there then.”

“My dear Doctor, I couldn’t rob you of your meal. Clearly you’ve just walked in.”

“Actually, I’ve found I’m craving something a bit different now.”

Garak makes to step around Julian again, and still Julian’s steps match his. It’s like they’re dancing. He doesn’t let this deter him. He’s not sure he’s capable of letting anything deter him now, with his heart trying to pound out of his throat. He keeps stepping doggedly forward, and Julian keeps mirroring, still with that damned hand burning through his tunic. “Well, you only have so much time before you must return to the infirmary, I know. Do not allow me to delay you in securing a table at a different locale.”

“Oh, but you’ve already delayed me so long. What’s a few more minutes?” A peek of teeth, a hint of warning. “Though I will admit... I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.”

“Then don’t.” Finally, Garak manages to elbow past this madness and shoot out of the restaurant. The station is so crowded these days, it’s short work to get lost in it. In a sea of ridges and black hair, Garak slips his eyepiece back on and lets the wave take him. 

“Garak!”

Oh, for the Union’s sake—

He does not run. He does not stumble. He walks normally and not desperately, keeping his eye on both the path to the turbolift and Lumok. She’s down the corridor now, pretending to check her makeup again like an imbecile. Just a few paces more. Almost there...

“Garak, you’re the best dressed one here! You are not difficult to spot, you ridiculous dandy! Oh, no offense, Ma’am. Lovely scarf. Excuse me.”

There.

In the reflection of the mirror, Garak makes eye contact with the rogue and taps in the correct sequence on the device sewed into the seam of his pants just as the turbolift doors close behind him.

Like that, Turora Lumok is beamed into space and dies instantly, without a soul to mourn her, and Elim Garak walks back to his quarters with a hand over his mouth and a warmth on his shoulder, without a soul to mourn him, either.

—-

The Festival of Fierce and Fantastic Frogs is two days away and already it is being protested.

Outside Quark’s Bar is a growing army of dissident children with voice amplifiers and holoprojectors shouting to the stars that if they don’t get their porn back, they’ll tear it all down. Signs are projected in the air with essays cycling through them that look to be several pages each, a small holographic fire barely reaching ankle-height is lighting up the length of the promenade, and – perhaps most disturbingly – a comically inaccurate approximation of Odo is rotating at the center of the group, fitted in the typical regalia of the Cardassian military and holding a Klingon bat’leth. It is certainly... something.

“They’re Cardassians,” Quark is saying as he pours out some root beers. “They’ve probably never seen a protest in their lives, they don’t know what they’re doing. The Union puts an end to things like this pretty fast on the surface.”

“Heh,” Jadzia says, “what happens on DS9, stays on DS9.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Kira asks.

“It’s something Julian likes to say. Basically, they figure they can get away with speaking their minds here.”

Kira drums her fingers on the bar, staring into the flailing protestors thoughtfully. 

Right then, Odo arrives back on the scene. It looks like he’s trying to get through, respectfully, but the protestors are not making it easy. Jadzia and Kira come to his rescue just as about fifteen Cardassians start forming a blockade around him.

“I walked around as you do, investigating the endless stars,” one young woman is yelling at him while he stands there with big helpless baby eyes, “and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind!” 

“I don’t know what that means,” Odo says consolingly.

“Clearly!”

“Okay, okay, let him through!” Kira wiggles her way between the crowd and Odo, snatching him by the arm like a fish with a hook. “He’s not your enemy here, he was just upholding your laws!”

“The Cardassian government has no jurisdiction on a Bajoran station!”

“He made his choices!”

“Beautiful Julian would be ashamed of you! Repent! Repent!”

Kira and Jadzia manage to reel him most of the way through the protesters and he shapeshifts the rest of the journey. The protestors try to follow, but Quark bustles over to stop them. “No, no demonstrations inside! Remember who your allies are,” he says, and they all cow back. “Thank you.”

Odo ripples his form a couple times to make sure everything’s back in the right place and harrumphs. “Allies, Quark?”

“Yes, allies. It’s terrible what you’ve done to them. You can’t police art, Odo–-this is culture we're talking about here, the very bedrock of society.”

“And I’m sure this virtuous attitude of yours has nothing to do with the incredible profit you made and lost at the expense of our mutual friend.”

“Oh, I did him a favor.” Quark uncaps another bottle of Kanar and gestures back to the entrance, with its swarm of frothing Cardassian children. “Look, he’s got fans!”

“How has Garak been handling all this?” Kira asks Odo, sharing a look with Jadzia. “I haven’t heard a peep out of him since he gave us that antivirus program.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Didn’t you have breakfast with him yesterday?”

“Hmmm, that would have been routine. Except he didn’t show. When I made it back to my office, I found a message from him apologizing, telling me he’s so busy with orders he’s lost all track of time.”

“How has he been getting commissions?” Jadzia asks. “His shop’s been closed all week.”

Odo rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure the reality is he’s simply avoiding the issue. Dr. Bashir has informed me he’s been treating him like ‘the black plague’ as well.” 

“Julian’s one to talk. He practically pole-vaulted over a vedek the other day to get away from me.” 

“Speak of the devil,” Quark says, looking towards the door, and everyone turns just as the commotion starts–or, more accurately, the commotion abruptly stops. 

The protestors have all gone quiet, in apparent awe as they part around Julian like the red sea around Moses. He’s smiling stupidly as he stands in the center of them, nodding at something a Cardassian man is exclaiming. It’s an incredibly awkward scene, and Quark starts choking at some of the things his ears are picking up. “They’ve deified him,” he tells them, and Jadzia bursts into giggles at the idea, but Quark isn’t joking. “Really. He might as well be one of the prophets to them. You read the poems. You know.”

Ugh. Kira wrinkles her nose in disgust. The worst kind of blasphemy–horny blasphemy. “What is he even doing here?” she asks. 

“Getting his head inflated,” Jadzia says dryly, because now that Quark has mentioned it, it’s pretty clear from the shit-eating grin on Julian’s face that that’s exactly what’s happening. 

“Poor Garak.” Quark says it absentmindedly, but the comment gets several eyes turned on him. He’s shaking his head as he watches the scene unfold. “First, he falls for a human… humiliating… but then that love becomes public knowledge and several young beautiful Cardassians decide that he’s onto something, and now that human is going to get more action in a week than he’s seen his entire life. I’ve witnessed the rise and fall of more than a few star-crossed romances, but this might just be the saddest.”

“Julian wouldn’t have an orgy the same week the whole station found out Garak’s in love with him,” Jadzia says, insulted on his behalf.

Quark hefts a tray up onto his shoulder. “He just did,” he says as he leaves to go do his job, and Jadzia whips her head around to see Julian escorting two attractive Cardassians away from the protest. Her jaw drops.

“Bastard,” Kira spits, surprising everyone, herself most of all. Those poems must’ve affected her more than she realized.

Odo clears his throat unnecessarily. “I’m no expert on the behavior of solids, but it seems to me that neither party is handling this situation well.”

“I’ll tell you how the pakrela should be handling this,” an older Cardassian sitting at the far end of the bar cuts in, with a twitch to him that makes it clear he’s more than a few deep. “He should be settling his assets, because he doesn’t have long now. Whatever his human is doing is the least of his worries. Ha. Hehe. Being a traitor wasn’t enough for him. No, now he’s gone and corrupted the next generation with his degeneracy. Exile was too soft a punishment. Uh-huh.”

Kira opens her mouth to tell him to fuck off, but Odo touches her shoulder. “You speak as if you know him,” he notes mildly, because of course, the exact reason for Garak’s exile isn’t public record. It’s barely even private record. The Order doesn’t work that way–or didn’t, as it stands. It is interesting that this man is acting like he has classified information despite being a civilian. 

But then, sometimes day drinkers just like to spout speculation as fact.

The man looks into his glass and laughs at his reflection. “Who doesn’t know Garak these days? But that’s temporary. He’ll be forgotten soon enough, just like the Order.” He finishes his drink and gets up. He insincerely mutters some friendly Cardassian farewell and starts to walk past them, but Kira can’t let it go.

“Excuse me, but what’s your name, sir? You’ve been so informative.”

He looks at her for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says, and elbows past the protesters.

—

“Solt Mebol, left behind a widow and child six years ago when he was tragically killed in a transporter accident. In reality, he accepted an undercover mission which required him to fake his death and have his bond dissolved. A significant sacrifice. Certainly not one many Cardassians could have made.”

The Cardassian stares at Garak sitting on his couch. Turning, he tries to exit his temporary quarters, but the door won’t open.

Garak tuts. “Oh, you know better than that, Mebol.” He taps his disruptor with his forefinger, resting harmlessly against his knee. “The festival isn’t for another couple days, yet here you are. Catching up with old friends before the festivities, I assume? Only I haven’t found you in anyone’s company but your own. You must be lonely. Please, let me alleviate your loneliness for a while.”

The Cardassian sighs at the closed door. “Solt, is it?”

“I can tell you the names of your wife and child as well, if you’d like, and the city they live in. Do you know your wife never rebonded? Unusual behavior for a Romulan. Quite dangerous, as I understand it.”

Solt steps carefully into the small living space and sits in the chair opposite Garak, with the coffee table between them. “As one of the last living members of the Order, I don’t suppose you would consider letting me go?”

Garak smiles pleasantly. “I would be delighted.”

“Would you? I had a deal with Central Command and they’ve been good to me so far. You, however, have been known to…” He eyes the disruptor casually turned in his direction.

“Yes, I imagine I must be something of a mystery these days to my people. I have been… squirrely, is what I suppose a human would say, and I must as well now that I’ve been painted with their brush. Oh, it is an incredible sin, I know. That I should enjoy the company of an attractive alien while in exile.”

Solt snorts. “You expect me to believe those poems were the natural result of a fling?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything you do not wish to. I only say that it’s convenient that I should be seen as even more traitorous just as a swarm of Cardassians should enter the station.”

“What’s convenient is that you’re still alive. You have friends in high places willing to go to bat for you, in spite of everything you’ve done. It’s a disgrace. You are a selfish disloyal anarchist and no one is holding you accountable, because you just happened to be good at your job once and everyone likes the idea of having you as a potential weapon should the need for one arise. Until then, they’re content to keep you in a cabinet collecting dust and sentiment. You can wave that disruptor all you want, but we both know you make a poor operative now. You’re in love.” 

Garak is still smiling, but Solt can see the signs of a grimace. Dusty, indeed. Too passionate. Too human. “I’m hardly so foolish. You know better than I the dangers of such things in our line of work. You’re little better than a puppet now that you’ve had a whiff of the truth, Mebol.”

“You’re right.” Solt attempts to raise one eye ridge, despite it being unfit for such maneuvers, and leans forward towards that disruptor. “Pull my strings, then, and let’s test that grip Bashir has on yours.”

—

Kira crashes into Garak’s quarters and kickflips past all his booby traps like Indiana Jones’ hotter cousin.

“What the fuck, Richard?” is basically what she says, only it’s in character, so it’s more like, “What the fuck, Garak!”

Garak spins around in his maniacal villain chair with a look of surprise. “How did you get in here, Major?” Miles bustles his way in after her with his impractically enormous toolkit, and Garak lets out an, “Ah,” then, sedately, “I suppose Dr. Bashir filed a complaint about my tampering with the door codes. Of course, there’s a perfectly logical explanation. You see, it–”

“This isn’t about door codes, Garak,” Kira yells. “What I want to know is why our best suspect for the sudden influx of murders on the station was just found drowned in his own toilet!”

“Oh my,” Garak says. “What an unfortunate end.”

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. We know what you’re capable of, but we’re good people and we didn’t want to accuse a victim until we had exhausted the rest of our line-up. Only, interestingly enough, they’re all dead, so now…” she marches over with the fury of the Prophets on her heels and stands imposingly over him, her teeth clenched, “here we are.”

“That is interesting.” He runs a hand down a roll of fabric in his lap, smoothing it. “I suppose you must have some of that ironclad evidence that the Federation so treasures.”

Kira glares at him.

Garak feigns looking around. “Oh, but I can’t help but notice the good Constable isn’t here with you. What could that mean? Surely not that you broke into my quarters without due cause or a hint of warning–at your own word, not even to fix my glitching door. For all you knew, I could have been in here writing one of my vaunted Bashir epics.”

Kira’s hands are in fists now. “The evidence we have would be more than enough to have your face plastered on every viewscreen in Cardassia and you know it.”

“The Federation and Bajoran legal processes do seem a tad inefficient in moments like these, don’t they?”

“Okay,” Miles cuts in, because he has Turbo PTSD and is not in the mood for a flare up. “I think I'll just wait in the hallway, then. Holler if you need me. Good luck, Major.”

Kira and Garak spend a few moments watching him waddle out of the room and then go back to staring each other down. 

“Look, you ass,” Kira starts, “we couldn’t link every victim to the Cardassian government or some third-party organization, but we were able to link enough of them to recognize that these aren’t just random nobodies having ‘accidents.’ Someone was able to break into your computer and embarrass you and you don’t like that so you’re pitching a fit. I can’t have Odo arrest you – yet – but I can tell you to cut it out. This vigilantism isn’t helping–”

That gets a reaction. “Vigilantism!”

“Well, what would you call it?”

“Self-defense.”

“They attacked you?”

“Possibly.”

“Goddamn you, Garak! Just… don’t do this anymore, okay?”

Garak looks at her with innocent astonishment, like he’s still bewildered by her totally plausible accusations. “Well. You have my word, I suppose,” he says, bemused.

—

Gul Skrain Dukat. Blessed with a wife, seven children, two sets of living parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, minus one father. Habitually cheats with lower ranked military officials, slaves, and barely legal adults, unbenownst to his family. Father was interrogated by Elim Garak and executed by the Union over live broadcast in the year 2350 for the crime of being a piece of shit. 

Elim Garak was shortly thereafter levied with an amateurish execution attempt by Gul Dukat. It failed.

The second attempt will succeed, but at a great cost.

The Festival of Filthy Fucking Foot Fetishists has officially begun, but Garak is struggling to feel any enthusiasm. He is surrounded by his people. The station has been dimmed by 15% to better suit Cardassian eyes and misting stations have been set up in limited locations. Extinct and invented flowers crafted by Cardassian and Bajoran artisans decorate the banisters and doorways. A wash of blue, green, and sparkling gold lights up every direction. There is the smell of freshly prepared Cardassian sweets on the air, a gentle warmth suffuses the atmosphere, and children are laughing on the promenade. It’s the first time the station has felt not just tolerable, but nearly pleasant, in years. 

But then, Garak has never felt particularly welcome among his people. As a child, he was an orphan generously cared for by service workers and sponsored by a government official, and as an adult, he was a member of the Order, which granted him more fear and loathing than it did admiration and respect. Companionship, in its truest form, was a rare thing to come by and not something he was encouraged to come by at all.

Perhaps that is why Dr. Bashir blindsided him. 

In any case, Garak is delicately balanced on the line between proper misery and numbness. He gave up imbibing around the same time that he gave up the implant—or rather, the implant gave up on him—but he’s on his third cup now, wandering through the festivities with no particular direction in mind. The exact spot of this last operation isn’t important, only the timing.

He finishes his drink while a group play a spirited game of cold moba in front of him. It shouldn't be long now.

All the nearby screens suddenly flicker from the event schedule to Dukat’s sharp grin and Garak hums. There we are. He knew the bitch wouldn’t be able to resist showing his face.

“Welcome everyone to the biennial Festival of–” a baby wails, “generously hosted here on Deep Space Nine by Bajor and the Federation, and of course organized by our own prodigous Detapa Council. Ah, that wormhole… quite the view, isn’t it?”

Garak looks around for another food stall that serves alcohol. 

There aren’t any stalls in his immediate vicinity, but there is a young Cardassian couple marching towards him while making dogged eye contact. 

Oh no. 

Garak starts to make a break for it. Not too fast, it won’t do to cause a stir, but there are a number of very good reasons for him to stay far away from any Cardassians who might recognize him right now. Especially if the source of that recognition is those damn poems he was too stupid and sentimental to destroy.

Before he can make it more than a few steps, however, he looks up to see another few Cardassians working their way towards him, also making eye contact.

No, no, no.

He makes to move towards the stairs then, only for his eyes to land squarely on him. 

Him, wearing the silky green outfit he lovingly crafted for him a few months ago. Him, shining in the festival lights, casting him in an even more arresting shade of gold than usual. Him, looking determined and coming straight towards him.

Oh, fuck no.

“Garak,” Julian calls out, likely reading the panic on his face and stance and soul.

“Today, I am not a Gul, though,” Dukat is saying. “I am but a humble representative of the Cardassian Union in its totality, and as such, I would like to thank Colonel Kira Nerys and Captain Benjamin Sisko for their hand in this week’s festivities. They have been nothing if not accommodating these last few weeks while our coordinators ran rampant through their halls.”

He should have accounted for the possibility of this. Thinking of Julian had become excruciating as of late, but that was no excuse. Whatever interaction Julian had been hoping to have with him couldn’t be allowed, not now, and not only for the sake of Garak’s traitorous, disgusting feelings. Even if it would give the sweet man closure, it would not be worth his life. 

“Now, it may be a bit unorthodox, but I thought it would be only fitting if the first Reenactment was carried out by our benevolent hosts, and the Lakarian City Acting Troupe were all too happy to take them under their wing.”

More eyes are turning towards the screen now, the laughing and playing and sloshing of cups quieting down. Julian is nearly with him, his approach halted only by the gathering crowd, and Garak can only pretend to be interested in Dukat’s speech while he racks his brain desperately for a solution. Any solution. Anything.

“I trust that the history of Cardassia is in capable hands.”

The screen flickers again and changes to a shot of one of Quark’s holodecks, where a lone Bajoran man stands in a beam of red light.

A hand grabs Garak roughly by the arm, and he nearly cries with relief when he sees that it’s Lumok.

Well, Lumok with the face and attire of a Bajoran, but that ever-present spark of unchecked malice in her eye is quite unmistakable to someone who worked with her for over a decade. 

“Surprised, you ugly old regnar?” she asks under the actor’s impassioned opening monologue.

He sucks in a breath as the sharp edge of something presses into his back. “Impossible. They found your body caught on one of the station’s spires.”

“A simple bait and switch,” she purrs, pressing the weapon closer, slicing through his tunic. A pity. This was one of his nicer ones. “You’ve gotten sloppy.”

He manufactures a smile. “A knife, then? A favorite of yours, I recall, but terribly messy for such a public venue. Not to mention if your aim is even an inch off, I’ll be in and out of the infirmary within the day, as if nothing at all had happened.”

“Don’t lecture me,” she growls. “You can’t do that anymore. You’re not anyone to anyone. Your master is dead, and what did you do the second you were off leash for the first time in your life? You went and choked yourself on the first Starfleet sotl you could find. You’re pathetic.”

It took incredible effort to keep his eyes from rolling to the back of his skull. “Oh, just stab me already.”

“I’m not going to stab you. I’ve done a bit of outsourcing, in fact.” She slid the knife from his lower back to his side and looped her arm through his, pinning him in place with a wide smile. “All I had to do was suggest to my new friend that you were infiltrating the Federation. That you were poisoning them against Bajor from the inside, uniting Cardassia and Starfleet in a secret alliance under the guise of wooing the CMO. No, no, you won’t be killed by one of your peers. Your death will be at the hands of a perfect stranger. A pointless death for a pointless man.” She leans in and whispers into his aural ridge, “It always was so easy to make people hate you.”

The next few seconds are a flurry of chaos. One second he’s watching as Human, Bajoran and Cardassian actors alike are all holding hands and reciting ancient poetry and the next he’s on the floor with a searing weight bearing down on him from calf to shoulder. There are screams and footfalls coming from all directions and Odo’s voice is immediately discernible shouting over the commotion. His back is on fire, he can’t breathe, and there’s a slash in his side, but he doesn’t miss the thump of Lumok’s body a few feet away, dead before she hits the ground.

“Garak? Garak?” the weight on him is speaking frantically, pawing at his head and shoulders. The weight shifts and the hands flip him onto his back. Those same hands pat him down, blazing a path down his chest and his stomach and his sides, stopping at the superficial gash near his rib, and Garak knows who this is before he even opens his eyes.

“Garak,” Julian sighs with relief. Garak was meant to be dead by phaser blast right now, but instead Julian Bashir is smiling down at him like he’s important, kneeling beside him, his hands on him, branding him with their incredible heat. It shouldn’t be possible. No one could be that fast. 

“Doctor,” he manages on a wheeze. One of his ribs might be broken, actually.

“Dukat,” Sisko growls from the monitor in billowing robes and a long flowing wig, surrounded by flowers.

—

“Explain,” Sisko commands.

Having decided that showing weakness right now can only help his case, Garak is sitting hunched to the side, holding his reeling head in one hand. It’s through a hiss that he replies, “A woman named Turora Lumok was responsible for sabotaging the station with those poems forged with my data signature. The Bajoran woman who was just assassinated–she was no Bajoran, but rather one of the last remaining members of the Obsidian Order. She was hired by Dukat to kill me during the festival under the guise of a hate crime. No doubt because of her indomitable reputation, I’m sure. A number of Cardassian casualties these past several days were at her hands.”

Sisko walks to the viewport to stare out into the stars for a moment, processing this. “All his talk of friendship between Bajor and Cardassia…” he trails off, the ghost of a sneer on his lips as he turns back around. “His goal was just the opposite. He wanted to destroy any hope of cooperation.”

“And get me out of the way in the process,” Garak grumbles. 

Sisko hums and wanders over to Garak’s side, looking down at him thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me who assassinated Ms. Lumok?”

Garak stares at the floor through his fingers, his eyes glazed.

“Or who your informant is on Dukat’s involvement?”

“Captain,” Garak mutters, not looking up, “I have sat here concussed after an attempt on my life and shared with you everything that I know, and here you have not even told me who the tailor of your magnificent robe is.” He tugs half-heartedly at a strip of embroidery on the fabric. “I must admit, I am feeling a touch betrayed you didn’t come to me.”

Sisko flicks his eyes up to Julian, who has been standing in the corner with his hands behind his back. “Very well, Mr. Garak. I release you into Dr. Bashir’s care for now, but I expect to continue this conversation soon.” He massages his forehead. “Once I figure out what to do about this damned festival.”

Julian comes over to help Garak out of his chair, but Garak snaps upright and to the door before he can touch him. Sisko takes the opportunity to lean into Julian’s face and whisper, “Get more information out of him.” The doctor nods.

Julian isn’t angry when he steps out of Sisko’s office and sees that Garak is walking in the exact opposite direction of the infirmary, but he is disappointed. 

“Mr. Garak,” he says urgently once he’s caught up to the idiot.

Mr. Garak interrupts him in the same tone, “Now, now, my dear doctor, we both know I have a dermal regenerator in my quarters, so we need not extend–”

“And I think we both know this is about much more than a few bumps and bruises. I’m afraid the time for beating around the bush passed quite a while ago.”

“You’re right, Doctor,” Garak says, coming to an abrupt stop and rounding on him with wild eyes. “There is an urgent matter we must discuss.” Julian’s eyebrows raise, and Garak nods severely. “Oh, yes, let us not ‘beat around the bush.’ We should talk about how you threw yourself directly into the line of a lethal phaser blast on the one in a millionth chance that you might save my life. The cost of such an action being almost certainly your own life, and yet, here you stand, and here I stand. Will wonders never cease.” Julian opens his mouth, but Garak raises a finger. “Nevermind that I was in the middle of an altercation with a very dangerous, very volatile woman who would not have hesitated for a second to dispose of you. She had a nasty habit of that. Now I knew that you were naive, Doctor, Doctor! I knew that! What I did not know – what I never could have guessed after all these years – was that you are an idiot.” 

Julian stares back into Garak’s hissing face, unimpressed. Garak feels a wave of deja-vu and does not like it. It has no place here. And yet, Julian takes in a breath and smiles, raising his shoulders. “All right, Garak. If it’s really so important to you, we can talk about your suicide attempt.”

“What?” Garak bites out.

“You were going to let yourself get shot, yes?”

“I was n–” Garak starts to lie, disgusted, but is stopped by Julian stepping entirely too close. He stumbles back a step, then another when Julian attempts to crowd him again, and the familiarity of the routine has him shutting his eyes, rueful. They’re dancing again. It’s humiliating, the things this man makes him do, how effortlessly he can gain the upperhand. Most of the time without even having to lift a finger.

“You figured out Dukat’s plan and arranged for Lumok to die if she succeeded, but you expected her to. You didn’t expect to be saved,” the doctor tells his blank, unresponsive face. His eyes are still closed, his hands tense at his sides, but he knows Julian’s stepped closer again by the heat of his livid breath. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Very well. I didn’t figure it out. I was informed.”

“So, the captain was right.” He sounds bored, but Garak seizes his chance. His eyes open in a sudden burst of animation.

“Yes, I had an informant. I believe the major was familiar with him, a fellow by the name of Damoc who was recently presumed dead? Though I knew him far better as Mebol. We first met on Romulus, you see. In the event of my death, he had strict instructions to reveal Dukat’s plot in my stead and protect my remaining assets. In return, he was to receive some valuable coordinates, which by now he will have long accessed. I suppose he’s already booked passage off of the station, if he hasn’t already gone.” 

“Quick to abandon you,” Julian says, completely off-script. Garak’s carefully measured breathing stutters.

“Surely Captain Sisko would like to have a word with him.”

“I’m sure.”

“Doctor…” Garak says, lost. “There isn’t time to was–”

Suddenly there are two hands slamming into his chest like they’re iron forks and he’s a slab of meat, rocketing him back into the nearest wall with a loud thud. Garak gasps at the strength of it, astounded, but all his attention is quickly monopolized by Julian’s snarling words.

“Stop trying to distract me, Garak! Stop racing away before I can even properly get into the room, stop begging off lunch, stop ignoring my comms, and stop acting like your bloody life is over just because it was found out that you have feelings for me!” 

“I–I don’t–”

“Lke hell you don’t! Thirty-seven.”

Garak blinks several times. “What?”

“Thirty-seven. That’s how many direct references to our literary discussions are in your poems. All chronologically concordant with the dates of those discussions, and six of which from that classic Earth album I recommended to you a year ago that you swore up and down sounded like a pack of voles had been crammed into a bucket and shaken around. I knew you were having me on. You love Mitski, and you love me.”

Garak’s face shutters. 

Finally, Julian takes a step back. His hands remain on his chest, pinning him in place, but he allows him some oxygen. Exactly twenty seconds pass like this, before the doctor becomes impatient and huffs, “You can’t possibly have nothing to say.”

“What would you have me say, Doctor?”

“I would like you to admit it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve heard it from friends and coworkers and strangers and every tourist on this damn station, it feels like, but I haven’t heard it from you.”

Garak is silent for a long time. Finally, he quietly asks, “You would further humiliate me this way? Knowing what you do? My dear friend…” He, carefully, with only the gentlest of pressure, puts a hand over one of Julian’s. “Please. You’ve read everything I could possibly have to say. What more could there be?”

Julian’s hands are unforgiving, but his eyes soften at the simple lowering of the curtain. It’s not the direct confession he was looking for, the I love you completely, traitorously, ruinously that his poems professed and a deep, broken part of Julian desperately wants to hear, but it is, it is. For Garak, this is as explicit as it gets, and Julian can feel his heart trying to catch in his throat.

“Garak,” he starts to say.

Garak isn’t scowling anymore. His eyes are shining as he looks away and sucks in an aggrieved breath. “Oh, please, let us skip this excruciating precursor. I have no intention of remaining on this station.”

Julian goes unnervingly still. “Excuse me?”

“I will need time to pack up my shop and settle my lease, but then I promise, you will never suffer the consequences of my unfortunate… condition again.” When Julian only stares at him with mounting alarm in his lovely eyes, Garak grimaces. “You must know I had no intention of pursuing you.” At least, not after the implant had been shut off and he’d realized what horrors he’d stumbled into with the doctor while under its influence, and by then, it was already too late. He was too weak to stop speaking to him, but he was not a complete monster. “I wouldn’t have. My writing was never about nurturing the emotions, only managing them.” A bit of a lie, but only a bit. He does love to languish and he never could resist a good innuendo. Their friendship had been infinitely precious to him, though, and he couldn’t bear the slow death it would undergo now that everyone knew the truth.

The worsening rumors that would spread. The suffering of Julian’s reputation, career, and love life with the Cardassian spy’s drastic affections hanging over everyone’s heads. The danger it would place them both in, the damage it had already done. The way Julian would know every time Garak flirted now, it was never idle. It had never been and could never be. 

It would be a torture hitherto unthinkable. Better to sever the limb before it could rot.

Still, Julian is silent. The pressure on his chest is more a suggestion than a command now.

“Doctor, I…” he swallows back anymore hideous truths. “I apologize. Your rage is understandable, but I swear to you, I have every intention of righting this wrong.”

“Oh,” Julian says then, softly, as if he isn’t speaking to Garak at all,  “you don’t know.”

“Doctor?”

He makes a bizarre human gesture, skimming the heel of his hand off his forehead. “My God! Of course. I thought it was pride, or shame, or paranoia. Anything and everything but this, but of course you would be this ridiculous. Well. That’s an easy enough problem to solve.”

“Doctor–?!”

The hands on his chest are gone. Instead, they’re seizing him by the head and pulling him up to connect his mouth to Julian’s.

Oh.

If Julian’s touch was a brand before, this is lava running down his throat, into his stomach and down, down, down to eat through the twenty inch thick duranium floor. Slow, thorough, and final in its devastation. A transformation that cannot be persuaded. He grapples with it, hands scrambling stupidly over and across his doctor’s shoulders. Whether it’s to pull him closer or push him away, he doesn’t know. He’s too busy being brutally altered to give it much thought.

His hands settle for burying themselves in his hair at some point. When doesn’t matter. Time holds no power here. It happens, and then he knows how soft Julian Bashir’s hair feels, and there is no going back.

The loss of control becomes alarming enough that he finally manages to pry himself away, gulping in desperate, anxious breaths of frigid station air. It works. The fire and the madness that followed it calms down and he manages the strength to push Julian back, but the wet smack of their lips disconnecting will echo in his dreams for the foreseeable future, as will the dizzy grin on Julian’s face inches from his own. There’s a hand on his ass keeping him from tumbling through the hole in the floor and a couple unlucky passersby gawking at the gruesome scene and Garak is a different creature entirely, incandescent and strange, forged anew in the curious fires of mutual attachment. 

He feels insane.

“Doctor, you cannot truly be this naive.” 

Julian looks anything but naive right then. He can’t focus on that, though. He needs to focus on the fact he was nearly assassinated; the fact that the kindest man alive nearly died with him out of some misguided terran idea that all lives are of equal value and importance.

And yet, Julian is leaning in to kiss him again, so Garak puts a hand on his chest and says, “You know what I am.”

Julian’s expression turns complicated and it’s clear he understands. Garak’s roiling emotions can’t settle on being relieved or horrified. How to go on after this? After knowing intimately what he almost had, with the smoke of it still thick in his eyes and his throat and his heart?

A gentle hand on his jaw brings him back to the moment, where Julian’s eyes are serious. “I know,” he murmurs.

Garak sucks in a wet breath.

“The question is,” Julian continues, even quieter, “do you know what I am?”

His head is spinning. “Doctor?”

Julian just smiles sadly, and it's clear that there are some long conversations in their future. But for now… “About that dermal regenerator in your quarters,” Julian begins, and Garak is relieved to find out that whatever stupid, lovely thing he’s become can still appreciate an innuendo.

—

Not long after, in the middle of telling Sisko all about Mebol over Julian’s comm badge while its owner watches expectantly in a state of teasing half-dress, he’s horrified to find that whatever thing he’s become is also rather eager to please.

—

A couple days later, the two of them are picking from a generous cut of flaming taspar in the Replimat.

Or, Garak is picking, anyway. Julian is stuffing his face. Ordinarily, this would mildly scandalize him, but the fact it’s taspar, one of the most traditional delicacies of his homeworld, being shoveled enthusiastically into that pretty face makes it so he can feel only hope.

Rather than giving into that inadvisable feeling, he takes a dainty sip of his tea and tries to look nonsuspect. Cardassians from all sides and angles are staring.

“About Miss Leeta…” Garak begins.

Julian wipes his face with the side of his hand. Disgusting, but oddly compelling. “What about her?” 

“When will you be breaking the news to her?”

“Oh.” Julian smiles, bemused. “She knows.”

A tightness in his chest dispels slightly. “Does she?” he says faintly.

“She’s the one who first brought it up. We performed the Rite of Separation days ago. She said it was great timing, what with the festival and all. We didn’t even have to leave the station.”

“So you were together then.”

“Well, in a sense. We weren’t in love, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Garak takes another sip, lowering his eyes. “I wasn’t worried. Only concerned for the young lady’s feelings.”

Julian’s face is incandescent. A Cardassian to his far left is openly gaping. “Of course, of course.” He leans suddenly over the table then, moving a hand forward to rest on his knee. “So, should I take this line of questioning as an indicator that you’re open to a relationship with me?”

Garak shifts a little in his seat, moving his knee further under the table and its shadows, but otherwise doesn’t pull away. “It would be unwise,” he says quietly, without actually saying no.

The hand squeezes. “It isn’t as if people won’t assume anyway.”

“Rumors can be dispelled. Redirected. Altered.” He reaches forward to take a small saucière and pours a bright red sauce over a couple groatcakes. “There would be no coming back from a confirmation.”

Julian’s hand falls away. “Would it be so bad?”

“I don’t know,” Garak says, splitting a cake up into three neat sections. “Would it, Doctor?”

A Bajoran couple walks past their table then, and while one purposely avoids eye contact and seems to be giving them a wide berth, the other throws a meaningful glare Julian’s way. This is the fourth judgemental or pitying look he’s received since they came in for brunch. Julian calmly returns the look, refusing to be the first to look away, until finally the man averts his eyes and Julian looks back to Garak with a stern smile. Garak inclines his head.

“Be careful, Doctor,” Garak goes on. “Rumors can ruin lives. End careers.” He scoops up a bite of his cake, dripping with red sauce, and lifts it to his mouth. “Kill,” he finishes, and eats.

At that, Julian leans back in his seat with his arms crossed tight. Garak gives him his time. It’s a relief to have finally made a dent in Julian’s lovesick, idealistic conviction–and Garak can admit, after the last few days, that it is lovesickness. Julian’s decided he loves him back and there will be no stopping him from pursuing this, but there may yet be some tempering. A small, equally stubborn, sentimental part of Garak despairs at the whole horrid affair, but the behemoth of his good sense squashes this part down with little difficulty. 

It’s this moment that a smattering of young Cardassians, accompanied by one Jadzia Dax, arrive at their table. Immediately, Garak recognizes them as the ones that nearly intercepted his meeting with Lumok and his stomach drops. Julian, on the other hand, brightens back up.

“Well, hello there,” he says warmly.

Jadzia responds first, with each elbow leaned on a Cardassian’s shoulder and a knowing sparkle in her blue eyes, “Hello to you.” The Cardassians all echo with similar greetings, some shy, others giddy.

One young woman standing at the front, with her hair in three elaborately plaited braids and little makeup, is looking at Garak with particular interest. “You’re the one who wrote the poems about Julian.”

Garak looks at the girl coolly. “Do you mean Dr. Bashir?”

She goes blue. “Oh, um. Yes. I do.” She tucks an imaginary lock of hair into her perfectly coiffed hair and lowers her head respectfully. “My apologies, Doctor.”

“Hey now,” the doctor scolds with good humor, “none of that. We’re all friends here.” 

The girl throws another searching glance Garak’s way. “Friends?”

That’s enough of that. “This is certainly quite the surprise,” Garak says genially, plastering on his most pleasant smile. “Is there something you needed? As Deep Space Nine’s resident Cardassian tailor and reputed troubadour, I’m always happy to be of service.” Julian sends him a sharp look, which he ignores. 

Jadzia is looking as foxy as she ever does, with a grin nearly to her spotted ears. “Julian asked me to bring them here,” she says too happily, and Garak has to sit back in his seat to process that. Julian scratches his neck with a guilty smile, obliviously alluring. It cannot be overstated that there are, still, eyes on them from all directions and angles.

“Garak, sir,” the Cardassian woman-child begins again, earnest, “let me start over. My name is Inia Milam. I am the President of the Ivory State Liberation Library. We collect–”

“Madam,” Garak interrupts her quietly, stunned. “This is hardly the time and place.” He blinks, still shocked stupid by her brazenness, and leans towards her, peering into her distressingly young features with beseeching desperation. “And I am hardly the audience.”

Milam doesn’t appear to process his warning at all, though. She just continues to look inquisitive. She has that gleam in her eyes that is common in Cardassian women, calculating and intelligent, but there’s something else there. Something indefinable that he’s seen hundreds of times over an interrogation table, but without the fear to staunch it. Without the hopelessness. It makes his stomach flip. “On the contrary, you are exactly the sort of person we look for.” She bows her head. “Dr. Bashir promised that if we assisted him a few days prior, he would introduce us so that I could formally welcome your book of poems into our shelves. I apologize if this comes as a surprise. I wish only to thank you for your excellent contribution, E. G., and tell you that we hope to welcome many more pieces from you in the future. I’ll be in touch. Dr. Bashir.” She nods to him, returns his gentle smile, and walks confidently away. The rest of the group mirror her, voicing similar words of polite farewell and appreciation, and leave.

Garak forces himself not to track their departure and instead picks up his fork again, as if nothing world-shattering has occurred at all. The cake is tasteless in his mouth.

Julian is concealing nothing of his thoughts, however. He’s staring openly at Garak, as if he’s a bomb and he’s trying to figure out which color wire to cut.

Ultimately, it’s Jadzia that breaks the tension. “Well,” she says, “that is some harem you’ve got there, Julian.”

“Jadzia,” Julian barks. She laughs.

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing.” Uncharacteristically, her impish smile turns regretful. “Now that that’s out of the way, I do have to bring your friend in for questioning,” she says, and that explains that. “I’m sorry, boys. I stalled Ben as long as I could.”

Garak polishes off the last of his meal and takes one last gulp of his tea to wash it down. With that done, he stands with a placid, conciliatory smile.

Julian puts a hand on his shoulder before he can take a step. “I’ll come see you after my shift.” Those lovely, dark, deep eyes search his, pinning him like a moth above his fireplace. “Okay?”

Garak inhales. “Without end,” he murmurs, waits for Julian’s eyes to light in understanding, and then aloud says, “I am at your disposal, Doctor. Good day.” With that and a firm, friendly pat on Julian’s hand, he limps away.

Jadzia rather pointedly watches him limp to the exit for a few long seconds before throwing Julian a rakish grin. “Well, well,” she says largely. Julian pretends not to notice, and Jadzia pivots on her heel after Garak.

“Before we lock you up and throw away the key, could you sign my datarod,” Julian hears Jadzia asking, and he shakes his head, unsuccessfully trying to rub away his smile.

Without end Do I think of you and so Come to me at night. For on the path of dreams at least, There's no one to disapprove! Ono no Komachi

[sayruq]

Surrounded by dozens of soldiers, tanks, armored cars, buzzing drones, and army dogs, Ahmad Safi found himself looking at a massive hole in the ground. “Of all the death scenarios I have imagined myself in since the beginning of the war, I never suspected I would see my own grave,” the 26-year-old Khan Younis resident told Mondoweiss. Ahmad and his male relatives had been detained by the Israeli army and forcibly conscripted to stand in front of a resistance military base as the Israeli soldiers took cover behind them. They were caught in the middle of an exchange of fire between the soldiers and the resistance. On the night of January 22, the Israeli army launched a sudden attack on western Khan Younis, where five shelters for displaced people were located. In the middle of the night, the Israeli troops advanced towards the Tiba buildings, where Ahmad and his family had taken refuge in the middle of the Israeli-designated “safe zone.” These buildings were surrounded by al-Aqsa University, the al-Khair Hospital, the Industrial College, the Palestinian Red Crescent Society Center, and the al-Mawasi coastal area, all housing tens of thousands of displaced Palestinians. Early that night, Ahmad realized that Israeli quadcopter drones had fully occupied the sky. He knew what this meant based on his accumulated experience of Israeli war tactics — the army preferred to launch major operations under cover of night. Ahmad heard nonstop gunfire in the distance that night, but it was relatively far away, so he kept watching an anime show to distract himself. Moments later, the sound of gunfire intensified and got closer, and suddenly he heard screams from the opposite room. His cousin had been hit by a bullet. As the gunfire started intensifying further, Ahmad threw himself under his bed when the rest of his family rushed to his room carrying his injured cousin. That was when the Israeli soldiers stormed their apartment, bursting into the room in a blaze of flashlights. “It was the first time I had seen an Israeli soldier in real life,” Ahmad told Mondoweiss. The army separated the women from the men and forced the women to flee south to Rafah. The men were kept zip-tied and would remain in the army’s custody. An Israeli commander ordered Ahmad and the men of his family to move downstairs in single file. He then ordered them to kneel against the southern wall inside their apartment, which faces a resistance military base. Ahmad’s body was shaking uncontrollably. His lips were trembling and his breathing was heavy. “I tried to pull myself together,” Ahmad recounted. “But when I heard my mother say goodbye to us as she was dragged outside by the Israeli soldiers, I couldn’t hold back my tears.” The next morning on January 23, the Israeli soldiers ordered Ahmad, his father, his brother, and the rest of his cousins to move outdoors and instructed them to move horizontally in front of the armored military cars. “As they ordered us to stop and stand still, I found myself again a few meters away from the resistance military base,” Ahmad said. “ That was the moment I realized that we were being used as human shields.”

[kisswoniie]

·˚ ༘ ❝SMALL TOWN❞·˚ ༘

재윤 ˖ 𝑓em!r .. childhood best friends to lovers—suggestive. smut. fluff.

tw: mdni (18+). making out. slow burn tension. fingering. light profanity. not proofread so let me know!!

🀦 It was a hot summer morning in town, the kind where the air stuck to your skin and the cicadas buzzed so loudly they dragged you out of sleep. Just as well—you had plans. Coffee with Jake before the beach. It was tradition, something stitched into the years you’d grown side by side. Everyone in town knew about you two: best friends, always together, but never anything more. Not that your mum hadn’t hoped. She still joked about a wedding someday, as if you were only waiting for the right moment.

But deep down, you knew the truth. You felt it every time his shoulder brushed yours, every time he laughed a little too softly. You just didn’t know if Jake felt it too. And you weren’t sure if you were brave enough to find out.

🀦Jake was already there when you arrived, leaning against the wall outside the café in a faded tee and board shorts, sunglasses pushed into his messy hair. He looked like summer—lazy and golden and impossible not to want. He grinned when he saw you, that same boyish smile he’d had since you were nine, except now it did something to your chest you couldn’t ignore.

“You’re late,” he said, handing you your usual without asking.

“You’re always early,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you meant it to. You wondered if he noticed.

🀦He didn’t say anything, just bumped his shoulder gently into yours like he always did. Friendly. Familiar. But it lingered. Or maybe you imagined that part. You were always imagining things when it came to Jake.

The sun was already high by the time you reached the beach, the sand hot enough to sting your feet as you ran across it. Jake was just ahead, carrying the cooler, his laugh carried by the breeze as you chased after him like you always had.

🀦It felt like being kids again—towels slung over shoulders, sunscreen sticky on your skin, the ocean glittering like it had secrets just for you two. He dropped the cooler beside the same spot you’d always claimed, just left of the dunes, half-shaded by a cluster of trees.

“Race you in,” he said, already backing toward the water, that crooked grin daring you.

“You’ll lose.”

🀦You didn’t, but he let you think you did, catching you in the shallows and dunking you under. You came up gasping, hair plastered to your face, and he was laughing, so close you could see the tiny scar above his lip—the one he got falling off his bike when you were twelve.

You froze a little too long, and he noticed. Just for a second. The grin faded, not completely, just enough to feel like a question. Then he flicked water at you and swam deeper, leaving you with your heartbeat thudding in your throat.

🀦By the time you both climbed out of the water, breathless and dripping, the sun had mellowed to a softer gold, casting long shadows over the sand. Jake tossed you a towel, flopping down beside you like nothing had changed—but it had. It was in the silence that came after the laughter.

You both dried off slowly, sitting side by side, shoulders barely touching, gazes fixed on the horizon like it held the future you were trying not to talk about.“So… when do you leave?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant it to be.Jake didn’t look at you. Just scrubbed at his hair with the towel, then let it rest around his neck. “End of August,” he said. “They want me in Seoul early for training.”

🀦Your heart twisted, even though you already knew. He’d talked about music his whole life—stayed up late practicing covers, writing songs on his old guitar. But it hadn’t felt real until now.“That’s… soon,” you said. “Yale’s not exactly down the road, either,” he replied, finally turning to face you. His eyes held that softness that always undid you, like he was trying to memorize you. You tried to smile. “I guess this is our last summer, huh?”Jake didn’t answer right away. The waves filled the space between you, steady and endless.“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I guess it is.”You wanted to say more. That it wasn’t fair. That it felt like something was slipping through your fingers. That maybe this thing between you wasn’t just in your head. But instead, you just nodded and looked away, the burn behind your eyes sharper than the sun.

The living room was dim, lit only by the flicker of the TV screen. You sat close—maybe a little closer than usual—on the worn couch that had seen every phase of your friendship. The salty scent of the beach still clung to your skin, your hair damp from the ocean, your hoodie a little too big and definitely Jake’s.

🀦Outside, the cicadas had gone quiet, replaced by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. Inside, the horror movie crackled with static and eerie music, but it wasn’t the ghosts or jump scares that made your chest tighten. It was the way Jake’s knee brushed yours, casual at first, then didn’t move. You were both pretending to be absorbed in the movie, but neither of you really were. You felt him tense slightly at a loud scene, then suddenly—his hand reached for the blanket between you. At the same time, so did yours.

Your fingers collided, warm and wet with leftover seawater and sunscreen. You both froze. His thumb grazed your knuckle—soft, tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he should pull away or hold on. You looked at him. Just a glance. The kind you’d given a hundred times before. But this time, it held a question. And maybe, just maybe, an answer. He didn’t move. Neither did you. The screen flickered, some scream in the background echoing through the room—but it felt like it belonged to someone else’s world. In yours, there was only the touch. And the tension. And the heartbeat that wasn’t sure who it belonged to anymore.

🀦Your fingers stayed tangled in the blanket longer than they should have. Neither of you spoke. The movie kept playing, shadows dancing across his face, but he wasn’t watching anymore. And neither were you.

You were hyper-aware of every part of him—the way his jaw tensed, the flicker of his lashes, the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Something inside you shifted. Maybe it was the way he didn’t pull away. Maybe it was the fact that time was running out. Before you could think better of it, you leaned in. Just a little. Just enough. Jake turned his head at the same time, not expecting it. Your lips brushed the side of his cheek instead of his mouth, soft and clumsy, but still electric. You froze. He did too. The moment hung there, fragile as glass. “I—”

🀦“Did you—?” You both spoke at once, the words colliding and falling apart mid-air. Jake laughed—nervous, breathless—and rubbed the back of his neck. You pulled away slightly, heat rising to your cheeks. “Sorry,” you said quickly, eyes darting to the screen. “That was… I don’t know what that was.” Jake looked at you, his voice quieter now. “No, I mean… it’s okay. I just didn’t think—” He stopped. You glanced at him, waiting.

“Didn’t think what?” you asked. He didn’t answer right away. Just gave you that look—the one that always lingered a little too long. The one that made your chest feel tight and your throat full. “Didn’t think you’d ever want to,” he said finally.

🀦You stared at him. His words hung in the air like smoke, thick and impossible to ignore. “Didn’t think you’d ever want to.” ringed in your head. Your heart was pounding so loud, you were sure he could hear it. Maybe he had always heard it. Maybe he was just waiting for you to say it out loud. “I’ve always wanted to,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I just didn’t think you did.”

His breath caught. That look in his eyes—like something cracked wide open—was all the answer you needed. And then you leaned in again. This time slower. This time certain. Your lips met like a secret finally told—soft at first, a question waiting to be answered. Then his hand found your waist, and yours slid up to his jaw, and the kiss deepened. Desperate. Starved. Like every second you’d held back had finally caught up to you both. Jake pulled you closer, like he couldn’t stand the space between you anymore, like he’d been holding this back just as long. You were half in his lap before you even realized, mouths moving in sync, teeth grazing, fingers gripping fabric. It wasn’t gentle anymore. It was heat and history and too many nights pretending not to want this.

🀦When you finally pulled back, lips swollen, breath tangled between you, his forehead rested against yours. “Holy shit,” he murmured. You laughed—breathless, dazed, dizzy.

Jake kissed you again, rougher this time, hands finding your hips like he’d been dying to touch you for years. And maybe he had. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, swallowing the low groan that slipped from his throat when your body pressed fully into his. His hands moved slowly, deliberately, sliding beneath the hem of your hoodie—his hoodie—and skimming the bare skin of your waist. His fingers were warm, calloused from guitar strings, and when they grazed higher, just under the curve of your ribs, your breath hitched.

🀦He paused at that sound. Pulled back just enough to look at you, lips barely brushing yours. “This okay?” You nodded, but your heart was pounding for a different reason now. Your stomach twisted—not from the touch, but from the ache of what you hadn’t said yet. Jake’s mouth ghosted along your jaw, down your neck, sending shivers that made your knees weak. His hand trailed up again, teasing, slow, but just as it brushed the edge of your bra, you tensed—just slightly. Just enough.

He felt it. Stopped. Looked up at you with that unreadable softness in his eyes. “Hey,” he said gently, thumb brushing your side. “You okay?” You swallowed hard, heart crawling up your throat. “I’m—” You forced yourself to breathe. “I’ve never… I mean—I haven’t done this before.” There it was. Out. Naked. Hanging in the space between you.

🀦Jake froze, but not in the way you feared. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t laugh. He just blinked at you, then exhaled slow and steady. His voice dropped, lower now, quieter. “Okay,” he said. “Then we don’t go further. Not unless you want to.” deeply looking into her eyes this time.

You stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, your breaths mingling in the quiet hum of the room. The movie was still playing, but you couldn’t hear it anymore—just the sound of your heartbeat, and the way his hand gently stroked your side like he didn’t want to stop touching you, but didn’t want to push you either. His voice was soft. “You don’t have to explain anything.” But you wanted to. Needed to. Your fingers tightened slightly in the fabric of his shirt. “It’s not that I don’t want to…” You paused, cheeks burning. “It’s just—I’ve thought about it. About… things. With you.”

🀦Jake’s hand stilled, and he leaned back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze was steady but laced with something new—need, curiosity, a little surprise. “Things?” You bit your lip and looked away, your voice barely a whisper. “One time, I… I had this fantasy. Of you.” “Yeah?” His voice dipped, low and almost teasing, but not unkind. Encouraging. You nodded, eyes flicking down. “I imagined you touching me. Like… with your fingers.” You felt heat rush up your neck. “I was curious. About what it would feel like. With you.”

The silence between you thickened, not uncomfortable—just heavy with the weight of the moment. Jake exhaled, shaky. His hand slid a little higher on your waist, his thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching, but close. “You have no idea what that does to me,” he murmured. “Hearing you say that.” “I didn’t think I’d be good at it or be good at anything.” His gaze searched yours, and something in him softened again. “You don’t have to be good at anything,” he said gently. “You just have to feel. Let me take care of you.”

🀦He leaned in, kissing you slowly this time—deeper, but not rushed. His hand eased beneath the hoodie again, trailing over your stomach, lower now, testing the edge of what came next with every breath. As his fingers trailed lower, slow and deliberate, watching your face for any sign of hesitation. You were trembling—not from fear, but anticipation. Heat curled low in your stomach, your thighs instinctively pressing together as his hand brushed just above your waistband.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice husky, lips brushing your cheek. You nodded, almost breathless. “Yeah… I want to.” Jake’s hand slipped beneath the band of your shorts, fingers gliding over the fabric of your underwear. You gasped softly, hips twitching as he pressed his palm there, not rushing—just holding, like he was giving you time to feel it. To crave it.

🀦He kissed your neck, your jaw, everywhere but your lips, as if giving your body space to react before he overwhelmed you completely. You moaned quietly when one finger traced over you through the thin cotton—circling, teasing, dragging a breathy whine from your throat. “God, you’re so wet already,” he murmured, almost to himself, like the realization made his restraint crack just a little. “You’ve really thought about this?”

You nodded again, hiding your face in his neck. “So many times,” you whispered. “I just didn’t think it’d feel like this.” He slipped his hand beneath the last layer of fabric, skin to skin now, and you froze for a moment, overwhelmed by the intimacy—how much he could feel, how close he was. He didn’t move until you exhaled again, loosening under his touch. He slid one finger through your folds, slowly, exploring you like he was memorizing everything. He found your clit and circled gently, making your hips buck and your breath catch. He kissed you again—finally—swallowing your moan as he worked you slowly, patiently, like he had all night. When he slipped a finger inside, your body tensed at first, the stretch unfamiliar but not painful. His other hand found yours, lacing your fingers together on your stomach as he whispered, “Breathe. You’re doing perfect.”

🀦He moved in and out with a rhythm that made your legs tremble around him, curling his finger just right until sparks lit up behind your eyes. When he added a second, your gasp turned into a whimper, your hand clutching his tighter, lips parting around his name. “Yunie” you moaned, eyes fluttering shut. “I—I think I’m…” “I’ve got you,” he said, kissing your temple. “Let go.”

And you did. With a stuttering breath and a soft cry, you came undone for the first time under his touch—his mouth pressed to your neck, whispering praises as he held you through every trembling second. When it was over, he didn’t move, just held you close, fingers still tangled with yours, the other hand smoothing over your hip like he was grounding you. “You’re still shaking,” he whispered against your skin. “feels so good” She mumbled, out of breath.

🀦Jake lay beside you in the quiet, your breath still uneven, your body tucked into his like it had always belonged there. The TV had long since faded into background noise, forgotten. He couldn’t stop touching you—his thumb tracing lazy circles on your hip, like he needed to prove to himself you were still real. That this wasn’t something he’d dreamed one too many nights when he was supposed to be just your best friend.

His heart was pounding. Not from lust—though God, the way you’d gasped his name would echo in his mind for the rest of his life—but from something deeper. Something that scared the shit out of him.

🀦You trusted him. Gave yourself to him. Your first time. And he’d felt it—not just physically, but in every soft whimper, every shaky breath, every time you looked at him like he was more than just Jake. Like he was yours. He couldn’t believe it had actually happened. After years of silent aching. After all the nights spent lying next to you, too scared to move, to speak, to ruin it. After listening to your laugh echo in his chest like a prayer he couldn’t say out loud. And now? He didn’t know what happened next. He was leaving soon. You were going to Yale. He was flying across the world to chase a dream built on tight schedules and spotlight pressure.

But nothing—not fame, not music, not Seoul—could’ve prepared him for the way you felt in his arms. The way your voice broke when you told him your fantasy. The way you looked at him like he was it. The way you came undone under his hands and whispered his name like a secret you’d been dying to tell. You were still curled into him, flushed and breathless from all the almosts. His fingers rested low on your back, just under the hem of your hoodie, warm against your skin. The air between you had cooled, but your bodies were still too hot, too close.

🀦Jake’s eyes were on you—half-lidded, lips swollen from kissing you raw, but soft now. Watching. Waiting. Like he knew there was something else you were holding back. You felt it bubbling in your chest, right there behind your ribs where you’d kept it hidden for years. Tonight cracked everything open. There was no going back to pretending. No more leaving things unsaid. So you whispered it. Quiet, almost like it might shatter if you said it too loud. “I’m in love with you, Jake.”

He stilled. Not because he didn’t feel it—but because he did. Because maybe he’d dreamed of hearing those words so many times it didn’t feel real. His breath hitched, and for the first time all night, he didn’t have something clever to say. You pushed through the silence, voice shaking just a little. “I’ve been in love with you. For years. Even when we were just kids, even when I told myself we were just friends. I didn’t say it because… we were always you and me, and I didn’t want to lose that. But now…”

You looked up at him. His face was unreadable—jaw tense, brows drawn, eyes burning. “Now I’ve touched you. Now you’ve touched me. And if I leave and we don’t say this, I’ll regret it every day.” Jake leaned in, his hand cupping your face so gently it made you ache. His forehead pressed to yours, noses brushing, breath syncing like it always did. “I love you too,” he said. “I think I always have. I just didn’t want to fuck it up. And I still don’t.” You smiled, eyes stinging. “So don’t. Let’s not.”

🀦His lips found yours again—this time slow, purposeful. Like the words you’d both finally said had melted something deep inside of him. The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t even desperate. It was full of everything you hadn’t known how to say until now. When it broke, he stayed close, whispering against your mouth, “I’m yours. Even across the world.” You smiled. And even though desire still buzzed under your skin, even though both of you were still burning with the memory of his hands and your fantasy and that unfinished edge—you stayed there, wrapped around each other.

leah’s note!; i hope yall enjoyed!

©kisswoniie | do not copy or plagiarize my work

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

For your bingo celebration can I request a pregnancy reveal with fem reader X Paul atreides where maybe after the movie reader and Paul have been trying for a baby and have been together for a while, so reader reveals by an outfit for his mother, and his mom saying I'm going to be the best grandmother, and Paul is shocked and is happy and maybe he proposes cause they've been together for ages and yeah maybe smut

.⋆｡Our Legacy｡⋆.

Paul Atreides x plus size reader

As the war between House Astreides and the other great houses plateau, Paul and his lover endeavour to continue their great line

Warnings: pregnancy, fluff, mentions of the events of Dune part 2, reader is technically Paul’s concubine since they aren’t legally married, little bit of smut, breeding kink, some angst, vague mentions of struggling to conceive, Alia doesn’t exist WC: 1.5k

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

6k Follower Celebration

The orange light of a sunrise over Arrakis was truly one of the most beautiful sights in the universe. The entire planet seemed to glow under the haze of sand and Spice and Y/N couldn’t be more grateful to witness this miracle of nature each morning from her bedroom in the palace. But what she loved more was the ways that the sun’s rays caressed the naked skin of her lover as he slept next to her.

Paul’s pale skin perfectly reflected the early morning light, highlighting the curve of toned muscle along his spine as well as the silvery lines of scars from the many battles he had won. His face was peaceful where it rested upon her breast, his arms wound tightly around her waist. It was not common that he indulged in the luxury of rest, especially now that he was Emperor and dealing with the other great houses as they attempted to usurp his rule.

Y/N valued these moments far more than her lover ever realised; the quiet of early morning and the weight of his body against her own was a treasure that she could not ever bear to part with. Paul shifted in his sleep, his grip on the young woman tightening. Gently, she brushed her thumb over the crease in his dark brows and his restlessness eased, if only for a moment. 

“Why are you awake so early?” Paul pressed his lips to the swell of her breast, a lazy imitation of the occurrences of the night before. Her fingers twisted into his unruly black curls as he slowly kissed his way up her soft torso until the young Emperor was settled between her legs.

“How could I sleep any longer when such a beautiful man is in the bed beside me? You are far better than any dream Muad'Dib.” He groaned, his long eyelashes fluttering.

“You are a seductress my love.” She laughed as he gripped her naked hips, his bright blue eyes darkened with lust. “Perhaps we should continue our endeavour of an heir.” 

“Perhaps we should, it is our duty.” Her hands trailed down the expanse of his back while he delicately lifted her leg to wrap around his waist. Already, she was dripping onto the sheets beneath them. Paul tutted, his fingers gathering the ambrosia of her body before he pressed them to her sensitive pearl at the apex of her thighs.

“Then we shouldn’t let this go to waste.” The words had barely passed his lips when he finally breached her, his cock reaching the deepest parts of her. Y/N gasped and clung to his back.

“Paul!” He smiled against the skin of her throat before gently nipping at the thin flesh.

“That’s my girl, giving me my heir.” The cacophony of their moans sang out over the dawn of a new day.

——————

The heat of the afternoon steadily crept its way into the walls of Arrakeen, soon it would be too great to bear and both women would retire to their own chambers to cool off. Though Jessica was far more used to the heat than her almost daughter-in-law. 

Y/N cringed as she took another sip of tea. She had hoped the bitter taste would have grown more pleasant if she let the brew cool but it still turned her stomach. Her nose crinkled as she placed it upon the side table that had been brought into the room for her while she tried on new dresses specially ordered for her new position.

Lady Jessica looked up from her own tea with a curious expression. “Are you feeling quite alright?” 

Y/N waved off the reverend mother. “I think I’m just exhausted. I don’t think I was built for being the Emperor’s consort, I’m not a bene gesserit.” Her laugh was light but Jessica’s gaze didn’t waver. Her eyes, so similar to Paul’s, looked through the younger woman.

After a moment, Jessica turned her head and gestured to one of the ladies in wait beside the doorway. She immediately rushed forward. “Would you retrieve my son, I believe he should wish to see this next dress.” As the girl scurried off, another approached Y/N with yet another pile of fabrics that would somehow create a grand dress. 

She held back a sigh at the sight; all she wished to do was to go back to her rooms for a cold bath and then a nap, hopefully with Paul next to her. But instead, she slipped behind the privacy curtain, her lady following behind her to assist. “I thought I had enough dresses Reverend Mother.”

The older woman chuckled this time, her mood now somehow lighter. “I believe that you shall be needing more soon enough.”

Y/N gulped as the air was forced from her lungs. The constricting fabric pulled tight around her plush stomach, clinging to her curves like a second skin. This was so unlike the others she had been fitted for today, all were beautiful of course but they were elegant, conservative as is befitting for a consort. But the light green that now adorned her frame was far from appropriate for her position. Her weighty breasts were held up and practically on display as the neck of the dress dipped down almost to the base of her sternum. 

She looked down at herself with curiosity, something about her was different but she couldn’t quite place it. “You look beautiful my lady.” The young girl assisting her spoke up.

“She always does.” A deeper voice rang through the room, immediately setting Y/N at ease. 

“How nice of you to join us Paul.” Jessica looked up at her son but he didn’t even spare her a glance, his blue eyes focused on the screen that hid his beloved away from his gaze. She knew how deeply he loved her but in moments such as these, she was reminded of how Leto had loved her and she could only hope that her son’s story had a happier ending.

“I was invited and I never deny any opportunity to see my love dressed up.” Heat crawled up Y/N’s cheeks though it did not come from the harsh sun over Dune. 

“Well, I don’t know about this one, I doubt it will be even remotely appropriate anywhere outside the bedroom.” She muttered.

Paul’s laugh sent her heart racing. “I certainly wouldn’t object to that.” Lady Jessica remained silent, a sly smile spreading across her tattooed cheeks. “Come on, let us see this dress then.” 

Y/N took as deep a breath as she could without popping out of the top and stepped out. Paul’s eyes flicked to her bust before quickly travelling down the length of her body. His lust for her was clear, but so was his adoration. She went to cross her arms over her stomach but Paul gently grabbed her elbows, keeping his view of her unobstructed. 

“Something is different about you.” His hands travelled to her hips, then, when he didn’t find anything amiss, to her stomach. He cradled her like a poor man would a precious jewel, she was priceless, she was everything. She followed his movements with her own hand and although her lower belly was more firm than she remembered it, nothing seemed to be wrong.

“I feel it too, but I cannot place it.” Her free hand grabbed at his thin waist as if to anchor herself to him. Silent tension filled the air like Spice. There were only so many possibilities and to Paul’s cautious mind, they were only bad.

“I must say that I’m quite excited to be a grandmother.” Jessica sipped her tea, hiding her keen smile behind the clay cup. The two lovers looked at her, then each other.

“It can’t be, we’ve tried for so long and we haven’t been successful.” Y/N cried out though she did not know what for. Her lover, though, remained silent. His palm spread over her womb as his expression hardened. “Paul?”

He pressed harder and then suddenly withdrew his hand completely, his eyes wide. “It’s true, you’re pregnant.” 

“I-I’m pregnant? Finally?” 

“We’re going to have a child, my love. Our child.” Her arms wound around his neck, desperate to be close to her lover despite the scandalous nature of their affections especially in front of his mother. Paul rested his forehead against her own, their faces so close now that she could feel his lashes fluttering against the swell of her cheek. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

“You can’t know everything Paul.” She teased but instead of his usual eye roll or grin, Paul cupped her belly once more and took a deep breath.

“Marry me. I cannot stand another moment not having you as my empress, my wife.” He pleaded and just for a moment, Y/N could see the boy before Muad'Dib, the one who had never experienced pain or loss, just blind hope for his future and his family.

“How could I ever refuse you, you’ve owned my heart since the very first moment you looked into my eyes.” His lips captured hers in a kiss so filled with joy that she could not stop herself from smiling.

Dune would have its empress, its heir but Paul would have his family and they would have him. And he knew that he would do anything to keep them safe, anything at all.

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Dune

@cruelladejill @aoi-targaryen

[your-averagewriter]

"Thinking I don’t love you, ‘course I do, sweetheart.”

Summary: (y/n) storms off after an argument with Cooper thinking he doesn't care about her but she soon realises that someone is trailing her.

Word count: 0.8K

Warnings: Swearing

-

-

“Fuck you, Cooper.” I grab my rucksack

“I’d happily oblige.” He teases despite me being frustrated.

“I’m not joking, Cooper, leave me alone.” I say storming off.

“If that’s what you want, sugar.” His refusal to react with any emotion only makes me more annoyed as I walk off into the desert. 

“I’m serious, I’m leaving and you can’t stop me.” I yell, turning back to look at him briefly before heading off into the desert, despite it nearly being night time.

The temperature drops quickly as the sun disappears from the sky but I keep my eyes set on some ruins not too far on the horizon to stay for the night, just to be away from Cooper no matter how cold I’ll be without him.

Getting there, I stay the night on the cold, hard floor, regretting not taking the makeshift bedding from Cooper’s bag when I left so I prepare for an uncomfortable night.

Unsurprisingly, I wake up early in the morning, just as the sun comes up, waking me up as I pack all my stuff up and leave, deciding arbitrarily that I’m heading into town to top up on supplies that I forgot to take from Cooper before leaving.

I stop from lunch, sitting down at the top of a sand dune and pulling a small amount of food that barely equals lunch but it’s the best I’ve got to eat. Ripping open a pack of overly dry crackers, I bite into one of them, regretting not taking more water from Cooper.

I keep watch on the horizon before seeing someone walk over one of the dunes, I take my sniper off my back, using the scope to check out the threat before seeing someone dressed exactly like Cooper. I sigh when he gets closer, his face identifiable.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I mumble, watching as Cooper walks through the desert, the same path as I was walking.

I throw my backpack on, opting to eat the dry crackers on the move to get away from him. Checking back every now and then, he trails me throughout the desert but stays far enough away that I can’t talk to him, barely able to identify him without my scope.

I turn around and stop walking and watch as he gets a pair of binoculars I bought for us out of his bag to look at me and I put my middle finger on both hands up at him, hoping he’ll get the hint but I imagine he just laughs, dismissing me.

He follows me until I reach the treeline where he’s unable to see me anymore, waiting for him to take the bait. Waiting, I use my sniper scope to see how close he gets and as soon as he breaches the treeline I stand up.

“Can you stop fucking following me? I told you I was done.” I huff.

“You ain’t done. You ain’t never gonna be done with me ‘cause you couldn’t handle it.” He smirks.

“You seem to be the one who couldn’t handle it - following me around.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I need you as much as you need me so why are you messing around?” He asks.

“Because you’re a dickhead.” I point out.

“That’s true but I’m a lotta things and if that’s the only one you have a problem with then I’d say you’re dealing with me pretty well.”

“I have more problems with you.” I cross my arms, stubborn.

“Please, go ahead, feel free to list ‘em.”

“You’re mean, you’re rude, you never admit when you’re wrong, you, you, you never wear socks with your shoes.” He chuckles at the last one. “And you never tell me you love me and it feels like I’m just following you around like some lost puppy that you found on the street and felt bad for.” 

“You done?” I take a breath that he takes as a yes. “You’re one silly woman, you. Thinking I don’t love you, ‘course I do, sweetheart.” He scoffs, wrapping his arm affectionately around my neck and pulling me closer to press a kiss to my forehead. “Now stop running away and come back with me.”

I pretend like I’m even gonna make the choice not to go with him, I didn’t take all the supplies I would’ve needed and I can’t even lie about the fact that I love him and probably wouldn’t last that long without him. “Fine.” I sigh. “But you’ve got some making up to do.”

“‘Course, ‘course. If I didn’t make you feel loved then I’ve definitely got some making up to do.” He says. “Now, get your bag, let’s go.” He says and I grab my rucksack, throwing over my back before he takes it off of me carrying it for me. “Least I could do.” He says, when he sees my slight confusion but I don’t complain. “Now come on, sweetheart.”

-

AN: I hope you enjoyed reading!

Thank you for reading!

[calcifiedunderland]

Silky Melon & Spices

Food Fight Ending III

You opened the text, surprised to see that it was from Jamil.

Jamil: Hello (Name), I’m glad I was able to help you earlier. Are you doing alright?

You saw his text bubble pop up, showing that he was writing. You frowned when you saw it pop up, then stop, and go again.

Jamil frowned at his phone in the dark of his room, deleting yet another message. After heading back to Scarabia and finishing his duties, he decided to finally text you.

Deep down, he knew why he kept quiet about how he really felt about you. But some small, selfish part of him didn’t quite want to pull away completely. For a short while, he was happy giving you food and keeping things friendly. But now, it was getting hard to deny the truth. So much, that even Kalim was noticing how often Jamil made ‘extra’ food, and Jamil subconsciously made more of what you liked.

He sighed heavily, and typed out one more text, hitting send before he could stop himself.

To (Name): If you’re available, would you be willing to help me early tomorrow with cooking? I’ll be making some of your favorites. I also wanted to speak with you.

You finally heard your phone go off, signaling that Jamil finished typing. You frowned slightly when you read it. You sent back a Sure, see you then! and flopped back onto your bed, staring at the ceiling.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t excited to see him again. Jamil was a busy person, and lately you’ve been cherishing the time you were with him. And you supposed, somewhere along the way, you started enjoying his presence more than a regular friend would.

You sighed. You didn’t really know what to make of his message, but you decided to leave it until tomorrow.

—🧡🐍✨—

Jamil finally overturned the last pita, and shut off the stovetop. All the food for Kalim is done, he thought. Sighing, he turned around and began wrapping shawarma in wax paper. He wrapped one with lamb, tahini, and vegetables for himself, and one with (preferred filling) for you. He sighed heavily, feeling antsy. He’d finished earlier than anticipated. All that was left was to wait for you. His heart stuttered.

He began cutting up some silky melon that Kalim’s family sent from the Scalding Sands to keep his hands busy. Absently, his mind drifted to the legend from his homeland.

If you share this melon with someone, your friendship or romance will last forever. He shook his head, setting the bowl (now filled with melon slices) down.

He looked up when he heard a knock. “Hey,” you said softly, walking in. “I hope I’m not too late?” You pursed your lips. It seemed Jamil finished the cooking without you. The cookware was already in the sink, and containers (now filled with steaming food) were already out. Jamil shook his head, giving you a practiced smile. “No, I finished ahead of time, don’t worry.” He cleared his throat, feeling hot, “n-now that you’re here, would you sit outside with me?”

You nodded, smiling. “Sounds good to me,” you followed him outside. The Scarabia dorm wasn’t so sweltering in the early morning - it was pleasantly cool, and the air was dry. You and Jamil perched on a hammock in between two palm trees, munching on the falafel wrap he’d made.

It occurred to you how peaceful this was. Everyone was still asleep in their rooms, and the dunes surrounding the dorm were a sandy gold color against the soft lilac dawn. The silence didn’t seem to be easily broken, because Jamil hardly said a word to you since coming outside. He hadn’t even touched his wrap. Instead, he held the bowl of cut melon slices, staring outward.

You looked at him quizzically. He didn’t seem mad. He noticed you looking at him, and looked away, “I… I’m glad you came.” You angled your head, “I’m glad I did too,” he seemed to relax a bit when you said that. You nodded to the melon bowl, “do you want to split that?” His eyes widened briefly, but he nodded.

You took a slice, and sank your teeth into it. Rich, sweet juice burst into your mouth, dripping down your hand as you chewed. You glanced over, feeling a bit self-conscious when you saw him staring at you, “…you’re not going to have any?” You asked shyly. Jamil bit his lip and nodded, taking up his own slice and biting into it. You both ate, the sun’s rays rising over the horizon.

You finished off your slice. Wiping off your chin, you said “y’know, I thought you wanted me to help you cook. But… if you didn’t ask me for that, then…”

You played with the wax paper from your wrap, now empty, “why did you want to see me?” Jamil stopped. He gulped down the last of his melon, and looked out of the corner of his eyes at you. “I… wanted to see you.” He took a breath, staring back out at the sand dunes.

“You’ve been… very helpful to me, and lately you’ve become…” he swallowed, controlling his voice, “important to me. Not like how Kalim is important, but… different.” Your face felt warm as you looked down at your melon slice. You couldn’t deny that, over the many times you’d hung out with Jamil, you grew to genuinely enjoy his presence. Even more than just friends.

You responded softly, “you’re really important to me too, Jamil.” You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading on your face as he slowly turned to look at you. “And I… I think I know what you mean.” You swallowed nervously, “you’re special to me, in a different way than Grim or even my friends.”

You smiled at Jamil, face feeling warm as the rising sun shone on both of you, “I… really like you, Jamil.” The words hung in the air for a beat, and then Jamil broke the silence. “Really?” His voice cracked.

You let out a small breathy laugh, unable to contain yourself. You lurched toward him in the hammock, wrapping your arms around him. He gasped before holding you too, the two of you giggling before the dawn. You softly kissed Jamil’s cheek. Jamil’s face grew warm, but he couldn’t stop an incredulous smile on his face, eyes shining. You grinned, “really.”

🧡🐍✨

[vilhelios]

— SWIM WITH ME / I THINK I CAN SEE THE BEACH;

( i need you here with me / but we're out in the open. ) ; romantic headcanons for abysswalker!rafayel ♡ more under the cut!

CW: spoilers for rafayel's "sea of golden sand" myth + general abysswalker rafayel lore ; fluff ; angst ; hurt/comfort ; mentions of blood, injury, and self-harm (rafayel plucks off his scales) : might feel a little ooc because it is abysswalker and not main story rafayel ; quite the word dump (bc i rattle my cage for him)

— as the morning light of the desert creeps into the dim of a tent, two bodies lay tangled in the warmth of each other. RAFAYEL sleeps light and wakes early—hours before the sun peeks over the golden dunes—and although the habit irks him, it does offer him a wonderful sight as compensation: the sight of you, bathed in the soft, rose-gold light of morning, hair a mess, marks littering your skin from where the sheets pressed up against you.

overcome with a love that warms him like molten gold, the young god cannot help but litter your face in butterfly kisses. two to the apples of your cheeks, one on the tip of your nose, the corners of your lips, the middle of your temple. when you shift in your sleep, groan at his ministrations, rafayel can only chuckle, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. he thinks he can hear amund yell for his presence. he couldn't care less.

— RAFAYEL sees himself as the sword at the hilt of your belt, the dagger in your hands that you should use as you see fit, the steady hand guiding your own, drawing your bowstring. he is your ever faithful shadow, always at your side, a watchful gaze always on you. it is only natural for one to protect the keeper of their heart... which is why you and the medical kit from the nurse's tent have gotten well acquainted with each other.

"one of these days, you're going to listen to me." you sigh, gently peeling aside the torn leather of his garb. rafayel does not wince; you don't think you've ever seen him do so, not when he ripped that arrow from his shoulder, or when he stumbles back to your tent with a bloody gash on his chest, or when he's brandishing new bruises on his knuckles. the royal guards seem intent on tracking you down, crossing all of philos's 30,000 zetameters of sand to lock you up in your gilded cage again.

rafayel seems equally intent to ensure that doesn't happen, even if it means throwing himself into their line of fire.

"if i listen to you," the lemurian starts, violet gaze trained on the gentle workings of your fingers, "they'll take you from me again, back to the palace." his breath hitches the slightest—at the thought of you leaving him again, or at the too-harsh tug of the bandage, you're not sure.

— some nights, RAFAYEL is awoken by dreams—horrible, lifelike nightmares. it's sudden, a jolt that has him taking in rapid breaths, a tremor in his hands. "a nightmare", he tells you, when you stir awake and ask him what's wrong in a groggy voice that makes his heart ache, "just a nightmare, sweetheart. nothing to worry about." he waits until he hears your breathing slow once more, pressing kisses to your temple all the while, before slinking out of the tent and into the cold desert air. he'll return to your side before the sun rises, but for now, with still-stuttering breaths, he just needs some time to clear his head.

in his nightmares, a butterfly flaps its wings just the wrong way and rafayel is landed in a world where he is as cold-blooded as amund wished he was. he is back in the ruins of the isle of songs, your hand guiding his own (white-knuckled, dagger brandished) to the place where your heart thrums beneath. and unlike himself, rafayel takes the chance: takes back what is his, what was never yours to keep. the god of the sea was a foolish, lovesick man. he would not make the same mistake.

the dagger sinks into your flesh, the ease of it wrong. your blood flows onto his palms, gets into all the creases of his gloves, spills onto the barren earth and dyes the returning sea red. it is so, so warm against his skin, warms the fire in him that threatened to fizzle out. (he has always been a selfish man, he knows. it is only right that he is no better than bloodthristy philos.) the look dream-you gives him, before he awakes from this cruel world, sears itself into the back of his eyelids. he can see it still, when he looks at the dark of the night sky: reverent, loving. (how could you not, when he has freed you yet again?)

— often, you ask RAFAYEL to tell you tales of the ocean; more specifically, its creatures! what were those rays he spoke of, or the sharks, or those star-shaped things? do the lemurians actually eat them? your lover finds your boundless curiousity incredibly endearing, chuckling whenever your eyes seem to light up at the mention of some new deep-sea fish.

"this is a whale shark." rafayel says, and you watch as the scale in his hands transforms into a small purple apparition. it's as long as his pointer finger, heteroceral tail flicking as it swims in the flame currents, light purple spots patterning its black back. "they are gentle things, despite their size. they only ever eat plankton. i used to have one as a pet, long ago."

"how cute!" you laugh, waggling your finger in front of the shark and watching it follow. "did you have other pets?" and at that, he procures another silver scale, places it into your palms and covers it with his own. a barreleye manifests, and you grin when it's luminous purple eyes stare up at you.

(rafayel ignores the sting in his arm, pinpricks of blood soaking his garb from where he'd plucked some scales off. the wonder in your eyes is more than worth it.)

— helping the LEMURIANS with their daily chores within the camp comes like second nature to you. there is always so much to do: collect jars upon jars of water from the nearby oasis, prepare food, feed the camels, record the state of the camp's supplies... all the while, you feel RAFAYEL'S eyes on your form, your ever cautious vassal. with a little smile, you pretend you don't notice his lavender gaze, if only to spare him from the flushed ears.

it's surprisingly simple, making that lemurian cake: tapioca flour, camel's milk, a healthy dash of sugar, and citrus rind... when the sweet old woman you've spent the afternoon baking with feeds you a slice, you think you've simply ascended. back then, rafayel had fed you one that was cold and a little stale—probably as it was a part of his rations for long journeys. perhaps he'd like one that was far fresher, and baked with love?

... which is how rafayel found himself with a wicker basket full of cake shoved into his hands, and an awaiting you in front of him. "you've been training a while, haven't you?" you smile, taking one of the soft slices and bringing it up to his lips; "try it for me, please!"

and as obedient as ever, rafayel takes a bite, sweetness and citrus on his tongue. "it's good," he hums, kisses your fingertips, "tell me when you're making it next time, love. i'd love to help."

— the LEMURIANS, you remember, were masters of the arts: singing, painting, poetry... so it's no surprise, then, that they celebrate their craft almost every night: children crowd around a charming poet, hooked on every word of their newest bedtime story—his newest fable, that is (something about a fish and a bird, who wished to visit a bakery); the musicians have already begun their newest improvised song, a lively version of an old elegy, it seems; the bonfire in the centre burns high into the night sky like it was trying to reach the stars itself, and when the lemurians dance around it their shadows are long against the sands. you don't know how, but you're eventually dragged into the dance yourself. the glee is infectious, and you find yourself instinctively looking for your beloved.

RAFAYEL doesn't indulge in dancing often, as fun as it may be. he knows the steps, his feet still tapping to the rhythm of the tambourines even as he nonchalantly leans against the tent pole in the distance. it is second nature, now, but his eyes always find you, even in the crowd of people—you, laughing and twirling around without a care in the world. it makes his heart race, a smile creeping onto his own features. he watches you dance with his people, linking arms and being spun around; for a moment he wonders if he should join just to be your one and only dance partner.

... he doesn't notice when you've escaped his gaze, but before he knows it, you've snuck up on him and wrapped a shawl around his neck, dragging him towards the crowd; "dance with me, rafa!"

and how can he refuse a shared moment that transcends lifetimes—across shimmering oceans, and marble floor ballrooms, and golden sands? rafayel's stumbling forward into you until his arms take their rightful place around your form. his hands find the small of your back and yours hold onto his shoulders, shawl long abandoned on his neck. this is second nature, galaxies colliding, two souls becoming one.

— after all of the night's festivities are said and done—the musicians pack up their flutes, lyres, and tambourines; the children cover up their yawns with still-red palms from clapping to tonight's tunes; the remaining food is safely packed away for tomorrow—it's just you, RAFAYEL, and the dwindling embers of the fire he'd just stomped out. "i do believe even your highness is not exempt from curfew," he hums, takes your hand in his, and presses his lips to the knuckles.

and in the silence of your tent, coveted in the silver hues of moonlight, rafayel sits you down before him, your back leaning against his chest. his arms wrap around your frame, his chin resting on the crook of your neck. this is your ritual, on too-cold nights: rafayel lights a flickering flame in his palms, the black and violet embers cold as ever. you both stare into this dying fire—you both know what is to come.

sometimes, when the ugly concoction of guilt and sorrow prick at your very soul, your hand reaches up to entwine with his own, just as they did to guide his dagger to your heart. "i won't." rafayel says, and you know what he means. "i will never hurt you." he doesn't complete the sentence, the words dying on his tongue, but you know the rest (there is no other end to this story): i would rather die.

a/n : i need abysswalker carnally it's not even funny anymore 🤩 these were. not supposed to be this long (they are like little fics in themselves omg). but i love this rafa so much i think he deserves it. thank you for the love on the previous rafa content <3 it makes me so happy seeing people who also love this lil guy. the dancing with rafa hc is very much so inspired by "through heaven's eyes" from the prince of egypt! <3333

[yuna542]

🔙 [2.]

~The Return of the Kook-Princess~

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Reader/Oc

Genre: Fluff, Enemies to Lovers, Smut, Angst, Drama, Action

Warnings: Physical Fight, Blood, Swearing

Taglist: Open

Word count: 2,4k

Summary: The Kook princess is back after a year and reignites the war between Pogues and Kooks on Kildare. But she quickly realizes that after this year, nothing is the same as before. Deception, secrets from the past, and dangerous conspiracies sweep across Kildare, leaving her no choice but to work with the Pogues and her personal nemesis to find the truth and maybe even $8 million. A dangerous treasure hunt begins that turns her world upside down.

Soundtrack:

⏯️Play: Left Hand Free by alt-J

“Well, your left hand's free

And your right's in grip

With another left hand

Watch his right hand slip

Towards his gun

Oh, no”

Sky PoV.

My first day was completely uneventful. Other than sorting out my things and finished cleaning my room, I had done nothing. Our new property, Lionelly Ville, was still stunning. However, Rick had done some renovations. It bordered a large pool with a terrace and a verdant garden lined with colorful flowers.

Early the next morning, Sarah Cameron was at my door.

I had texted her that I was back and she had immediately pulled me into a tight hug, as if she hadn't ghosted me for a whole year.

We walked a beat together and I couldn't help but notice that very little had changed around here. The same people, the same houses, and the same warm breeze swept the streets.

Figure Eigth was still as clean as before and full of magnificent mansions, shiny cars and pretty gardens.

In the evening, there was a celebration at the Cut. Sarah, her boyfriend Topper, and Rafe picked me up and together we headed out. At the Cut, however, the houses seemed even more broken and the holes in the streets bigger than before. It was like entering another world that resembled a garbage dump. Still, the beach here was the most beautiful. It stretched for several miles and the sand was white as ivory. The sun was already beginning to set and the sound of the sea made me breathe a sigh of relief already from afar.

The sea here was very different from everywhere else. It welcomed you and the smell of salt in the air and the sun's rays on the sand was unique. It reminded me of home and filled me with a comforting feeling.

Loud music could be heard from far away and there were already some people there.

"Did you miss the beach?" asked Rafe, looking at me from the side as we climbed over the dunes.

"Definitely. Nassau is beautiful, but the beaches don't compare to these."

As soon as we got closer, heads started turning and I was eyed curiously. Most of them seemed to be thinking how they knew me, after all I had changed a lot.

My hair was longer, my skin more tanned and my figure more feminine. I had clearly stronger curves, a slim waist and sharper facial features, only I had not grown.

Immediately the whispering began when I was recognized by the first. Everyone on this island knew my story. I was the Kook princess who had lived the perfect life until her mother completely lost it and jumped off the balcony.

"Looks like you're going to have to give up your throne again, Cameron!" someone suddenly shouted. Sarah and Topper stopped and looked over at the small group watching us.

„The same rats as before," Rafe said, pointing to the Pogues. I recognized Kiara immediately and Pope had hardly changed either.

Kiara sat in the sand and looked at me coolly. Sarah had told me that they were no longer friends, but rather something like arch-enemies.

I wasn't surprised, considering who she hung out with.

Kiara and I had never had a close relationship, although I would have liked to get along better with her. However, it would have hurt my image, especially now that she was hanging out with those Pogues.

I smirked and eyed the other two boys. With these two, it took me a moment to recognize them. They had indeed changed. The one with the cap sitting crookedly on his head, had to be John B. He had hardly been to school and in general I had seen him very few times. Sometimes he had been on the Cameron's yacht working while Sarah and I had been there tanning. He always was cute, but now he evolved. He had become handsome. With his puppy-eyes and the charming smile you wouldn’t think he was a little shit, with no manners and nothing but stupid ideas in his head.

My gaze lingered a second longer on the cheeky blond and when I recognized him, I suppressed a surprised sound. That could only be JJ Maybank.

The guy who had been giving me a hard time and headaches here on Kildare for ages. We'd loathed each other since third grade. It all started on a steaming hot day, when he'd once threw a dead fish on me while I was eating lunch with Rafe and Sarah at school. It was humiliating and I would never forget the smell, which clung on me like chewing gum for days.

He was now quite a bit taller than me and had grown broad shoulders. You could see his defined torso through the long slits on his tank top that looked like he had cut them in himself. Or ripped it accidentally.

His hair was long and all messed up. They gave him this devilish expression that was only enhanced by the intense blue of his eyes, which seemed to always sparkled treacherously.

The shining sapphires roamed up and down my body as Kie asked:

"What are you doing here?"

It sounded like an accusation.

"I'm living here again. My stepdad found new work," I explained tersely, trying to ignore JJ's piercing gaze. He had that dirty grin on his lips that I remembered from before.

Then I turned away, no longer seeing any point to the conversation.

The Pogues were poor bastards and scum who were always looking for stress. It was best if you could just ignore them.

The eternal war between Kooks and Pogues was still in full swing, as I could see from Rafe's expression.

As it slowly got darker, I drank vodka shot after vodka shot with Rafe and eventually the world started to turn a little. I danced with Sarah to the music and moved my hips to the beat.

Topper and Rafe watched us and applauded as we twerked and goofed around.

That's when I felt a look at my back and turned around. Sure enough, there stood JJ, looking right at me.

Kie seemed to have taken his beer away from him and he was swaying a bit on his feet.

"Hey, princess! Would you dance on me like that sometime?" he called over, grinning stupidly.

Rafe shot up from his seat and fixed the blond pogue aggressively.

JJ moved closer while Kiara crossed her arms behind him and rolled her eyes as if she knew what was coming. But she did not stop him.

"Or do I have to pay like all the others?" he added provocatively, tilting his head.

"You couldn't pay that price even with four jobs, asshole," I retorted, to which Sarah laughed. JJ just wanted to provoke. Nothing else. But it worked. This guy was getting on my nerves just by being there, and his stupid grin only made it worse.

Just then Pope and John B joined us. They stood beside Kiara and observed the situation. Everyone seemed drunk. Especially Rafe and JJ.

"I doubt it's worth the money," he muttered, looking down at me.

"I guess you'll never know, idiot," I shot back disgusted, the alcohol making the feelings swirl twice as hard. When no reply came back, I turned away indifferently and returned Rafe's satisfied smile.

"Oh, all I have to do is ask every other guy here, if I remember correctly.“

The comment finally achieved its effect now and I was starting to get pissed. He had just called me a slut in front of everyone. Topper sucked in a sharp breath, Sarah glared at me, and Rafe took a few steps toward JJ.

"Just shut the fuck up!" he snapped at him, but JJ seemed completely unimpressed, even though Rafe was taller than him and way more intimidating.

"Is your self-confidence really so puny that you have to defend your turf, Kook?"

He spat out the last word like an insult.

Maybank sparkled provocatively at Rafe, who was now slowly growing angrier. You had to hand it to the Pogue. He knew how to really get someone riled up.

"You should get out of here with your little Pogue friends while you still can," he growled, his nose almost touching JJ's.

"Come on, it's not worth it!" shouted Kiara, taking a step toward her friend, trying to pull him back on his shoulder.

But things were just getting exciting now. Amused, I followed the argument, while Sarah also tried to calm Topper, who wanted to go to Rafe.

"I'm not afraid of you, Cameron," JJ replied calmly, and you could clearly see that he meant it.

He stood tall and didn't back away an inch. His blue eyes bored full of stubbornness into those of Rafe, who was now becoming more and more aggressive.

The tension in the air was palpable and you could almost smell the excess testosterone. The alcohol and darkness only increased the emotionality.

"Let's see if you still say that when I'm smacking your stupid face. Don't you dare even look at her again!"

Rafe's carotid artery popped out and his face turned red. JJ, on the other hand, was still grinning broadly, only his jaw twitched tensely. Out of pure provocation, JJ now turned to me again and put on a charming smile.

"Princess, you really should put a leash on your guard dog, otherwise..."

But that was as far as he got. Inside Rafe seemed to blow a fuse, he pushed JJ hard away from him in a second and followed it up with a punch right in his face. Screams went up and the crowd around us automatically increased in size. People were whispering and the music was turned down.

JJ staggered back a few steps and I watched in surprise that he just took the punch with a shake of his head, even though it probably would have knocked someone else out immediately. He grabbed his lip, which was now split open, and looked at the blood on his fingers. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, and as he did so, the corners of his mouth moved upward.

"That was all? That tickled at best, you weak snob. Running your mouth and then there's nothing behind it. Typical Kooks!"

I didn't understand why he kept provoking Rafe, but it was funny to watch. However, only I felt that way. Sarah was calling out to Rafe and even Topper was trying to calm him down.

Why didn't they just let the two of them fight and then it would be over? It was always like that. It seemed like Sarah was even afraid of the escalation. I still didn't understand why.

Rafe immediately rushed at him again, grabbed him by the legs and smashed JJ to the ground.

Tangled into each other, they rolled through the sand and punched each other over and over again. JJ hit him hard in the face several times, but Rafe was so intoxicated he didn't seem to notice.

Gradually I understood Sarah and Topper's panic. Rafe was losing control of his own rage. He was caught in a whirlpool of anger, adrenaline and hatred that shut down all rational thought.

Sarah screamed incessantly for the two of them to stop. John B was cheering loudly for JJ, while Kiara was shouting the same thing as Sarah, at JJ, but the boys heard nothing. They kept hitting, punching, pulling each other off their feet again and shoving each other violently into the sand. Pope tried to get between them, but John B held him back.

That probably wasn't such a stupid thing to do. The Pogue would probably be torn between the two. The hatred in Rafe's eyes and the anger in JJ face were frightening, yet I couldn't look away. Even though Rafe was older, bigger, and physically superior, JJ held his own ground amazingly well. He took a hell of a beating and actually still managed to shout provocative comments.

Then Rafe suddenly landed on top of him and pressed his arms to the floor with his knees. JJ looked at him with a grin that gave me goosebumps.

Rafe was blinded by anger and kept punching his face until the shouts around him got so loud that I started to get scared after all. JJ's face was covered in blood and it was no longer a small beating. I realized that Rafe was going to kill him if no one intervened.

Despite everything, JJ remained conscious and even the grin did not disappear.

It was almost as if he was enjoying it. As if he was used to this ordeal and had wanted exactly that to happen.

Kiara shrieked almost as hysterically as Sarah did and Topper also yelled at Rafe to stop.

"You're killing him! It‘s enough!"

The onlookers were getting quieter now. Where before they had been cheering for the boys, now they began to be embarrassedly silent or excitedly whispering. Everyone was paralyzed.

Finally John B did intervene and jumped in behind Rafe. He grabbed him by the neck and yanked him away from JJ in a headlock.

Topper came to his rescue and pulled Rafe behind him before he could go after John B as well. Everyone silently agreed, that it was enough.

There was a crazy glint in his eyes that made him look completely insane. His eyebrow was busted open and blood was pouring out of his mouth.

Sarah and Topper forcibly yanked him away and tried to remove him from the beach. He ran his hand through his sweaty hair and still fixed his eyes on JJ, who was lying on the ground, breathing heavily and looking up at the sky.

I did not show it, but I was impressed. JJ was tougher than he looked. The blood on his face contrasted extremely with his blond hair and the grin became a raspy laugh.

He coughed and spat a gush of blood into the sand. Kiara knelt by him while the other Pogues put themselves between him and the others.

"Your little sister hits harder, Rafe!" he shouted, lifting himself up, but falling back into the sand.

Shaking my head, I looked at the Pogue. He had to be completely crazy. Even though he was lying in the sand with his face covered in blood, he was laughing as if he had won.

Looking at Rafe like that, and the people around us, I realized that JJ may not have won the fight physically, but on a mental level he was the clear winner and everybody knew.

"Let's get out of here!" determined Sarah, shoving Rafe hard toward the residential neighborhood. I paused for another moment, watching JJ ignore Kiara, who was trying to help him.

That's when our eyes crossed and he winked at me almost flirty while wiping the blood from his lips with the back of his hand. I shook my head in bewilderment, but had to smile at his audacity.

Then I followed the others.

"Just run after your Prince Charming, little princess!" he called after me, whereupon I only raised my middle finger in the air without turning around.

⬇️

[3.]

© Yuna542 — 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

[sunboki]

⎯ boy of the forest. ( teaser ) ⟡ featuring yang jeongin

🦌 : Greek god! Yang Jeongin x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. Greek mythology! au, Son (unofficial since Artemis swore to celibacy) of Artemis! au, mortal! reader au, slightly sheltered Jeongin (he’s so respectful i wanna cry), fluff fluff fluff, best friends to lovers, teaching how to kiss, so soft

WORD COUNT. estimated to be around 6k words

WARNINGS. usage of arrows, mention/heavily focused on greek gods/goddesses, mention of animal bones, inclusion of a venomous snake, playful fighting

AUG'S NOTES. alright, as someone who’s a sucker for anything Greek Mythology, this was exciting!! but difficult (😭😭). for now you’re only getting a snippet, but combining my past knowledge of these myths and their capabilities and merging it with more modern ethics is like getting a bucket of ice water dumped over my head and having a field day all in one. it was worth it :) anywho, please tell me what you think!!

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Since you were a child, both tales and encounters with the children of the gods became a prevalent pattern in life. Friendship with Hermes’ son, those early morning by the water allowing interaction with Poseidon’s child. And yet, your intrigue upon hearing word of the unofficial offspring of Artemis, sired under her teachings and oaths in a forest most avoided drew you infinitely closer. So what happens when curiosity gets the best of you?

or alternatively :

How quickly one can turn from a stranger to a beloved.

“I— I forfeit!”

Shouts Han, smacking the skin of your thigh repeatedly for you to loosen your death-like grip around his head.

Either of you furiously tussle on the muddy ground of Sokcho’s eastern coastline as if routine, where utter delight in each of the messenger-to-be’s visits end in a few new bruises and a judgemental eyeball from your father when you trudge through the door.

With him being the son of Hermes, your daily visits from Han Jisung had been shortened to weekly once he became more and more occupied taking up his role as the messenger god’s offspring, so you truly give it your all each time his face comes into view.

Which usually means bowling the boy over the moment his winged-shoes touch ground.

Of course, all in good fun. You’ve known the kid since you were a child, listening with wonder as he explained all about his life in Olympus, his father, Hermes, his abilities.

Upon first glance he appears a normal, awkward teenager, but gold coloration swimming within his irises and superhuman reflexes, stamina, and speed, you knew better than to believe that.

Luckily, he gives you a fair fight whenever you spar, ensuring no foul play leads to unfair victories. 

Meaning: you win, every time.

Breathing in a huge gasp, the both of you collapse onto sodden soil, chests heaving to replace expelled air. Of course, getting kicked in the stomach and returning the favor with a solid punch to his jaw didn’t help with that factor.

“Three… Three weeks,” You pant, the equally grimy back of your hand swiping strands of hair from a sweaty forehead. 

Han mindlessly grunts from below you, body refusing to move even a mere centimeter.

“Yeah yeah, I get it. I’m nothing against you, rub it in.”

You croak a laugh at the sheer exasperation in his tone, accustomed to your feigned gloating antics.

“No– That’s not it Sungie, I just wanted to say.” Using your arms to hold you up while surveying the similarly battered man whose head rests on your stomach, you tip his chin upwards with a finger, forcing those irrevocably hypnotizing eyes to meet yours.

Never sunken, tired.

Han Jisung was a marvel.

And for a moment, he begins to think you’ve grown soft after these years.

“I still won.”

Nevermind.

Whining with dismay, he takes the hand you extend out to him upon standing, earning a playful smack to the shoulder whilst collecting the shoes so carelessly discarded up by the dunes.

Feet sinking into the warm sand below, you’re offered a moment to spare a glance back to the lapsing waters, tumbling over themselves with morning’s ferocious tides. 

This is the only time you usually get to see him, and as if a mere memory, he’ll disappear all the same.

Townspeople were never fond of children of the gods. They spoke of mischief, ill-doing in response to their appearances. 

A long-lived grudge, one from ancestor after ancestor. And yet, most chose to live ignorant to the swirling deities all around. Those more gracious sunny days when someone mentions Helios, or the subdued waves compared to that of merciless plunder ashore by Poseidon.

As a result, Han never stayed long, leading you to arrive by this peculiarly isolated portion of the beach at dawn for his quick stops before flying off.

You didn’t mind. It was worth it in the end. 

Early wake-ups, that is.

Arriving randomly and becoming a part of you habitually. Like an old cut turning into a scar, commemorating happenings of the past.

It didn’t take your father long to grow curious over what his daughter rushed off to every day. And so, about a year ago, you told him. All about Han’s sudden presence, then developing into a friend–a best friend.

Fortunately, he wasn’t upset in the slightest. Initially disbelieving, perhaps, but not angry nor discontented.

In fact, the man seemed more interested than anything, asking you abundant questions about what he looked like, his features, aptitude.

You didn’t blame him, for it wasn’t every day news of an interaction with the ancient bloodline was spoken of.

Instead, you indulged in those child-like curiosities just as avidly as he inquired, resulting in frenzied conversation at the dinner table for a multitude of hours that night.

“Jisung!” 

Having called his name after the harsh knock back into reality, you fish through your pockets before he leaves in recollection of something you’d been wanting to give him.

The boy’s face deadpans, obviously awaiting another one of your tricks.

“If you flick me off, I’m never coming back.”

Fretful shuffling dulls his mumble inaudible, merely humming in acknowledgment and successfully clutching the metal between your index and thumb after panicked searching.

A pin, like that attached to tote bags, jeans. 

“For you to put on your bag, so you can think of me all the time.” 

The wink of yours causes him to wrinkle his nose and stick out his tongue at you, and you can’t help your smile from growing bigger and bigger the longer he investigates the apparent pin you’ve placed in his palm.

“Is this… a pigeon?”

Out of all the birds you’ve been teaching him about in your realm, he had to pick the most pitiful one.

“No! We studied this one! It’s a hawk, y’know since you’re kind of like a bird?” Flapping your arms to sell the idea, he huffs in exasperation, nonetheless fitting the pin to his satchel overflowing with envelopes.

“Alright alright.” Laughing at the pout tugging at his lips, it’s almost instinctive when you press a sugary sweet kiss to his cheek, soaked up gleefully by Hermes’ son like always.

Han Jisung is very much adoring of your affection. Frankly, any affection overall.

“Think it’s about time you get going, delivery boy.”

Flying into your arms (both figuratively and literally), he places his own kiss to your opposing cheek, grinning that irritably charming grin ceaselessly worn.

Guessing what he’ll say next comes easily, but you still entertain the remark anyway.

“Now our kisses complete each other!” He predictably exclaims, beginning to levitate as the miniature wings on his sneakers beat tirelessly. “See you soon Y/N! Stay safe!!”

Waving in response while he drifts further and further into the atmosphere, you wait until his figure is officially gone to move, stepping toward the dock. This way, you can secure the best view of the sunrise peering above clouds without any interruptions. 

Ideal.

Truthfully, it never irked you being a mortal amongst your assortment of acquaintances.

You enjoyed it, actually. 

Freedom without responsibility to save from evil left you plenty of time to explore, to exist. Not that you didn’t respect them, but the experience seemed too tasking for your liking.

“Back again?”

Speaking of acquaintances.

More specifically speaking of Poseidon as a pair of calloused—though gentle—hands fasten around your calves dangling off the dock’s edge, dragged into the chilly depths below before you can reply by none other than Chan, or, using his birth name, Christopher Bahng.

Son of Poseidon.

Ironic.

Not to mention are there any daughters of the gods..? Jeesh.

Anyway.

You half expected him to tap your shoulder and say hello when hearing him approach from behind as he normally did, the creaking in the dock’s wooden panels enough indication your friend was present on most occasions.

Although unlike Han Jisung, Chris was sporadic in his visits. An old friend from school, he chose to keep his identity a secret, allowing the eccentric father of his to care for the seas while he led a human life teaching kids how to swim at your town’s aquatic center.

Upon finding you speaking to Han in his natural form, a year or so ago, the man eventually found ease in your company as well, comfortable revealing himself and oftentimes showing up to simply converse without turtle necks or high-collared swimsuits concealing the set of gills right below his ears.

In actuality, a part of you was happy he had to hide his gills—meaning that swoon-worthy mop of curly blond hair could grow out, curling behind his ears and furling into wild strands atop his head. 

It didn’t take a genius to note how attractive Christopher Bahng was, and you certainly weren’t immune to the effect.

Careful grasp of your hips reminding you you’re safe, mere moments prevail before breaching the water’s surface, complaining about the cold while the bear of a man practically suffocates you in his arms, twisting side to side in a tight hug despite your ingenuine anger swallowed beneath laughter.

“Seriously, you can’t just do that! I might die of shock one day.”

“Well you’re definitely not that weak from how beat up poor Han looked,” He giggles, gliding with ease through chilled waters no matter your weight, courtesy of his bloodline (and whatever hell of a workout regime he followed).

About to retaliate, you pause, contemplating.

“Hey! You should’ve told me you were watching,” Stubbornly insistent, you allow the gentleman to lift you back onto the dock, his own gill-retaining form remaining in the water beneath your faux glare.

Something he grows sheepish in regards to before pointing to a blanket behind you.

So your near-drowning experience was pre-planned. 

Jerk.

Although you don’t deny the goosebumps littering your arms and legs, hurriedly wrapping the warm fabric around yourself.

“Nah,” He smiles, fingers carding through unbearably endearing locks. “I wanted to see how it played out. You’ve improved a lot.”

Reaching his hand upward where you can return the fist-bump, you nod at the compliment, referring to the fact Chris taught you how to fight in the first place after your many losses against Han’s sneak attacks, something the latter still moped over to this day. 

“Thanks to you,” You add, not missing the dimples dipping into his skin when he grins. 

So. Very. Attractive.

Both turning to witness the fullness of today’s dawn, you can’t help but soak in the sight, carving each detail into your memory. 

How lucky you are to get to see something this striking, the sky painted in innumerable streaks of warm hues.

“Say,” Redirecting his attention back to you, you balance your jaw on your hand, the pretty view provoking a bit of thinking.

“Are there any other god’s here? Or like, children of the gods?”

Assessing your question, Chris’s eyes surf his surroundings thoughtfully, wracking his mind for anyone he can think of.

“Hm,” A decisive grunt sounds where a tugs a plush bottom lip between his teeth. A sight as easy to get infatuated with as the sunrise.

“Han’s an exception since he pretty much drops by everywhere, and I’m over here because of the ocean and the location but uh… there might be? From what I’ve heard there’s likely at least one other here. You might have better luck asking Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin being the son of Eros, god of love. 

Someone you’ve never met, but both Han and Chris relayed he’s the epitome of beauty.

Coming from them, that’s a feat.

You deflate.

“In Seoul?”

Yeah, no way you’re finding a way to Seoul for that. Bus fees, subway fees, coming up with an excuse to your dad? Not happening.

Chris, realizing the unrealistic circumstance, deflates along with you, expression apologetic that you hope to condole with a reassuring smile.

Noting the rate in which your clothes are drying thanks to the warmth of the sun’s rays, you gather your things, stalling when your friend—now drying off beside you—speaks up again.

“Ah, right! There is one! I’ve only met him a few times before at meetings and gatherings, but he’s the son of Artemis– well, not by birth but that’s a long story- and his name is… Jeong? Yin? No no, it’s Yang, Yang Jeongin! Yep, that’s the guy. He’s a little shy but a real cutie.”

Cringing back from the sly manner he nudges your shoulder, the high, mischievous lift of his brows indicate nothing but trouble. 

If this is the mischief the townspeople mentioned, you’re starting to understand now.

Who knew the son of Poseidon was turning into a figment of Cupid?

Then again, you don’t think you’ve ever heard the name before. 

Waving goodbye and thanking him for the help, your hike toward the road fills with nothing but wry banter and playful insults from the older one until dividing separate ways.

Him to the aquatic center to prep for class, you back home.

Routine.

Not-so-gracefully peeling frigid clothing from your body, the warm water of your showerhead after sneaking through quiet halls to the bathroom is greatly welcomed, mind racing while attempting to focus on sudsing shampoo into your scalp. 

But when you close your eyes, reevaluation of past events and retrieval of a specific memory breach the forefront of your mind.

Yang Jeongin.

He’s giving you something to think about.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[ledder4]

keegan p.russ after a mission fun

Sergeant Keegan P. Russ woke to the metallic clang of boots on the cold, hard ground. He had become accustomed to the harsh pattern of a military camp, but today the sounds seemed sharper, more piercing. He sat up, his eyes immediately drawn to the frigid dawn light that crept through the mesh window of the tent. He knew the drill, the same as every day before it. But today felt different.

Keegan had always been the quiet one, the man who preferred the solitude of his thoughts and the company of his sniper rifle. He had left the bustling city life behind for the stark, unforgiving world of the U.S. Marine Corps, trading skyscrapers for sand dunes and urban sprawl for camouflage netting. His past was a blur of faces and places, a montage of moments that had led him here. To the Ghosts.

He stretched, his muscles aching from the constant state of readiness. His tent was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could find a semblance of peace amidst the chaos. The canvas walls whispered secrets of the night's operations, the air thick with the scent of gun oil and sweat. Keegan reached for his glasses, placing them on the bridge of his nose, the world coming into focus.

Outside, the camp buzzed with activity. Soldiers hustled to their positions, the air charged with anticipation. Keegan knew the routine; he had lived it a hundred times. But today, as he laced up his boots and checked his rifle, there was an unmistakable tension in the air. A mission was coming, and it wasn't just any mission. This one had the stench of urgency, the kind that could change everything. He felt it in his bones, a deep, unsettling rumble that echoed through the very earth beneath them.

Keegan stepped out into the early morning light, his eyes adjusting to the stark contrast of shadows and light. The camp was a maze of tents and equipment, a temporary bastion of order in the ever-shifting sands. He took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs, and began his solitary walk to the briefing room. The quietude of the pre-dawn hours was shattered by the distant rumble of an engine, growing louder, closer.

A figure emerged from the dust cloud, a lone figure on a dirt bike, skidding to a halt outside the tent flaps. The rider, a young woman with a curtain of blonde hair and piercings glinting in the light, flipped up her goggles to reveal a set of piercing blue eyes. Keegan felt something stir within him, something he hadn't felt in a long time. She looked at him with a mix of determination and exhaustion, a look that spoke of battles won and battles yet to come.

The woman, who he knew as y/n, had been with the Ghosts for only a few weeks. Her past was a mystery, wrapped in whispers and rumors that danced around the campfire like ghosts in the night. All he knew was that she was skilled, maybe too skilled for her age. Her arrival had been met with a mix of skepticism and admiration, and she had quickly proven herself to be an asset to the team.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to slow. Keegan felt a connection, something he hadn't anticipated, something that could either be their greatest strength or their downfall. He cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "You're early," he said, his voice gruff.

"Couldn't sleep," she replied, her voice carrying the hint of a smile. "Figured I might as well get a head start."

He nodded, understanding the unspoken language of those who lived on the edge of darkness. They had both seen too much, felt too much, to be bound by the constraints of normalcy.

Together, they walked towards the briefing room, the weight of the coming mission heavy on their shoulders. But as they approached, the air was charged with something else, something that neither of them could put into words. The spark of potential, the promise of something more than just survival. As they stepped into the dimly lit room, Keegan couldn't shake the feeling that this mission would be unlike any other, that it would change their lives forever.

The briefing was tense, the room filled with the whispers of maps and strategies. The mission: infiltrate a heavily guarded enemy compound and extract a high-value target. The intel was sketchy, the timeline tight. Keegan listened intently, his eyes never leaving y/n as she studied the maps laid out before them. Her focus was unnerving, her resolve unshakeable. He felt a pang of something unfamiliar, a protectiveness that went beyond the typical camaraderie of the battlefield.

As the briefing concluded, the team began to gear up, the air thick with the sound of Velcro and the clinking of ammo. Keegan found himself by y/n's side, double-checking her equipment, his hands lingering a moment too long on the strap of her rifle. She looked up at him, her gaze unwavering, and for a brief second, he thought he saw something in her eyes, something that mirrored the tumultuous emotions within him. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the steely determination that had become her trademark.

The team moved out, the sun now a fiery disk in the sky, casting long shadows across the desert landscape. They moved in silent unity, each step bringing them closer to the looming fortress that awaited them. Keegan and y/n stuck to the high ground, using the natural terrain to their advantage. The adrenaline coursed through his veins, sharpening his senses, but it was the awareness of her presence that truly focused him.

As they reached the outskirts of the compound, Keegan set up his sniper nest, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. He could feel y/n's gaze on him, her trust unspoken but palpable. He took a deep breath and settled into position, his heart pounding in his chest. The moment of truth was upon them, and as he took aim, he knew that this mission would not only define their careers but also the course of their lives. The crosshairs danced over the target, and with a calmness that belied the chaos in his heart, he pulled the trigger. The world held its breath, and in that split second, everything changed.

The crack of the rifle shot echoed through the desert, a sonic boom that seemed to ripple through the very fabric of reality. The enemy patrols snapped to attention, their movements erratic as they searched for the source of the disturbance. Keegan watched through his scope as the target dropped, a crimson blossom spreading across his chest. The shot had been perfect, a testament to the hours of training and the innate skill that made him one of the best. But it was y/n's reaction that truly captured his attention. She had moved without a sound, her eyes gleaming with a predatory excitement that sent a shiver down his spine.

They waited, the silence stretching out like a tightrope between them. The seconds ticked by, each one a heartbeat that seemed to throb in his ears. The anticipation was almost unbearable, the tension coiling in his gut like a spring ready to snap. And then, it was time. They leaped into action, moving with a synchronicity that was almost unnatural. They were two shadows, slipping through the dusty streets, unseen, unheard. The heat was a living thing, wrapping around them like a lover's embrace, making their clothes stick to their skin.

Their hands brushed together as they climbed over a wall, and a jolt of electricity shot through him, leaving him momentarily stunned. He glanced at her, her eyes alight with the same current that surged through him. It was a look that spoke of more than just the mission, a look that hinted at a shared burden and a yearning that neither of them could articulate. They moved closer, their breaths mingling in the stifling air, and for a moment, Keegan forgot about the world outside their little bubble of danger and desire. The line between comrades and something more had blurred, leaving him teetering on the edge of a precipice he hadn't even known was there.

The compound grew closer, the stakes higher with every step. Keegan could feel the heat from y/n's body, her curves brushing against him as they weaved through the shadows. His thoughts grew hazy, the adrenaline now mixing with a heady cocktail of lust and anticipation. He knew it was wrong, that the battlefield was no place for such distractions, but he couldn't help it. Her presence was a siren's call, drawing him in, making him want to ignore the danger and lose himself in her.

As they approached the heart of the compound, the air grew thick with the scent of sweat and fear. They shared a look, a silent promise that they would make it out alive, together. The tension between them was palpable, a pulsing energy that seemed to charge the very air around them. They communicated in whispers and gestures, each movement a silent dance that spoke of a connection deeper than friendship. It was as if the very fabric of the universe had conspired to throw them together, to forge a bond that could not be broken.

Their mission was successful, the high-value target secured, but it was the aftermath that truly tested them. Back at the base, the rush of victory and the relief of survival collided with the undeniable attraction that had been simmering just beneath the surface. They found themselves in an empty corner of the mess hall, the din of the returning soldiers fading into the background as they faced each other, the weight of their shared secret heavy on their shoulders. And then, without a word, they kissed, a kiss that was desperate and fierce and filled with all the passion that had been building for weeks. It was a kiss that spoke of life and love in the face of war, a kiss that was both a declaration and a question. What now?

Keegan's hands found their way to y/n's hips, pulling her closer, feeling the softness of her curves against his chest. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in, as if trying to anchor herself in the storm of emotions that raged within her. The world outside the confines of their embrace ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the feel of her, the taste of her, the sound of her breath mingling with his own. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated need, a moment where the rules of engagement didn't apply.

They stumbled out of the mess hall, the cool night air hitting them like a slap in the face, jolting them back to reality. The moon cast a silver glow over the camp, illuminating the path to Keegan's tent. The desert night was alive with the whispers of the wind and the distant howls of coyotes, but it was the sound of their breathing that filled their ears as they stumbled inside, tearing at each other's clothes with an urgency that bordered on violence.

The canvas walls of the tent seemed to close in around them, creating a cocoon of privacy in the midst of the chaos. Keegan's calloused hands traced the softness of her skin, the cold metal of his dog tags a stark contrast to the heat of her body. Y/n's glasses fell to the floor, forgotten in the frenzy, as she pulled him closer, her eyes never leaving his. The air grew thick with the scent of them, a heady mix of sweat and desire that seemed to fuel their passion. They fell onto the narrow camp bed, the springs protesting beneath their weight, and the world outside was nothing but a distant memory. In that moment, there was only the two of them, entwined in a dance as old as time, a dance that was both a declaration of war against their own restraints and a sweet surrender to the fire that burned between them.

Keegan's lips traveled down her neck, his teeth grazing the tender skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Her breath hitched, a soft moan escaping her lips as his hands found the hem of her shirt. He pulled it over her head, revealing the soft mounds of her breasts, the nipples already pebbled with desire. He took one in his mouth, his tongue teasing the sensitive peak, feeling her shiver beneath him. Her nails raked down his back, urging him on, a silent plea that he was more than happy to answer. He kissed her again, deeper, harder, their tongues tangling in a battle for dominance that neither could win, nor wanted to. The kiss grew more frantic, their movements more urgent, as the need to claim each other overwhelmed them.

Their clothes fell away, a tapestry of fabric and gear that lay discarded on the floor, a testament to the urgency of their need. Y/n's legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, her hips rolling in a silent invitation that Keegan could not resist. He slid into her, feeling the warmth and wetness that enveloped him, a sensation so intense it was almost painful. They moved together, a symphony of gasps and groans, each thrust a declaration of a need that went beyond the physical. Their bodies were a battleground of passion, a war zone where every touch was a victory, every kiss a surrender.

Their movements grew more frenzied, the rhythm building to a crescendo that seemed to shake the very foundation of the tent. Keegan could feel the tension coiling within him, tightening like a spring ready to snap. Y/n's nails dug into his skin, her breathing ragged as she met him thrust for thrust, her eyes never leaving his. The world outside, the missions, the danger, all of it faded away, leaving only the two of them, locked in a battle of love and lust that was as intense and all-consuming as any they had ever fought. And as they reached the peak together, their bodies shuddering in the throes of release, Keegan knew that he had found something more than just a fellow soldier in her arms. He had found a piece of himself that he didn't even know was missing.

They lay there, panting, their bodies slick with sweat and entwined like two vines that had grown together over time. The air was thick with the scent of sex and gunpowder, a potent reminder of the world they had left behind. Y/n's hair was a wild mess around her face, and her glasses lay on the floor, a symbol of the vulnerability she had allowed him to see. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, his touch gentle, almost reverent. Her eyes searched his, a question in their depths that he didn't have an answer for. But the connection was there, undeniable and unyielding.

Keegan kissed her again, slower this time, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her. His hands roamed her body, exploring every curve and contour as if he was committing her to memory. He felt her respond, her breath catching as his thumb brushed over her sensitive nipple, her hips arching to meet his touch. The hunger was still there, a low-burning flame that had been stoked but not extinguished.

He slid down her body, his mouth tracing a path along her stomach, pausing to kiss the piercing in her navel. She quivered beneath him, her hands tangling in his hair, urging him on. He reached the apex of her thighs, the soft folds of her sex glistening in the moonlight. He took a moment to appreciate the beauty of her, the way she lay open and exposed for him. Then, with a growl of need, he dipped his head, his tongue finding her clit, flicking and teasing until she was panting, her legs trembling.

Y/n's hands clenched the fabric of the camp bed, her body arching as he feasted on her. The noises she made were intoxicating, a symphony of pleasure that sent shockwaves through him. He felt himself harden again, his need for her insatiable. He slipped a finger inside her, feeling her tighten around him, her body begging for more. He added a second, pumping them in and out as he continued to suck and lick, driving her closer to the edge. Her thighs clamped around his head, her hips bucking as she neared climax.

The tent was a cocoon of passion, the sounds of their lovemaking a stark contrast to the quiet camp outside. The world had ceased to exist, and all that remained was the frantic dance of their bodies, the slick slide of skin on skin, the mingling of their breaths and the desperate gasps that filled the air. Keegan felt himself losing control, the desire to claim her completely overwhelming him. He slid back up her body, his erection nudging against her wetness, and with a growl, he thrust into her again, feeling her tighten around him as she came, her muscles clenching and releasing in waves of pleasure.

They rode the wave together, their movements erratic and unbridled, each one bringing them closer to the precipice. Keegan could feel the tension building in his own body, his muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. He drove into her, his hips moving with a rhythm that was as old as time, their bodies moving in perfect harmony despite the chaos that surrounded them. Y/n's nails dug into his back, leaving trails of fire that only served to fuel his need for her. He could feel her getting closer, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling beneath him.

And then, it was over. They reached the peak together, their bodies shuddering in unison as the wave crashed over them, leaving them both gasping for air. Keegan collapsed onto her, his weight a comforting warmth in the chilly desert night. They lay there, their hearts beating as one, their breaths mingling in the quiet darkness. It was a moment of perfect peace, a brief respite from the storm that was their lives. made by ledder4