#halo cradle of life

[halopedia]

Lore Thursday — Assembler

The Assembler Sentinel is a variant of Strato-Sentinel like Retrievers and Stewards. It is used in the construction of Forerunner megastructures like Halo installations and portal complexes, such as the portal to the Ark at Voi.

[teddybeartoji]

going to the beach with toji and kids for the first time ever. it's only the beginning of your relationship, it's all kind of new – toji doesn't know what's about to hit him. sure, he's seen you with megumi and tsumiki before, but this? this is something else.

not only is his heart doing flips at the sight of the big smiles and the loud bursts of laughter you're managing to pull out of his kids, you're also wearing a fucking bikini. he hasn't seen this much of you before – the furthest you've gone during the late hours of the nights are steamy, handsy makeouts. he did take your shirt off the last time he had you below him but then you were interrupted by the little spiky haired boy, sniffling about a bad dream. after grabbing a blanket to cover you up, toji rested his forehead against your warm skin, grumbling something under his breath before looking up at you with soft eyes. you weren't mad – quite the opposite; you ruffled his hair and cradled his face, a gentle smile splayed on your lips. you pressed a haste kiss to his nose and then ushered him off of you, whispering something about his adorable son. toji scoffed. and smiled to himself.

the bikini. is killing him. he doesn't know what to do with himself. the scene playing in front of him is heart-warming and he should only be thinking about that, but how can he? the material is barely covering anything and you just look so... fucking good.

sitting in the shade, toji let's his head loll back, his eyes closing as he rests his hand over his face with a groan. he can't do it anymore. he's doing brain exercises to not pop the hardest boner of his life and you are not making it any easier when you keep giving him the prettiest smiles. you're happy, the kids are happy – everything should be good, but no – here he is, suffering because his parter looks fucking amazing. the fact that this is even a problem is mind-baffling to him. he is a strong man, no person is going to get to him just by being beauti—

"could you pass me the water, please?"

you're out to get him, he's sure of it.

toji peeks from under his hand and he's immediately blinded by a devil in disguise. the sun shines from behind you like a halo and the grin on your lips reaches behind your ears. sweat coats your skin and it makes toji's mouth salivate. what the fuck are you doing to him? hands on your hips, you stare down at your boyfriend and you give him another second to collect himself before quirking up a brow.

"toji?" you sound like a siren, you're pulling him in with your silky smooth tone. "the water, please?"

the corners of your eyes crinkle as you smile and toji has never moved faster in his entire life. "right."

he reaches for the bottle in the cooler beside him and gives it to you while making sure to look at you in the eyes and nowhere else. it's unbelievably hard – especially when the water starts trickling from the corners of your mouth and down your neck. toji gulps before turning to look at his kids instead. gumi's brows are furrowed as he's building his sandcastle while miki is busy building hers. toji cracks a grin.

"they're so– fucking cute." you whisper when you curse, a playful smile on your lips as you gush about the kids.

you love them so much already and you're glad that they seem to be liking you a lot too. that makes toji very happy; when the kids ask about you when they haven't seen you in a few days, when you do the same – he knows you really might be the one. it's a big thing to say, to even think, but he can't help it. it simply seems... right.

the water bottle hangs in front of his face and he's pulled away from his thoughts again. he goes to grab it and when he does, your free hand reaches out to him. warm finger wrap around his wrist and he melts at the soft, gentle touch. "come play with us."

a groan bubbles from his throat but it couldn't be any further from an annoyed one – you're sweet and you're excited, you're pretty and you're patient; you always welcome him and the kids with open arms and a bright smile. she would've loved you.

he throws the bottle aside and wraps his own hand around your own. "ya wanna play or the kids wanna play?"

his raspy voice and the stupidly handsome smirk he gives you make butterflies bloom and dance in your stomach. he makes you giddy, he makes you happy.

"i wanna play." you tug at him. "and the kids wanna play."

he can't say no to his little blessings and he can't say no to you. maybe running around will help clear his mind from the mischievious thoughts in his head. he doubts it, but he's needs to try.

in one swift move, he pulls your hand to his mouth while pretending to bite you and his eyes fucking twinkle when he sees your cute surprised expression and hears your little gasp. there's a moment, a second of the most comfortable silence before the corners of your lips twitch and you yank away from his hold, booking it towards gumi and miki with a loud cackle as toji pushes off the chair and takes off after you with fast steps.

your cheeks hurt from laughing as you watch toji catch megumi; he lifts gumi up with just one hand while tsumiki tries to poke her dad in the ribs in order for him to let boy go. when he finally lets the kids go... you feel his eyes on you. adrenaline pumps in your veins and you feel like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. you can't stop grinning. he can't either. a pair of arms wrap around your middle and your feet are being lifted up above the ground before you can even react.

while the kids are doubled over, running and stumbling over their own feet, toji growls in your ear. "gotcha."

you will take the next step today. no snotty kid of his will cockblock him again – they will be tired from the day and you will be all his to take care of. he'll show you his appreciation for being so good to him and the kids, for being so kind. and so... fucking hot.

he presses a kiss to your jaw but cringes when gumi and miki dramatically scream 'ew' at him. you feel him getting even warmer, his cheeks heating up and you try to save him by shooing the kids with a laugh. toji is grateful. he's happy that you're here.

[acid-ixx]

(12/30/24) — again &. again masterlist

by the bird and the bee

ft. platonic soft! yandere batfam! x gn! neglected reader

✮ MAIN MASTERLIST ✮

— TRIGGER WARNINGS !

- lowercase writing, emotional neglect, allusions to sexual assault, prostitution & physical abuse, kidnapping, alcohol abuse, drugging, themes of depression, dissociation, vague traumatic events, mentions of murder, amnesia, other warnings would be added soon.

— SYNOPSIS !

who would have thought that living with your rich, billionaire father and endless supply of sisters and brothers would actually end up being the worst thirteen and a half year of your life?

when your mother was taken away from you at the ripe age of five, you were forced to live at the solemn wayne manor with nobody to accompany you but the butler, alfred pennyworth.

there, you learn that giving up was better than trying to gain the attention of your ever-growing family. so you left, and never once tried to look back at the decades of neglect they left you with.

but when alfred, your kind caretaker, had started leaving clues of your sudden disappearance; that's when they all take notice and then on starts the ultimate race of chasing freedom, and escaping what once was your gilded cage.

little did you know your mother's dark past manifests itself at the worst of times.

— CHAPTERS ! ; 48k+ words

00. — oh, please leave me be.

01. — because you only notice me once i'm out the door.

02. — and you don't even remember my face?

03. — i need a drink, away from everyone.

04. — mors tua, vita mea / your death, my life.

05 : 01. — a halo in the pit of darkness.

05 : 02. — to be his child is all i want.

— DRABBLES ! ; #series: again &. again

dick grayson calling you his baby bird

why now? (yan! damian wayne)

brutus (villain au concept)

brutus: out for blood

what if you were never neglected?

just a taste (yan! conner kent - suggestive)

laughter is the best medicine (yan! dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne)

to you, my greatest passion (non-neglected au-verse)

brutus: both arms cradle you now

bruce finding your graduation picture

how to be a heartbreaker! (yandere harem)

mea culpa (mini chapter)

conflicting comfort scene with jason todd

dialogue spoilers related to above drabble

more about jason todd and hurt/comfort

dick and his baby blue eyes

time travel au concept

sharing the same features with damian

brutus: the only fucked up thing in this world is you

cause you're takin' it like a champ, sweetheart! (yan! conner kent - suggestive)

brutus: just a burning memory (yan! conner kent)

young, just us?! (yan! young justice au)

that's my type! (yan! john constantine)

— ASKS ! ; #series: again &. again

dick's spiral into yandere-ism

leaving gotham, resenting alfred, changing last names

your mysterious identity &. conner being your love interest

dick seeing you as a child & damian's need to be your favorite

damian and his cool, matching bracelets

does dick close the door on you? nah, he doesn't even know you were behind the door

wally west as your love interest

you care now?

conner as your angry, protective bf

jason trying his damn best to be a brother to you

calling bruce by his last name only

calling alfred your dad ft. jealous bruce

how are damian and jason obsessed towards you

their nicknames for you

how bruce and damian would try to bond with you

will you still go to college after being kidnapped?

will the series have a happy ending?

why does damian hurt you? and why do you justify his actions?

the family stalks you even in-game

— INCORRECT QUOTES ! ; #a&a: incorrect quotes

yan! villains kidnapping you

hostage situation

how to become a target to the wayne family

dick and you miscommunication trope in a nutshell

— FANART ! ; #a&a: fanart

happy birthday by @luffyadolover

diary by @luffyadolover

another reason they're broke &. finished art by @oh-nowo-i-got-uwu

a take on the reader's appearance by @luffyadolover

reader trying to study ft. the batfam's endless calls &. finished art by @ghostdoodlen

reader finding bruce and damian watching a movie by @luffyadolover

again &. again mv by @luffyadolover

reader and their playlist by @luffyadolover

a comic panel by @lucioleestolie

conner and reader flying through the skies by @ghostdoodlen

when all of a sudden, i hear this agitating noise by @punpunsonny

villain au reader by @lazyemmy

a&a oc: emile by @questionthegrapevine

graduation pic, conner comfort, and mirrors by @ghostdoodlen

neglected &. non-neglected reader by @lazyemmy

jason calling you his angel by @ghostdoodlen

alfred gives you a christmas gift by @luffyadolover

— TAGLIST ! ; taglist is under construction!

@.lilyalone, @.secretomelettetroops, @.earlqurl, @.simpingfor-wakasa, @.amber-content, @.ruiroku, @.okaybutfullhomo, @.trasshy-artist, @.obsessedwithromance, @.jjsmeowthie, @.fairy-lenaa, @.ilovvmyhusband, @.6uuyuuhgy, @.plsfckmedxddy, @.lavender-moony, @.sweetheart-era, @.chemicalsandghosts, @.darling006, @.starringyau, @.samanthahanes, @.rosecentury, @.jaythes1mp, @.pi1nkl0ver, @.i-thirsty-boy, @.sharks-are-cool-l, @.silverklaus, @.samanthathanes, @.traumaramacenter, @.maddimoon, @.anxrq, @.thedarknesslord, @.h0rr0r-10ver-69, @.lazy-idate, @.cupids-pretty-boy, @.alishii, @.mel-star636, @.sitepathos, @.freakyotaku059-blog, @.dirtydiavolo, @.sunbleachedantlers, @.24hrsoflanii, @.ceramic-raven, @.une-lueur-dans-la-nuit, @.tdickensstuff4, @.thickerthanthieves, @.arlandvery, @.distressed-lezbo, @.bunbunboysworld, @.bellethesleepypotato, @.naina326, @.nebuluma, @.alliwantisadonut, @.alishii, @.kusakiguzen, @.sirenetheblogger, @.emmbny, @.ryukyuin, @.solkara, @.starsdotalk

[mellosdrawings]

When you need to declare your love to your wife but it is so strong you can't help but revert back to french.

You know the perk of being french ? I can write Rook rambling haha !

(Though I am incapable of writing poetry, so here is the poem I used and its approximate translation:

Je respire où tu palpites,

Tu sais ; à quoi bon, hélas !

Rester là si tu me quittes,

Et vivre si tu t'en vas ?

(I breathe where you throb, you know ;

What for, alas! stay here if you leave me, and live if you go away?)

A quoi bon vivre, étant l'ombre

De cet ange qui s'enfuit ?

A quoi bon, sous le ciel sombre,

N'être plus que de la nuit ?

(What good is living, being the shadow of this fleeing angel?

What for, under the dark sky, being from the night only?)

Je suis la fleur des murailles

Dont avril est le seul bien.

Il suffit que tu t'en ailles

Pour qu'il ne reste plus rien.

(I am the flower of your walls for which April is the only good.

You only need to leave for me to be left with nothing.)

Tu m'entoures d'Auréoles;

Te voir est mon seul souci.

Il suffit que tu t'envoles

Pour que je m'envole aussi.

(You surround me with Halos;

I care only about seeing you.

You need only to take flight for me to fly too.)

Si tu pars, mon front se penche ;

Mon âme au ciel, son berceau,

Fuira, dans ta main blanche

Tu tiens ce sauvage oiseau.

(Should you leave, my front/forehead shall lean ;

My soul in the sky, its cradle, will flee,

In your white hand you hold this wild bird.)

Que veux-tu que je devienne

Si je n'entends plus ton pas ?

Est-ce ta vie ou la mienne

Qui s'en va ? Je ne sais pas.

(What would I become, should I not hear your steps anymore?

Is it your life or mine that is fleeing ?

I cannot tell?)

Quand mon orage succombe,

J'en reprends dans ton coeur pur ;

Je suis comme la colombe

Qui vient boire au lac d'azur.

(When my thunder dies down, I take some from your pure heart ;

I am like the dove that just drank in the azur lake.)

L'amour fait comprendre à l'âme

L'univers, salubre et béni ;

Et cette petite flamme

Seule éclaire l'infini

(Love makes the soul understand the universe, healthful and blessed ;

And this lonely little flame shines upon the endless)

Sans toi, toute la nature

N'est plus qu'un cachot fermé,

Où je vais à l'aventure,

Pâle et n'étant plus aimé.

(Without you, all of nature is only a closed cell where I go on an adventure,

Pale and no longer beloved.)

Sans toi, tout s'effeuille et tombe ;

L'ombre emplit mon noir sourcil ;

Une fête est une tombe,

La patrie est un exil.

(Without you, everything falls apart ;

Shadows fill my dark eyebrow ;

A feast/party is a tomb,

The homeland is an exile.)

Je t'implore et réclame ;

Ne fuis pas loin de mes maux,

O fauvette de mon âme

Qui chantes dans mes rameaux !

(I beg and demand ;

Do not flee any longer from my pain,

O warbler of my soul who sings in my twigs!)

De quoi puis-je avoir envie,

De quoi puis-je avoir effroi,

Que ferai-je de la vie

Si tu n'es plus près de moi ?

(What could I want?

What could I be afraid of?

What would I do of life without you by my side?)

Tu portes dans la lumière,

Tu portes dans les buissons,

Sur une aile ma prière,

Et sur l'autre mes chansons.

(You carry in the light,

You carry in the bushes,

On a wing my prayers,

On the other my songs.)

Que dirai-je aux champs que voile

L'inconsolable douleur ?

Que ferai-je de l'étoile ?

Que ferai-je de la fleur ?

(What will I tell to the fields that hide my inconsolable pain?

What would I do of the star?

What would I do of the flower?)

Que dirai-je au bois morose

Qu'illuminait ta douceur ?

Que répondrai-je à la rose

Disant : " Où donc est ma soeur ?"

(What will I tell to the morose forest that illuminated your softness?

What will I answer at the rose asking "Where is my sister?")

J'en mourrai ; fuis, si tu l'oses.

A quoi bon, jours révolus !

Regarder toutes ces choses

Qu'elle ne regarde plus ?

(I would die ;

Flee if you dare.

What is the point, days gone! of looking at all those she no longer looks at?)

Que ferai-je de la lyre,

De la vertu, du destin ?

Hélas ! et, sans ton sourire,

Que ferai-je du matin ?

(What would I do of the lyre, of virtue, of destiny?

Alas! And, without your smile,

What would I do of the morning?)

Que ferai-je, seul, farouche,

Sans toi, du jour et des cieux,

De mes baisers sans ta bouche,

Et de mes pleurs sans tes yeux !

(What would I do, alone, wild, without you, of days and heavens,

Of my kisses without your lips,

And of my tears without your eyes!)

Il suffit que tu t'envoles pour que je m'envoles aussi - Victor Hugo

(You need only take flight for me to fly too))

[reidmoony-toast]

Angel. - sr x reader

Reader gets shot and Spencer is there to comfort her

content: fem reader, established relationship, angst/comfort, ambiguous ending, no use of y/n, takes place in 15x01-02

cw: canon compliant violence, blood, guns, dying (they're going to be fine dw)

wc: 966

an: Hey, so this is my first ever published Spencer fic, so I'm really nervous lol! This will get zero to no engagement and I'm accepting that now, but if ya'll want a part 2 I'm happy to oblige!! Enjoy lovelies <3

Part 2

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

Everything happened so quickly, yet it felt like a millennia before I hit the ground–free falling through life and death in turn, the descent ending on the dingy floor of a parking garage. My vision cut in and out through the surges of white-hot agony that were coursing throughout my entire body, ears ringing.

I saw a blurry figure pile into a car, before peeling out of the parking space, kicking up dust as it raced out of the building. I tried to move to grab my gun that was lying a few feet away, but it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on me, causing me to become prone and forcing me to accept the fate that was laid before me.

As I coughed up blood, I had the inexplicable urge to laugh. The irony, that this was the way I would go out–lying defenceless and helpless on the cold concrete, synthetic LED bulbs flickering incessantly above me.

The pain was becoming too unbearable, paralysing any coherent thoughts. There was one word that was repeated over and over again:

Spencer.

I didn't know if it was a prayer to some higher being, or merely a mantra, but it was the only single word I could make out in the haze of my dying mind. I wished I was the one with the eidetic memory, so that I could at least see his face one last time.

Blood pooled steadily around me as it left my body, never to return. The ringing in my ears steadily grew louder while the garage was dead silent, besides for the wet sounds of me choking on my own blood.

The bitter silence was cut off by the frantic shouting of a name. My name. The person neared, skidding to a halt and dropping to their knees beside me. The blurry figure hovered over me, obscuring the too-bright lights from view.

They came into partial focus, and I choked out a sob when I realised my pathetic prayers had been answered. Spencer was here. He shushed me soothingly, stroking my hair with shaking hands. "It's okay, baby. You're gonna be okay, okay?" He cradled my cheeks with his hands, trying in vain to wipe the blood from my face with his own bloodied hands. I sobbed again, squeezing my eyes shut.

"No, no, no, no," Spencer chanted, "Keep your eyes open, love, please. Look at me," He pleaded, gently shaking me so that I would open my eyes again. They landed on his face, screwed up in worry and pain. I vaguely wondered if he was hurt, if that's why he looked as though he too was in agony.

My eyes studied his face as best as they could, mapping out every detail, desperate to memorise it. They landed where they��without fail–always did. His eyes stared back with tears, frantic and pleading. I would gladly study these eyes for hours on end–and I did–so much so that he would often make fun of me for the incessant staring.

It didn't stop me though, not while those deep brown eyes with the ring of pure gold in the centre were there for me to look at. That's where my gaze now rested, on those gorgeous, breathtaking eyes.

"Spencer." My voice was foreign to me–shaky and so unbelievably small. "You- you came." I strangled out. He nodded, pushing my hair back off of my face.

"I'm here, baby. I'm here." His voice cracked and trailed off. He never let go of me as he radioed in, asking for an immediate ambulance. I didn't hear the response. Spencer carefully repositioned me, laying my head and shoulders in his lap as he searched for the source of the bleeding.

I gazed numbly up at Spencer, the lights causing a halo around his head with his messy curls. I thought that it was fitting. By all accounts he was an angel. My angel. I let out a shaky and ragged breath. How many more of those would I have? I could most likely count them with one hand.

Spencer stopped his quick search when he found what he was looking for, immediately putting pressure on the wound. I cried out at the added agony. "I know, I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry." He kept chanting, cradling my head with his free hand. I whimper in pain.

"Spencer?" I breathed out, voice wobbling. He stroked my cheek lovingly, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Yes?"

My face crumpled in pain. "It hurts."

He drew in a sharp, pained breath. "I know, baby, I know." He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. "Help's coming, okay? Hang in there, love." Another shaky breath. "Stay with me." His sentence tapered off to a barely audible volume, bloodied hand shaking violently on my face, tears dripping down his cheeks. "Please."

I started coughing again, more blood spraying over my face, some of it even ending up on Spencer's. It made me disproportionately angry–that his face was tainted with my dying blood. I wished I could wipe it off, but I didn't have the strength to lift my arm.

My vision swam as I started to lose what was left of my consciousness as what felt like the last of my blood left my body. My eyes fluttered closed.

"No, no, no, hey!" Spencer gently tapped my cheek. "Don't close your eyes. Stay awake until the ambulance arrives, please," He begged, but my lids were incredibly heavy.

"I-I feel–," I sucked in a shallow breath. "So cold."

He bundled me tighter against him, trying to sooth me with whispered comforting words. The last thing I remembered before I slipped out of consciousness was Spencer's calming voice and the sound of approaching sirens.

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated x

Masterlist ౨ৎ

[astraystayyh]

The prophecy- I.

ꕥ summary: when an angel becomes enthralled by the prospect of emotions, he falls into your world hoping you’d teach him how to be human. little does he know, there's no safety net awaiting him below.

ꕥ pairing: fallen angel!yongbok x fem human!reader.

ꕥ genre: slow burn. heavy themes relating to the complexity of emotions (insecurities, grief, nostalgia, love and sacrifice). angst. comfort. hope and healing. the members are included in the fic as well.

ꕥ warnings: plot installment. mention of alcohol and drinking, description of scars, self-loathing thoughts.

ꕥ word count: 17.8k.

Next. Series Masterlist.

authors note: this fic is my absolute baby. it is heavily inspired by Black Friday by Tom Odell, or rather my interpretation of its lyrics. angel felix is so so special to me, i got the opportunity to be very vulnerable while writing, so i hope you enjoy reading this first part as much as i enjoyed writing it. feedback is highly appreciated <3 this is for @forlix my angel who birthed this fic with me, and for @catboyanon for being my icon 💞 i love you guys 🫶🏻 thank you for reading!!!!!!

the series taglist is open! comment or send me an ask if you wish to be added— @linosssss @agi-ppangx @hwangism143 @httpdwaekki @booksndpoetry @courtnort455 @tonystenk @felixsbakingbud @oyinii @seungzsmin @kayleefriedchicken @freyjhasdesiredreality @babrieeee @nyasstars @lovefool-lix @velvetmoonlght @hash2013 @caticorn61 @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @minhosbitterriver @dorisnumber1fan @goldenmellow @juskz @chanshyunjin @aslou @hhwangsmoon @shinygubbins @msaddictions @abcdefgiwannasendmycodetou @realrintaro @theuntoldlullaby

Act 1. Everything comes with a price.

“So for once in my life, let me get what I want, Lord knows it would be the first time”- Please, please, please, let me get what I want, The Smiths.

Yongbok's existence has been a steady current of nothingness. 

He has known no low, yet simultaneously, no high. Has never stood at the edge of the world nor cradled it within his palm. He is a straight line, knowing no bumps on its road, crafted to stretch forward, and then some more, indefinitely. 

That is until you were assigned to him— his human to keep safe, to protect.

That is when Yongbok then realized that, all along, he had felt nothing— that there was a void overtaking his being, an absence of something, rather than what he had always known to be the norm. 

Yongbok knew the rules, he knew what his existence entailed— that it was one entwined with yours, that once you’d both turn eighteen he’d sense it when you were in danger, each time you were in physical pain. So, he’d protect you, hover above you like a halo, keep you out of harm's way.

He also knew that it would happen unexpectedly. His one friend Seungmin described it as a minor nuisance, a thorn that needs to be plucked out, a bad weed that has overgrown. “You'll help your human and it’ll be back to normal.” 

Yet, for Yongbok it wasn't merely a lone thorn, nor a solitary weed, but rather, a myriad of nuisances falling upon him at once— akin to a deluge of rain pouring as soon as the sky’s gates part. A throbbing so intense it made him falter in his strides, made his golden wings envelop him, as if to cage this unfamiliar feeling, to stop it from seeping from his body and soiling the azure skies. 

It was the first time you had called out to him, it was the first time he would see you in. He imagined you’d be in agonizing pain, skirting the edges of death on a final dance with the devils. But, you were on your bed, curled around yourself the way his wings enfolded his body. Sobs rippled from you, an undulating cascade of waves that almost drowned you in sorrow. 

You weren’t in danger. You weren’t in physical pain. So why was he here? 

Why had he felt it when you simply cried? 

Yongbok hovered near your door, unsure of what to do. This wasn’t in the rules he had learned— guardian angels do not deal with emotions, they do not feel the woes of the heart. “Humans are always hurt. Their heart bruises more than their body would ever endure. It is something we cannot control, nor can we help them with it”— those were the words of Christopher, the sovereign of all guardian angels, ones tattooed in the back of Yongbok’s mind.

“They do not affect us,” he had asserted, his voice maintaining its customary tranquility.

So why was Yongbok feeling the bruising of your heart?

He pondered for a fleeting moment before making a soft breeze ripple through your hair. You looked up from your bed, eyes cast outside the window, as a sunbeam delicately landed on your face. To his surprise, that seemed to halt your tears.  

In that instant, the weight on Yongbok’s heart suddenly dissipated, like a morning fog chased away by the sun. 

“So, this isn’t normal?” he asked Seungmin upon his return, who blinked at him once, then twice. 

“No. It must be part of your anomaly.” 

His anomaly, what explains Seungmin being his only friend. But his loneliness did not bother him, the perk of never feeling.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Yongbok sighed, circling the rim of his glass with his pointer finger. “Should I tell… you know.”

“Keep it to yourself.” Seungmin’s voice was stern, biting, leaving no room for Yongbok to object. 

So he did not. 

He kept it to himself, for the past five years, a diligent secret he’s gotten better at hiding. You were surprisingly a good human to guard, you never burned yourself, crossed the road while looking at both sides, and did not frequent shady places at 4 a.m. 

But your heart weighed so much on your soul.

You cried an average of one hundred and sixty-five times per year, sixty of which being heart-wrenching sobs that almost paralyzed him, made the feathers of his wings wither down and scatter on the ground like sakura petals. 

“Is it normal for her to cry this much?” he had asked Seungmin who had simply shrugged. 

“I don’t know. I don’t befriend humans.” he sighed before adding. “Why does she cry?”

“Other people hurt her.” 

“Then she’s stupid for repeating the same process.”

“Isn’t it fascinating, though? She knows the outcome might be the same, and yet–”

“Do you wish to befriend her?” Seungmin had cut him off, eyes narrowing down slightly. There was a hint of warning in his tone, a danger ringing somewhere near. You know where this path will lead you. 

“No,” he replied quickly. He never brought you up again after that. 

But his fascination with you did not die. Though, it wasn’t you, per se, that intrigued him. More so what you were feeling, every emotion that ran freely through your being. It was as if he perched on the precipice of your soul, drinking the droplets of emotions that escaped your being. Feeling through you, an extension of your very existence.

It wasn’t only the throbbing when you hurt, it was also a satisfaction when he made you smile again. Through a sunbeam falling perfectly atop you, a rainbow appearing above your head, a star shining more brightly as your eyes found it. Each time your heart bled dry and you begged for a sign, he was there, conjuring up one of you, smiling as you smiled, inching closer to you as the months went by. 

What if the sign was him? What if he showed you he was there all along? 

Would you smile at him too? 

These were dangerous questions swirling in his head, translating into even more harmful actions. Like getting closer to trespassing the line between your world and his, drawn by that fascination, that thirst to know more, to feel more. 

To talk to you. 

But it was all but wishful thinking, it is all thoughts he buried within himself, his body becoming the graveyard of his life— through which he breathes and through which he dies. 

Until tonight.

Yongbok felt that same familiar throbbing overtaking his being, only this one was much more intense, so much so he couldn’t hide the discomfort on his face, twisted in agony at the pain overriding you. He expected to find the telltales of your sadness draped on your being— teary eyes and shaky hands, pouting lips and the scrunch of your eyebrows that he’s come to memorize. 

But to his surprise, he finds you perched upon an abandoned rooftop overlooking Han River, the moon casting its shimmering reflection above its surface. You weren’t frowning, nor blinking rapidly to dispel your tears. Instead, you sat there, gazing at the river below, legs dangling over the edge, your face as placid as the water before you. However, the burden on your heart was unmistakable, a weight he recognized because he, too, bore it. 

He stops for a second, making a gentle rain graze your skin, light enough to feel like an embrace rather than a nuisance. He knew you loved these light showers as you always chased them, tilting your head to the sky as if thanking it for allowing the rain to visit, even for a fleeting moment. 

But this time, you remain unmoving, eyes still fixated on the water, as if you wished it would rise from its place and carry you with it underneath.

You look like an angel, for you feel nothing, numbness seizing your being and trapping it into its hold, just as it does for him. 

“Sometimes the human’s enemy is itself. They inflict harm upon their souls the most, sometimes even death.” He remembers the somber sayings of Christopher and then the question Jeongin asked, echoing the concerns that gripped everyone’s thoughts.

“Can we still save them from themselves?” 

“Not always. We can be too late.” 

You inch closer to the edge of the building, and Yongbok wonders if you had felt too much there was no other emotion your heart could pump out for you anymore, no life for it to breathe in you. 

Can humanity disintegrate once it pains you too much? Can you turn it off in a desperate bid for survival? Would it still be a life if you do not feel in it? 

“I’m not going to jump if that’s what you’re worried about.” Your cold voice startles him, and he looks around quizzically, wondering who you are talking to. But it is only the both of you atop the roof, and his wings are gone, the golden light that usually contours his being subdued. 

The realization dawns upon him – you can see him, and you are speaking to him. Yongbok feels the stirrings of his heart, a singular beat that resounds in his chest for the very first time.

“I’m not worried,” he replies, after painstakingly long seconds. His voice sounds different, deeper as it floods his ears. I can’t worry, he decides against adding. “Besides,” he clears his throat, walking over to you, his hands resting on the railing. “You can’t die from here. You’ll just break your bones. Get paralyzed, at most.” 

“What are you? A death connoisseur?” you snort, a small life seeping through your voice again as you finally look at him. 

“Something of the sort.”

“This makes you sound like a serial killer,” you sigh, a heavy breath pulled from the depths of his heart. “But you don’t look like one.”

“I don’t?” he questions. 

“No. You look kind.” 

Kind. Yongbok has been draped in a myriad of adjectives since his creation, ones that hang above him like a somber cloud, imprinted on his skin with ink visible to everyone but himself. ‘Abomination’ was the one that came back the most. But you described him as kind. 

What do you see in me? He wants to ask. Tell me so I can look for it when I see myself.

He’s acutely aware that he’s breaking the rules, his wings itching to fledge out and carry him away. But he forcefully keeps them at bay. Not now. Just a little more.

“Are you looking for hope too?” you ask, your voice much quieter than when you last spoke. Yongbok now sees it— the numbness wearing off and leaving place to an agonizing sadness, its essence is poured in your eyes alone, dull under the marvelous city lights. 

“Hope?” he echoes, the word tasting foreign in his mouth. 

“Mm,” you hum, drawing one knee to your chest while letting the other dangle, straddling an invisible line between your two worlds. “I come here and imagine as if the moon shines only for me.”

“That's not true.”

“I know,” you giggle quietly, your laugh swiftly morphing into a pout. “Most of the time it feels as if it’s shining for everyone but me.”

“I don’t think the moon cares enough to single you out.”

“That's somewhat comforting to hear.”

Running a hand through your hair, you speak again. “I don’t usually talk to strangers,” you confess, lifting the nearly empty soju bottle in your left hand. “I’m just a bit drunk, and really sad,” you whisper, as if entrusting him with a secret, an admission that the universe can be cruel in the fates it deals out. He knows that more than most.

“I don't mind,” he inches closer to you, his curious eyes casting over your gloomy figure. “So, you come here looking for hope?”

“It's a bit silly, right?” you smile sheepishly, and he shakes his head. 

“Silly, no. It’s just unrealistic to look for something that is not tangible.”

“Everything that is good in life cannot be grasped with our hands.”

He knows nothing of all these good things you speak of, so he remains silent.

“You know what’s funny? Each time I ask for a sign I find it.”

Each time you call out for him he is there. 

“Is that so?” 

You take a big gulp from your drink, setting it down as your tone grows melancholic with each word. “Yeah. I think I've seen more butterflies in the past five years than the average person does in a lifetime.”

“And that’s a good thing, right?” he asks tentatively, a tinge of uncertainty in his voice. What if, all along, in his attempts to pull you up he has only been drowning you further? 

“It is. It makes me believe that things will turn out better, in the end,” you share, pausing briefly as if attempting to contain your words. It’s only a moment later that you continue, “I guess I'm just tired of believing things will get better instead of feeling better.”

He was a temporary patch-up, a band-aid made of silk threads destined to wear off with time. Guardian angels cannot help with the woes of the heart. For all their immortality, they fall short before the power of emotions, kneel in surrender at the altar of humanity. 

But on your darkest night— your black Friday where the sky resembles an abyss in which every star has fizzled out, he does not want to leave you without hope. 

“Maybe you just need better signs,” he whispers, as a hoard of butterflies swivels before your eyes, a kaleidoscope of colorful wings fluttering in the hopes of breathing life into you once again. 

“Butterflies don’t show up at night…” you marvel in hushed tones, your eyes darting everywhere to take in the magical scenery. 

“Did you do this?” you’re breathless as you turn to ask but no one’s near anymore. 

The heaviness in your heart has dissolved, not entirely, but enough for Yongbok to dismiss it as a fleeting nuisance, a stubborn weed, a lone thorn that he deftly plucked away.

…

Yongbok has not stopped thinking of your conversation, the steadiness in your voice as you spoke of hope, of good things that elude your gaze but infuse your existence with sweetness. He knew that he broke the rules by speaking to you, that there are but severe cases in which an angel is allowed to address their human. Sadness, no matter how profound, was not one of them. And yet, for all the years he spent abiding by the rules, he had not regretted talking to you, not once. 

He had memorized the cadence of your voice, the sheer glaze in your eyes as they held his, the way you drowned yourself in alcohol, nose scrunching at its bitter taste. Everything about you, he learned, committing it to his memory that was once a blank canvas, for he had never lived something worth remembering, for he had never strayed from the straight path, drawn out eons ago for him. 

Until you. 

It is the following Friday and Yongbok hovers near a bar, his eyes absorbing the sight of the drunk humans mingling in there. Some of them are laughing, clinking half-empty glasses as they cheer loudly, Others, too busy pressing their lips against one another to dare dream of forgetting this moment. And then some sitting alone, their gaze fixated on the liquid within their glass, as if it holds the key to all their unanswered prayers. Foolish behavior, but he is drawn to the mundanity of it, for some odd reason. 

He draws in a deep breath, before concealing his celestial wings and venturing into the dimly lit bar. He sits by a stool, curiously eyeing the array of alcohol on display. “What can I get you?” the bartender asks and he responds with a nonchalant shrug. “Strongest thing you have.” After all, inebriation is an experience beyond his grasp.

The abrupt sound of glass meeting the counter startles him, and he turns to his left. There, he discovers a young man, roughly his age, signaling the bartender for another pour. Ebony hair pulled into a small ponytail, a furrowed brow shaping his lips into a frown, the man’s gaze remains fixed on the scattered droplets of Whiskey across the counter. In the faint light, Yongbok spots a mole by his jaw, then another one underneath his eye. 

“Bad night?” Yongbok inquires, clearing his throat, a thrill coursing through him at the prospect of talking with another human.

“Kinda,” the stranger sighs, turning around to face him. “I’m Hyunjin,” he says, extending his hand with a lopsided smile.

He firmly shakes it, before introducing himself back, “Yongbok.” 

“Yongbok, mm… Feelbok,” Hyunjin slurs, “no, no, Hanbok,”— happiness— Hyunjin giggles at his own words punctuating them with a thumbs-up. “Nice name.”

“Thank you,” Yongbok mirrors his smile, although the gesture happens more naturally than he expected. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, as he watches Hyunjin down yet another glass.

“I should be,” he mumbles, before placing his chin atop his palm, gaze lost somewhere far in the depths of his mind.

Yongbok remains silent as Hyunjin blinks slowly, a sad smile imprinted into his mouth. “I opened my art gallery today. It was acclaimed by all the art critics who visited. They said it was moving, woven with emotions that are translated into every choice I made, from the colors to the blending to the lighting.”

Yongbok frowns, a sudden confusion settling over him as he detects the sorrow dripping from Hyunjin’s tone. He realizes that his expression mirrors the same loneliness he witnessed in you countless times before. Humans, it seems, resemble each other at their most vulnerable.

“But…” he continues, prompted by Yongbok’s silence or the strong alcohol, he doesn’t really know. “All these people came but not the one I painted for.”

Ah, Yongbok now understands what drives Hyunjin’s sadness— love. The irony of humans strikes him; for the one feeling they crave ends up hurting them the most.

“Every painting was about her and she wasn’t there to see it,” Hyunjin confesses as anguished tears suddenly well in his eyes. He cannot conjure hope for Hyunjin, for he is not his human to guard, so Yongbok mimics what he witnessed you do countless times to your friends. He places a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

“It will pass,” Yongbok reassures, not with a misplaced sense of optimism, but because it is an undeniable truth. Humans forget as much as they remember, grieve as much as they love, heal as much as they hurt. In their short life, everything they go through passes. It is how they survive the hurts of the heart.

“I don’t want it to. If the pain passes then I won’t have anything to remember her by,” Hyunjin smiles sadly, patting Yongbok’s hand above his own. 

“Don’t you regret loving her?” he asks, perplexed by the breathing contradiction before him. 

“I regret losing her, not loving her. Never loving her.” 

As he stood on the same rooftop you were on nights ago, Yongbok is left with Hyunjin’s sleek business card held between his fingers, and a dull longing in his heart, many, many hours later.

Can a straight line stray from its path? Can his void be replaced with love? 

At what cost can an angel taste humanity? 

“Our kind yongbok.” A calm voice speaks and the wings on Yongbok’s back twitch more intensely than they’ve ever done. The danger Seungmin spoke of was here.

At what cost could he not? 

“Christopher,” Yongbok bows in respect, eyes refusing to meet those of his senior. 

“You had no problem looking at all these humans, no?” Christopher muses and Yongbok takes one step back. Chris knows, he has always known and yet he allowed it. 

Why?

“Fascinating creatures, right? I still fail to understand them. But what I do know for certain is that they are weak,” he pauses, Yongbok’s breath hitches in his throat. “Just like you.” 

Yongbok’s nails dig forcefully into his palms, it does not soothe his nerves the way it does to you. 

“But see, the difference between you and them is that they were crafted to be weak. Then again… everything about you is abnormal, you agree?” Chris speaks assuredly, his tongue telling facts alone. Yongbok remains silent, anticipating his punishment for trespassing into the human realm, for breaking the sacred rule of interacting with them.

Tales of chained angels, of those stripped of their wings, their bloodied feathers plucked out one by one haunt his thoughts. This is the closest Yongbok has gotten to fear. 

In a blink, Chris materializes before him, his hand resting on Yongbok’s shoulder, reminiscent of the comforting gesture he extended to Hyunjin. However, this hold is not reassuring; it bears a weight that spells danger with every squeeze. 

“Do you want to feel what humans do? Go, Yongbok, I won’t punish you. Roam with them, talk to them, and feel.”

Yongbok’s wings scatter with the wind, feathers falling like a curtain of white upon their heads. He falls to his knees, hand brought up to his chest as he suddenly senses everything surrounding him— the bitter wind brushing against his skin and the rush of hot blood coursing within his veins, the loud ringing of cars that morph into hands choking him, and worse of all, the loss of his wings that his spine seems to be weeping for. 

“But remember, everything comes with a price,” Christopher’s polished shoes come into his view— Yongbok does not recognize the distorted reflection staring back. “Even weakness.” 

Act two. The heart weighs heavily on those who bear it.

“If brokenness is a form of art, I must be a poster child prodigy” - Neptune, Sleeping At Last.

Delicate snowflakes descend upon the earth, intricate crystals forming a pristine blanket that veils the ground, concealing its flaws to the naked eye. The snow doesn’t discriminate, it falls atop every building in Seoul, from towering skyscrapers adorned with luminous billboards to the humblest abodes, nestled in concealed alleys, all bathed in a bluish glow at the heights of the night. 

And in its fall, the snow does not leave Yongbok’s body behind, draping it in a cloak of icy tendrils, ones that seep through bones he did not know were capable of aching before. It mingles with his golden feathers, scattered all over the rooftop, tinged with his spilled blood. The crimson liquid oozes from his back to the ground, and in his first seconds as a human, Yongbok has already tainted the purity of the soil, he is already a nuisance, in this world too.

He is faintly aware of warm hands cradling his cheeks, attempting to infuse life into his pallid face. A kaleidoscope of blurry hues obscures his vision, and he is no longer sure how much time has passed since Christopher abandoned him on the unforgiven ground. It could have been mere minutes or lengthy hours— he is yet to be acquainted with how time passes on humans. 

He also cannot recall you coming into the rooftop, does not remember when you pulled his head onto your lap, nor began combing your fingers soothingly through his golden locks. You are worried, he can still feel the pulsing of your heartbeat ringing in his ears, or maybe it is his own, he still cannot distinguish what is yours and what is his. 

He’s in a haze, standing on the edge of a window, assaulted by biting winds that cut through him. He didn’t expect humanity to crash onto him this hard, for it to force oxygen onto his lungs only to set them ablaze. 

“You’re awake, you’re okay.” Your reassuring words break through the disorienting daze, your hand firmly clasping his, guiding him away from the window’s edge, ushering him back into safety. In the familiarity of your voice, the winds relent, morphing into gentle zephyrs that cool the burning storm within him. He can feel the softness of your hand, your thumb swirling around his palm as if drawing out a soothing spell with your touch. 

“H… hurts,” he stammers, the words escaping between breaths that struggle to find passage. He brings your palm atop his heart, where a myriad of stones seem to have found refuge, crushing his lungs and rendering them a cloud of useless dust, scattered away by the wind. 

“It’s okay. You’re having a panic attack. It’s okay,” your voice is calm, though it speaks of frightening things. Would what he felt pass now that you put a name to it? Was it supposed to reassure him to hear that panic, like an uninvited intruder, has seized his being and is attacking it relentlessly? A secret ambush, a Trojan horse infiltrating his body under the guise of humanity. 

“Help me,” his plea echoes weakly, an awkward sound that clashes with the very air particles, imprinting itself onto the oxygen you inhale. Is this what Christopher meant? Were his weaknesses only going to surge forth more now? 

Is the cost of humanity facing the ugliness within you? 

The questions swirl in his head like a relentless tornado, drowning out your voice until it becomes a distant murmur in the backburner of his mind. His body rebels against him, ears amplifying the cacophony of his breaths, shaky hands refusing to be still, lungs constricting to the point of near collapse. He’s back before the window, dangling over its edge with one silky thread, worn out from the countless humans who had clung to it in desperation before.

His hand slips. You seize it before he falls.

“Breathe with me, focus on my voice,” you come to him like a calming tide, pulling him into safe shores. You’re so close your nose almost brushes with his own, your hands enveloping his icy fingers to anchor him back to you. He tries to mimic your slow inhales, tuning out all his tumultuous thoughts to focus solely on you.

Under the starry sky and the unyielding snow, and through the panic that captures his being, his gaze seems to fixate on the most mundane of things— the soft moonlight filtering through the strands of your hair, casting a faint halo around your figure. As you draw in deep breaths, encouraging him to follow suit, the thought crosses his mind – perhaps, you are his guardian angel now.

Time passes in this shared rhythm until, finally, you release his face, falling beside him on the snow. His breaths find a more regular cadence, mirroring yours, yet an ache persists in his chest, as if unseen hands continue to press down on his heart, squeezing it dry of its blood.

You run a hand through your face tiredly, eyes looking up at the expanse before you. “Fuck, I thought you were dying.” 

An apology lingers at the tip of his tongue, vocal cords itching to free the three syllables into the chilly air. But Yongbok has never apologized before, he doesn’t know how the words might crystallize in the cold. He isn’t sure he could bear witnessing their form now. 

“What happened?” he ventures, his voice small and fragile, his face turning slightly toward you. You appear like a crescent moon, soft and gentle even with only half of your face visible to him. 

“I came to the rooftop and I found you on the ground, surrounded by bloodied feathers and shaking from the cold,” you begin to explain only to freeze as if a crucial detail has just resurfaced in your memory. He knows what you’ll ask about before you speak. 

“What are these feathers?” your inquiry hangs in the air, your gaze still directed ahead. He remains silent, unsure of how to explain the inexplicable.  

“Who are you?” you press, and his reply comes in a single word, uttered vulnerably, “Yongbok.”

Please leave it at that. 

Your voice is softer, more resigned when you speak again.  “What are you?” 

He does not need to voice the truth. He could chuckle and say that he’s human, what else do you expect him to be, and his voice might shake from the unrehearsed lie but you would believe him, and then he’ll make sure your paths would never cross again. 

But a small part of him feels as if he does owe the truth to you. Because you cared for his well-being when you did not need to, gave up some of your warmth to infuse his being with it, sacrificed minutes of your time to make sure he’ll have sand left in his hourglass. 

So, he sucks in a deep breath, gathering the courage to unravel the truth. 

“I’m an angel. Your guardian angel. Or maybe was. I still don’t really know, yet.”

An incredulous laugh escapes your lips, gusts of powdery air materializing before him. “An angel?”

“Yes.”

“This is insane,”  you shake your head, your face buried in the same palms that had cradled his cheeks tenderly moments ago— his sail amidst the winds. 

“Is that how you managed to make all those butterflies appear that night?” you question, and he nods, shutting his eyes and releasing a strained exhale.

“So you’ve been guarding me all this time?” 

“Since you turned eighteen.”

He freezes as he wonders what you’ll say next— maybe you’ll ask him to disappear from your life, not one to wish to mingle with angels and their kindred, maybe you’ll leave him be in the snow, lonely as he has always been.

What he doesn’t expect is for your eyes to find his, compassion swimming in your gleaming irises, your voice dripping with concern as you ask him. “What happened to you, Yongbok?” 

There was no way for you to feel what he did, and yet you spoke as if you could— as if you peered into his heart and discovered it butchered and bruised, found thorns entangled around his veins instead of vines. 

“I don’t know,” he chokes out a sob, as sudden tears stream down his cheeks, salty as they infiltrate his mouth, drowning him from within. The tears refuse to cease even after he wipes them, one after the other, a futile gesture akin to pouring water into sand, an attempt to nurture something not meant to grow.

“It’s okay,” you smile, your eyes shimmering like a million fireflies in the night. He shakes his head, as more tears escape him in the guise of words. In all of the times he has seen you cry, he never fathomed he would have sobs racking his body, too. That tears would cascade like an unyielding waterfall, an earthquake shaking the planes of his body, rattling his bones with an intensity beyond what he believed humans could endure.

“It’s okay,” you repeat, cradling his face against the warmth of your neck, his tears seeping through your clothing. He is weeping, though he does not know what for. For nothing yet everything. For the loss of his wings and the birth of his heart. For the harshness of the ground and the softness of your hold. For the Yongbok who perished and the one who came to life. 

…

A fallen angel comes in various forms, some are entirely disgraced while others retain fragments of their celestial countenance. Yongbok, though deprived of his wings, did not lose his powers. He realized this when he instinctively healed the wounds on his back, the torn skin scarring in fleeting seconds. A small mercy bestowed upon him by Christopher, or so it seemed.

He will understand the reasons behind this act much later.

But for now, in his first breaths of humanity, when the echoes of his sobs have at last withdrawn from his being, leaving behind a lingering weariness, he is dealing with less stellar facets of his existence— the more mundane technicalities of it. 

“So, not to rub salt on the wound but I assume you also don’t have a place to stay in,” you ponder, waiting until he regains enough composure to grasp your words, ensuring they wouldn't float beyond his reach.

“No, I didn’t exactly prepare for this,” he winces, his gaze briefly meeting the scattered feathers on the ground. But not for too long, looking at them invited a grand sense of loss into his being, a sentiment too weighty for his fragile state to harbor. 

“You can stay at mine, and tomorrow we can start looking for a house for you?” you suggest, stretching out your tired limbs.

“You don’t… You don’t need to help me.”

Yongbok does need your help, you are the only human he knows and he is unfamiliar with how your kind acquire housing. And yet he finds himself at the crossroads between what his heart wants and what his tongue speaks of— ready to vehemently refuse your proposal to not inconvenience you, as if he’s a towering mountain poised to shoulder burdens when in reality, his being has never been this frail.

“You guarded me for five years,” you smile softly, effortlessly dispelling away his concerns like meaningless specks of dust. “It’s the least I could do.”

Stepping into your home was as familiar as walking into his own. He, unwittingly, memorized each nook and cranny of your place, a consequence of all the times he had lingered near— hovering, more accurately, above. So much so that he instinctively slips off his shoes and places them in your rack, mirroring the countless times he observed you perform the same task.

“So you really are my guardian angel,” you shudder quietly and he hums in questioning, turning to look at you, “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you respond, perking up and adorning your lips with a swift smile. “Would you like something to eat?”

“I’m okay,” he whispers, attempting to shrink as much as possible in the confines of your place. He has never felt this much discomfort in his own body, as though the skin draped on his bones belonged to a stranger. 

“Well, I’m hungry so you’ll eat with me,” you say with a warm smile, putting your hair up in a quick bun before walking into the kitchen. You move seamlessly as if you are hosting a long-time friend rather than an angel you saved from possible hypothermia. 

“Buldak ramen?” you ask, hands resting on the counter.

“Sure,” he nods, settling atop the stool. 

He watches in silence as you bring the water to a boil, before pouring two servings of the instant noodles into it. You pause, thinking it over before adding two more. 

“How are you so nonchalant about this?” he blurts out, finally freeing the question that had been swirling and growing in his mind- an insatiable weed that needed to be plucked before it infested his brain completely.

“About having an angel in my house who was apparently cast away from the skies and has guarded me for the past five years without me knowing, and who somehow knows where my shoe closet is without me needing to share?” you ramble in one breath, the tightness in your chest palpable. “Yeah, I’m totally cool about that.”

“You’re totally not cool about that.”

“No, I’m not,” you admit sheepishly, settling on the stool before him. “I mean I am. A friend of mine met his guardian angel two years ago when he saved him from a horrible car accident. So, your existence does not freak me out, it’s common knowledge for us humans.” 

You bite your lip, averting your gaze from him to the painting adorning the wall above your couch—a bouquet of red roses where the petals seem dripping scarlet, resounding with passion and love, signed by H.

“It’s just… did you do something bad? For you to be left there alone?”

“Not bad,” he mumbles, clearing his throat awkwardly. It suddenly seemed silly to explain to a human that he envied their humanity, the one thing most of them seem to despise. “I broke the rules by talking to you that night, then to another human, and I was punished for it. I think,” he adds hesitantly.

“Oh,” you gasp softly, redirecting your attention to the pot to turn off the heat. It makes breathing easier for him. “You think?” you echo.

“It’s what I wanted,” he whispers, a bit breathless, now frightened by this newfound reality. He kept his powers and yet he lost his wings— he cannot fly back to his home and yet he can conjure anything his mind wishes for. He is with the one human that sparked his fascination and yet he cannot stop thinking of the price Christopher mentioned. Thinking too much about any of these things brings tears back to his throat— his body yearning to produce a liquid it has never known before.

“So, I assume you’ve never watched Howl’s Moving Castle up there,” you abruptly shift the subject, a radiant smile gracing your face as you pour the ramen into two bowls, generously topping them off with cheese.

“No?” His response carries a hint of uncertainty, and a sudden wave of frustration washes over him for feeling so displaced in his own existence. Yet, you appear oblivious to the awkwardness emanating from him as you gasp enthusiastically, seizing the two bowls and making your way to the couch. 

“Oh, I think you’ll like it,” you beam, patting the spot next to you before taking the remote and queuing up the movie.

The meal tastes better than anything Yongbok has ever eaten in his life, each bite igniting his taste buds in a symphony of flavors, akin to the spark of a popping candy in his mouth. He finds himself engrossed in the movie, in the stunning visuals, the gentle hues, and the paradoxical characters, uncovering reflections of his own existence within them.

He has never understood the need humans felt for art, dedicating hours upon hours to creating something not for their personal gain, but for others to watch, to reach, to touch. A craft not to appease one’s soul but to soothe the spirits of others. Yet, as the movie’s credits come to an end, a subtle shift occurs within him. Perhaps, he thinks with his widely beating heart, he now understands a little more.

“I feel terrible like there is a weight on my chest,” you repeat one of Howl’s concluding lines, stealing a glance at him, a tender smile gracing your face. The one dialogue that felt like a mirror was brought up to Yongbok's face.

“A heart’s a heavy burden,” he completes Sophie’s response to Howl. 

“That’s true. The heart weighs heavily on those who bear it,” you speak softly, as one would do to a child taking tentative steps into the world, learning that their first breath starts with grieving the only place you've known for nine months, followed by happiness, then sadness again, akin to the moon’s gradual phases. And maybe, in a way, he is a child lost in the overwhelming flood of these emotions, ones yet to be untangled in his mind but that already lay upon him like stones.

“Not everyone knows they have a heart, Yongbok. Some end up dying before ever feeling, without ever truly living.”  

“I just didn’t imagine it would be this… soul-crushing to bear it,” he admits softly, the words escaping him like a delicate secret. There's a hint of fear that accompanies his confession, an apprehension that Christopher might materialize before him, speaking in that calm, knowing tone—berating him with a simple “I told you so.”

“It’s a little organ facing a big life. It’s normal for it to be overwhelmed, don’t you think?” 

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, placing a trembling palm above his heart. Still as heavy. 

“You had a long night, get some rest, okay? We can start looking for a house tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he nods, as you rise from your place, only to reach for your wrist before fully thinking it through.  “Thank you,” he says sincerely. 

In the cracks of his heart, one seed of gratitude has been planted, a singular ray of light amid a stretch of darkness.

Finding a house turns out to be a strenuous task, and Yongbok feels remarkably disinterested in the discussions with every real estate agent you encounter. You play the role of his assistant, weaving a tale about an important businessman client who abruptly secured a job transfer to Seoul. However, he couldn't care less for the large windows ushering sunlight or the expansive patio offering picturesque views of Seoul. Instead, he focuses on your reactions to each room—the gasps of delight at spacious storage areas and the vacant rooms you dream of adorning in the future, once you're no longer a broke college student, as you explain.

You envision a room dedicated to your books, with a chair nestled in the middle for the long nights you spend reading, and another room designed as a painting studio. The expansive kitchens you visit are perfect for your baking endeavors, and Yongbok, perplexed by your fascination with fridges sporting two doors, finds amusement in your lively antics. Yet, a void persists within him, unfilled by the prospects of a shiny new home.

“Still not the one?” you ask on your third day of apartment hunting, and he shakes his head. 

“It’s okay, we’ll find the perfect one soon,” you reassure, and in that moment, he thinks back to your very first conversation on the rooftop, wonders how you can find hope for everyone surrounding you but yourself. 

“I still can’t believe I befriended a nepo angel,” you giggle, before inching closer to him on the couch, peering at him from beneath your eyelashes. “My air fryer is broken by the way, can you replace it?”

He contemplates for a minute before shaking his head, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. “No.”

“Aren’t you my guardian angel?”

“Right, a guardian angel. Not a bank.” 

“But if my air fryer isn’t replaced soon then I’ll keep using it even though all its electric wires are now exposed and a fire will break out and I’ll end up dying—”

“Fine,” he heaves a resigned sigh, “I’ll replace it.” 

“Can you also get me the Le Creuset kitchen set?” you grin, standing in your kitchen a few minutes later, cradling your brand-new air fryer between your arms.

“I'm not your sugar daddy.”

Your gasp is so comical that it coaxes a little giggle from his lips. “So you know about sugar daddies and not Studio Ghibli movies.”

“Gossip travels in our world too,” he shrugs, and you put the air fryer down, leaning closer to his face. From this proximity, he can discern the delicate curve of your eyelashes and the way they frame your glowing eyes—how can your eyes shine so brightly even under the shittiest kitchen lighting he’s ever seen?

"Hello? Did you hear me?" you wave a hand before his face, and he snaps back to reality, your voice flooding his senses again.

“Hm?”

“Never mind,” you shrug your hand dismissively in the air, “should we celebrate your third day of knowing me?”

“That's cause for celebration?” he frowns, and you playfully hit his arm. “I feed you, I clothe you, I put a roof above your head—” Your words are muffled as he clasps a hand over your mouth.

“Can you hear that?” he wonders.

You shake your head no.

“It's quiet, finally.”

His hand, a feeble barrier, does not manage to muffle your offended gasp, and in that moment, Yongbok laughs for the first time in his existence, a sound that ripples from the roots of his being, washing over his sadness and erasing it for a split second.

His eyes are closed as he tips his head back in laughter, and he misses the way your eyes soften, your retort withering at the tip of your tongue. 

He’s beautiful when he smiles, you think. You hope for all his powers he cannot hear your thoughts. 

…

Yongbok does not know what’s there to celebrate on his third day in this world, for all he had felt so far was excruciating sadness. But he complies with your wishes, rising at dawn to join you on the shore of the nearby ocean. Seated on the sand dampened by morning dewdrops, the remnants of melting snow resemble ink on a page not yet dry. 

He watches as the last threads of the night unfold before his eyes, leaving way to a mesmerizing palette of soft pinks and oranges, the sky blushing from a night spent with the moon.

You brought him to witness the sun rising above the ocean, said that it would help calm down the frenzy of his heart. You are quite right, since the rhythmic dance of the waves acts like a spell, unraveling the knot in his tongue and coaxing him to recount everything that has led him up to this moment, to you. You were the main reason for his journey, he did not see it fitting to conceal the truth from you. He did not know yet how to deceive or lie. 

“So you wanted to feel?” you conclude softly and Yongbok nods, eyes not peeling away from the sky before him. It looks grander from below, a vast ceiling you never fear might collapse on you.

“That’s why it overwhelmed you a lot, every emotion is heightened because it was the first time, I suppose” you muse. 

“Yeah, but does it ever lessen with time? Isn't that why you cry often?” he asks, now free of the bounds that once restricted his curiosity.

“Can you please not bring this up again?” you hide your face, and he tilts his head, a perplexed expression etched on his features.

“Why is that?”

“It's embarrassing that you saw me cry this much,” you mumble, your words nearly drowned out by the crashing waves.

“It's not embarrassing. It's... fascinating,” he asserts. You stare at him incredulously, prompting him to elaborate. “You go down the same path, fully aware of where it leads, and yet, you do it again on the off chance that you'll receive the same kindness you show.”

“I sound stupid,” you giggle, and he mirrors your smile, not to mimic you, but because the corners of his mouth yearn to curve upwards, refusing to leave you alone in your grin.

“No, you sound brave.”

Your eyes soften at his words, the light of the rising sun filtering easily through your irises, causing your pupils to widen with each passing second.

“Thank you.” 

A tranquil quiet settles between you, the soothing sound of the waves filling the silence. The sun hovers directly above the water now, perched on the horizon, the sky much bolder in the colors it showcases.

“I come here when my heart feels too heavy to bear. I suppose that looking at the sea calms me,” you murmur, your cheek pressed against your knee.

“Why is that?”

“For these waves to reach the shore, they go through a lot, you know? Storms and tumultuous roads, and rage fills them, anger, sadness too at being away from home for too long. But then, they always reach the shores at last. And they calm down, and they’re at peace.” 

You turn to look at him, the hues of the sunrise reflecting off your face, dancing with the shadows that mold your features.

You look beautiful, so much so that he almost misses what you say next.

“So it is comforting to know that no matter how grand my worries are, there will come a time when they too will grow tired and rest.”

“It will pass,” he whispers and you nod cheerfully. “See, you’re already getting the gist of it.” 

“No,” he contradicts, “everything I know about humanity is from you.”

The colors of the sky seem to seep through your face at his words, and an unfamiliar warmth spreads through his being at the thought of making you blush.

He licks his lips tentatively, bringing your hand to rest atop his heart, hoping that the pressure will help ease its tension.

It does, ever so slightly.

“It feels like my heart is squeezed between two narrow walls,” he explains and you nod in understanding.

“Like it’s been sucked through a straw that drains you out of life.”

“Yes,” He exhales with contentment at the thought of someone understanding what he means, of what he feels no longer being an anomaly, but the norm for most.

“Will you move in with me?” he suddenly asks, and you startle, your fingers growing limp in his hold. 

“What?” 

“Your apartment is shitty, you hate your landlord and I’m pretty sure there is mold growing on your walls.”

“Okay, no need to attack me,” you roll your eyes amusedly. 

“I’ll buy the apartment you wanted, it technically doesn’t cost me anything and it’s closer to your university too, you no longer have to commute. You can get the library you wanted and the painting space too.” 

“But—”

“I’m a fallen angel tasting humanity for the first time, I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m supposed to do. I haven’t looked in a mirror yet because I don’t know who I’ll find there. And I’m so scared, Y/n, so scared,” he confesses, breathless, his hand still pressing your palm against his erratic heart. 

A few seconds of heavy silence pass, Yongbok senses a resolve in you unfold. 

“And in return?” you ask tentatively. 

“I want to be happy,“ he breathes out, eyes flickering over yours like a swaying candlelight, “Could you show me how it’s done?”

Act 3. What’s an angel to a human?

“I want a better body, I want better skin, I wanna be perfect like all your other friends"- Black Friday, Tom Odell.

“So, happiness.” You stand near a blank whiteboard in the middle of your cramped living room, the one you just asked Yongbok to conjure out of thin air. 

You’ve been slightly abusing his ability to make your every wish materialize in a fleeting second, but only for useless things, like a bar of soap that smells specifically of these notes combinations you always thought would pair heavenly together (they did not), or a tube of salted caramel ice cream at 2 a.m. because you were too lazy to walk to the fridge (it was mere two meters away). Or just like now, a huge whiteboard so you’d explain to him, visually, how to achieve happiness. 

You told him that you’d only allow him to buy you a new house if he truly felt happy, for the very first time in his life. When he asked you how he’d know, you said he’d simply do, when the time comes. You shook hands on that promise two days ago. 

“Was this really necessary?” he questions, cocking an eyebrow at you. In response, you place your palms against your hips, eyes squinting at his dubious figure. 

“Do you want to be happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then, shut up.”

“I don’t think violence is the way to go about joy,” he quips and you quickly shut him up with a glare. Yongbok came to find that annoying you brought him a strange sense of satisfaction— he enjoyed seeing you pivot away, trying your best to conceal your amused smirk at his teasing. You always fail, or perhaps his perception of your being is heightened by the bond you share.

“I was saying, happiness is a byproduct of biological reactions.” You draw in a smiley face with utter concentration, and he stifles a giggle at the simplistic representation of the feeling. “There are four main hormones that allow us to feel happiness.” You pause, pointing your pen at him. “Yongbok, do you know which these are?”

“If I did know, why would I be here?” 

“True,” you nod vigorously, looking back at the whiteboard before locking eyes with him once more. “Can you please play along? I’ve always wanted to be a teacher,” you smile excitedly, speaking in hushed tones as if it was meant to be a shared secret between you both, far from the reach of the angels and peers that must be looking down at you both right now— you in indifference, him in disdain.

He shudders at the thought. 

“Fine. No, I do not Miss,” his smile is small, it grows when your eyes soften at him playing along. “Care to explain?” 

“So, in theory, we have dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, and oxytocin.” You flip the board, revealing some intricate drawings of what looks like the human brain, different arrows going out of it, filled with many inscriptions that he assumes are definitions of the hormones you just revealed. 

“But all of this is…” you play the drums on the board, leaning forth in suspense. “Useless!” you shout, throwing your marker and eraser in the air. Yongbok claps diligently at your dramatics.

“You know for humans with limited amounts of time on this earth, you sure do love wasting your precious minutes,” he taunts and a fire seems to light in your eyes, flames surging higher each time you poke fun at one another.

“You know for an angel who desperately needs my help, you sure do talk a lot.” 

“Touché,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Please grace me with your special knowledge.” 

“Fine.” You plop down next to him on the couch, your knee bumping against his. A pang of ache flares in his being before disappearing as quickly as it came. It leaves him no time to decipher its cause.

“Happiness is the hardest thing to get in this life. Sometimes you follow all the instructions on how to be happy and yet fail to achieve it.” You speak with a lingering bitterness in your tone as if you’ve spent the best part of your life following defective manuals. 

“Happiness won’t come to you, Yongbok. It doesn’t come knocking on our doors. You’ll have to search for it. Especially on days when everything seems grim and dark, you’ll have to squint your eyes and find it in the small things all around you. And when you do, hold on to them with all your might. Even if your hand bleeds, you hold on just as tightly.”

“What small things?” he asks, turning his entire body towards you. He is almost breathless, waiting for you to spell out the secret to tasting life’s sweetest fruit.

“Things that remain gentle no matter what time does to you. Like looking at flowers, sitting underneath the sun, watching the sea, being kind and helping people, enjoying your favorite hobby… “ you enumerate, your eyes never leaving his. “Do you have a hobby?”

“No?” he replies, though it comes off more as a question. You pick up on his uncertainty, waving a hand quickly through the air.

“It’s okay. I’ll help you find one. I promise.” 

His response comes as easily as an autumn breeze. 

“Okay. I believe you.”

You beam at him, sunlight seemingly pouring into your pores, brightening your face from within. He finds it strange that he suddenly sees the sun in you, a star he has never taken an interest in. But he quickly brushes the thought aside, mirroring your grin.

“I was also thinking,” you add, “you should work with me at my café.” 

“Me?” he points at himself and you giggle, nodding. “Yes, you! Do you want to just sit here all day waiting for me to come home from uni?” 

“What? Who said I don’t want to be your trophy wife?”

You snort, bewildered. “A what?”

“I did a deep dive into Urban Dictionary yesterday.”

You blink once. Then twice. “Crazy words to hear from an angel. And it’s a no, to being my trophy wife.”

“Please?” he pushes, tugging at the outskirts of your sleeve. 

“No,” you sing-song, standing up and heading to the kitchen. “We needed a new barista anyway. And I’ll teach you how to make coffee. Also, I think you’ll enjoy people-watching.”

“That sounds creepy!” he shouts from the couch.  

“Says the guy who told me I cry an average of 160 times per year!”

“It’s 165, actually,” he corrects. 

You peek your head out of the kitchen, pointing a threatening finger at him. “Die.” 

“What happened to live laugh love?” 

“Just how much did you stay on Urban Dictionary?”

“A lot,” he shudders, shaking his head. You burst into uncontainable giggles, and the same satisfaction floods Yongbok’s being. Although this time it is much stronger.

It is a weird thought that suddenly brushes his mind— he thinks that if the sun ever spoke it would be your laugh spilling out of its mouth. 

… 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you grin, spreading your arms wide as you open the door to Haven Café. Yongbok follows closely behind, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his black jeans.

“It’s nice,” he says absentmindedly, his eyes sweeping across every surface of the interior.

“Nice? This is my baby. Please be more expressive,” you retort, pointing a finger at him threateningly. He shakes his head, amused.

“This is the most beautiful place my fallen angel eyes have ever seen,” he says with mock reverence.

He isn’t lying, though. Resplendent flower vases adorn every corner, and a warm, inviting atmosphere permeates the space, evident in the comfortable auburn chairs and the books scattered on the sage shelves.

“I was actually wondering… What makes something beautiful?” he suddenly asks. You pause in your tracks, then resume opening the blinds.

“How it makes you feel,” you say simply. “Help me?” you add. Yongbok nods, sidling up to your side to open the remaining windows.

“This place is beautiful to me because it makes me feel at ease. I know that whatever happens, I can always escape here. Between the flower vases, the aroma of coffee, and the large windows, I feel good. At home,” you explain.

“But isn’t home your house?” he asks earnestly, tilting his head to the side. Your smile, warm and comforting, brushes over him like a fleeting sunbeam.

“Home is where you feel most like yourself.”

He does when you’re nearby. 

Does that make you my home? He wants to ask, but something inside stops him. He thinks it is too big of a confession to be uttered at the rise of dawn. 

“When did you start working here?” he asks, watching you refill the ice.

“Seven years ago.”

“Oh,” he gasps softly, suddenly remembering that he hasn’t known you your entire life. He wasn’t there to guard you through your childhood, to watch you stumble off the steps, or swing high to the sky. He realizes how little he knows about you. He suddenly aches to learn more, to know everything.

“The owner was our old neighbor, so when I was sixteen, he got me my first job here. I’m very attached to this place and its memories so I still come here.” 

“Memories,” he repeats to himself slowly, as if tentatively tasting the way the word feels on his tongue.

“What was that?” you ask, as you sweep the counter with a purple rug.

“It’s nice to have memories,” he smiles and you scrunch your nose, shaking your head slightly.

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I have no memories. None worth getting attached to anyway because all my life was spent feeling the same way. So, in a way…” he pauses, licking his lips tentatively. “I have never lived anything that shaped me. Except for meeting you.” A few silent beats pass, and you feel as if he has more to say, so you remain quiet. 

Yongbok opens his mouth, only to close it again, deciding against speaking. Yet again, too early.

“It’s your first life, in a way,” you finally say, “there are all these unknown feelings that you are experiencing for the first time. It’s unfair to you if you expect yourself to figure it out from the get-go.” 

Your palm rests upon his back, swiping gently left and right before you move around the corner to filter the coffee. But Yongbok feels as if the clock orchestrating the universe has halted, the seconds freezing the moment your hand touched his back.

It is a heavy, gruesome knowledge that he bears— knowing that beneath your warm, comforting touch lies a map of butchered skin and scars running down his spine. His powers had fallen short of erasing the remnants of his lost wings, leaving behind clots of skin that starkly highlight all his imperfections in one place.

Yongbok had looked at his back only once, a fleeting glance before he vowed never to set eyes on his abomination again, this grotesque reminder clinging to him like skeletons overflowing from his closet.

He felt ugly, and worthless for carrying such a vivid reminder of who he once was. Who he failed to be. No one should ever see his back.

Especially not you.

“There are twenty minutes left until opening. Shall we discover what your favorite drink is?” you ask, snapping Yongbok out of his haze.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat with an inhuman effort. “That sounds nice.”

Yongbok doesn't like coffee—you could tell from the scrunch of his nose and the squint in his eye after one sip of his iced Americano. “Are you bad at making coffee, or does it always taste like this?” he asks, and you throw a dozen napkins at his head in response.

“People ask for me specifically to make their coffee. Know your place,” you squint threateningly. He raises his hands in surrender, biting his tongue cheekily. Your eyes linger a bit too long on his lips, shaped like a cupid’s bow, their arrow striking straight through your heart.

It sometimes astonishes you how pretty your guardian angel is, and how seemingly unaware he is of the beauty he carries within each one of his features, each worthy of paintings and sculptures to immortalize them for eternity to come.

“This is good,” he grins, sipping his caramel Frappuccino happily.

“Because it’s ninety percent sugar,” you smile just as brightly. He puts down the drink slowly, eyeing you curiously.

“Why do I feel as if this is a secret insult?”

“It’s not a secret insult. I’m doing it to your face,” you smile, and he rolls his eyes so much they almost reach the back of his head. You can’t help but giggle quietly as he grabs the vanilla matcha drink. “Wow I can’t believe the sassy men apocalypse affects angels as well,” you sigh.

“I literally have no idea what half of these words are.”

“What happened to Urban Dictionary?”

“Die.”

“Aww, look at you picking up my slang already,” you coo at him. 

It's his turn to fling balled-up napkins at your face. You dodge them perfectly as if in a dance you’ve rehearsed thousands of times before.

“Anyways,” you clap excitedly, “you have five minutes to make me a latte.”

“Me? But I don't know how to.”

You place a recipe book before him, tapping the counter diligently. “I expect the world’s tastiest latte.”

A small smirk draws upon his lips as he shakes his head slightly. The sight of him makes you flustered all of a sudden.

“Anything else, your majesty?”

“No,” you grin. “Have fun!”

You wander through the café, dusting the books on the shelves– your most prized possessions, ones that you bought and others that customers themselves have donated. You return to Yongbok’s side when his voice booms through the place, calling your name.

“Here,” he slings the drink toward you, and your face contorts in shock.

“What the fuck? Since when do you know how to do this?”

“Do what?”

“This intricate latte art?” you point to the foam forming a perfectly drawn white swan.

“Ah, this. One time you were in the kitchen, very frustrated because you couldn’t get this shape right. So, I did it for you.”

“Are all angels as sweet as you?” you grin, taking a sip of the drink and holding his gaze over the rim of the glass. His heart catches in his throat for two reasons—anticipation as he awaits your reaction, and hunger as he aches for you to describe him even more, to dress him in all the adjectives linked to his being so he wouldn’t feel like a stranger, a blank canvas in his own body.

“How is it?” he asks. You remain silent, taking another sip.

“Mm.”

“Mm?” he echoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s opening time!” you sing-song, walking away, and he follows behind you. “Why won’t you tell me? Is it that bad?”

“I don’t want to!” you speed up walking, and so does he. You end up running, skirting around the chairs, your laughter coating the room like golden honey. “Leave me alone!” 

“You have to tell me!” he shouts, chasing after you in an impromptu game of catch. He suddenly manages to grab your arm, spinning you around until your back is against the table, his arms on either side of your body. His eyes are suddenly drawn to the languid rise and fall of your chest, and then to the way your tongue slowly swipes across your lips, wetting them. 

A sudden warmth pools in his lower stomach, and he lets out a shuddered breath, his heart caught in a web of unknown feelings.

“Am I interrupting?” an unknown voice breaks in, and Yongbok quickly takes three hurried steps away from you, his cheeks ablaze as if flames are latching onto them—he doesn’t know if it’s from his embarrassment or from the golden specks he could decipher in your eyes.

“Mr. Kang!” you shout excitedly, skipping over to stand by the man’s side. He’s shorter than you, his back slightly hunched from time’s morphing hands, and his smile is warm as it lands on you. He reaches out to ruffle your hair in greeting before his gaze lands on Yongbok.

“Is this your friend?” he asks, the same smile still etched into his lips. You nod, and Yongbok bows deeply before straightening up.

“Can he make nice coffee?” Mr. Kang asks, and Yongbok stares at you expectantly.

“The best,” you finally grin, and a worried breath dissipates from his chest.

“I think we’ll get more clients too. He’s very handsome!”

“I know, you should see his freckles,” you giggle, pointing to a lightbulb that needs fixing on the other side of the café. Yongbok stays rooted in place, trying his best to steady his breathing. He is sure his face has turned the shade of the sky after a crimson sunset.

…

“This is Chris,” you say, standing by Yongbok’s side two hours later as he diligently wipes the counter. Yongbok follows your gaze to a young man nodding his head to the rhythm of his headphones. He looks serious, eyebrows furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. His hair is hidden beneath a black cap, but a few strands escape, swooping like a duck’s tail.

“We take a music theory class together. He’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet, a true social butterfly. I think the term was coined for him,” you explain. As if summoned by your words, Chris looks up, his eyes finding the two of you. He tilts his head in greeting, clicks a few keys on his laptop, then rises to join you.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he grins, and you roll your eyes. “When are you going to drop the cheesy nicknames?”

“Never,” he smiles, dimples deepening. They remain as his gaze shifts to Yongbok.

Yongbok isn’t used to smiles that don’t falter when they land on him.

“Hey, mate,” Chris says, extending his hand. Yongbok nods, shaking it.

“I’m Chris.”

“Yongbok.”

“Are you new here?”

“No, we just found him outside and forced him to make coffee,” you tease. Chris bumps your shoulder playfully. “Shut up. Good luck having to stand her for so long.”

“As if you aren’t obsessed with me,” you scoff, turning to Yongbok. “He refuses to drink coffee anywhere else.”

“Because you give me free sweets.”

“In this economy?” Mr. Kang appears suddenly, and the two of you burst into laughter at his timing. “Did your daughter teach you that?” you giggle, and he nods, almost desolate as if forced to acquire this knowledge.

“Anyway, we should hang out at one of my parties, Yongbok. Let’s catch up,” Chris grins before winking at you— “My usual, please, baby.”

You send him a playful middle finger. He blows you a kiss as he returns to his seat.

“We’ve known each other for three years now. He’s very annoying,” you smile, shaking your head. “But he’s a good friend.”

Yongbok feels something chip away in his heart, as his eyes land on Chan’s figure yet again. A slow ache swirls in his stomach like thorny vines. Time seems different for humans. He has known his fellow angels for much longer yet he doesn't think anyone would ever speak of him with this fond of a tone. 

---

“You did well,” you smile, patting Yongbok’s shoulder at the end of the day, the café as empty as it was at 6 a.m.

“Thank you, it was nice,” he replies with a tired, yet genuine smile. You nod, a slight yawn taking over you.

“Will you help me get some flour from the back? Then we can go home.”

Home. A concept that seems less foreign when you are near.

“Sure.”

“It’s there,” you point to a high shelf in the storage room. “We usually use a staircase, but we broke ours last month. I almost fell on my head— “

“But ended up magically walking away unscathed?” he interrupts. “I know.”

You slam a hand over your mouth, staggering back. “How?”

“Y/n... please don’t be surprised when I tell you this,” Yongbok frowns, placing a hand on his heart.

“Tell me,” you whisper.

“When I told you I was your guardian angel, it meant that I actually guarded you from harm’s way.”

“No,” you shake your head.

“I know,” he nods solemnly. “I’ve saved you from many, many clumsy falls.”

“My savior,” you giggle. “Lift me?” you say, and he nods, squatting down until you climb atop his shoulders before rising again.

“Okay, get a bit closer,” you instruct as you grab a packet of flour. “Shit, okay, this is heavy,” you giggle nervously.

“Why are you shaking? I’m the one carrying you,” Yongbok chuckles.

“When have you ever seen me around the vicinity of a gym?”

“Just hang in there, I’ll squat slowly,” he reassures.

Your feet are almost on the ground when the bag slips from your hands, falling with a resounding bang. Clouds of white envelop you both, shrouding your clothes in powder. You freeze, only to erupt into laughter as Yongbok grabs your waist, pulling you down to him.

“My god,” you manage to utter between chuckles, staring at the flour scattered all over the ground. Your laughter intensifies as Yongbok stares at you blankly, his face completely covered in white.

“What should I do?” you giggle, clutching your stomach. Yongbok can’t hold in his laughter much longer at the sight of the tears rolling down your cheeks. His giggles stream through your veins like a cup of hot tea, making your entire being warm up from within.

“I’m sorry,” you laugh, your palms settling atop his cheeks, slightly wiping away the powder.

“It’s okay,” he chuckles still, swiping his knuckles across your cheek to remove the flour, as well. Your hands cease their movements as you take in the fully concentrated look on his face.

“Can I ask you something?” you inquire quietly, and he nods.

“You seemed quiet today,” you note. He stiffens slightly before turning your cheek to the left, wiping the other side of your face. “Or was I wrong?”

“I don’t really know how to talk to other people.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m scared they’ll be able to tell there is something abnormal about me.”

“Yongbok...” you speak his name softly as if it was molded after your voice alone. “That’s nonsense. There is nothing abnormal about you.”

He avoids your gaze, so you place your hand atop his, tilting your face to catch his eyes. “Hm?”

“Just because my wings aren’t here doesn’t mean my past is erased.”

“Who said it should be? No one’s asking you to be perfect. No human is, Yongbok.” He remains silent, so you sigh softly, inching closer to him.

“If a straight line goes on with its path...” your fingertip drags a straight line across his chest, the white shirt he’s wearing suddenly igniting from the warmth of your touch. “It will remain undisturbed for the rest of its life. But what good is that? If a line doesn’t go down,” you trace a curve down his shirt, then one up again, “how will it ever know how sweet a high is, right?” you smile, before bopping your fingertip across the tip of his nose.

“You have pretty freckles, by the way,” you smile, and he clears his throat, nodding furiously. “Thank you.”

“You know, the guy who ordered the matcha latte, he spent his entire time here observing you,” you grin knowingly, and he frowns. “Really? I didn’t notice.”

“Yes, and when you gave him the change, he did the... what was it called again?” you muse for a few seconds before clapping. “Ah, yes, the triangle method.”

“What’s that?”

“He looked into your left eye, then your right one,” you demonstrate with your gaze gliding across his like a skilled ice skater grazing the surface of ice. “Then... his gaze flickered to your lips,” your eyes follow your words, and his breath suddenly catches in his throat, an unknown feeling swelling in the pits of his stomach. Tender and aching all at once. 

“Did it work? Did I fluster you?” you giggle, leaning to place your ear atop his heart. Yongbok pushes your head away, grateful for the dim lighting that conceals his blushing face. He doesn’t know what emotion will burst into him if your head rests across his chest.

He doesn’t think his heart could handle it.

“No, you didn’t, um—” he’s flustered. He prays with all his might you can’t tell. “Let’s clean this up, I’m hungry.”

“What should we have for dinner?”

“Sushi?”

“No, let’s have kimbap.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

You shrug happily. “I’m giving you the illusion of choice.”

Your words send a chill running down his spine, his hands freezing in place. Is this what Chris has offered him? An illusion of choice. Of a different ending. Of a fate different from what he has always thought would be his.

No, Christopher can’t be that cruel, right? Yongbok shakes his head, cleaning the entire room with an absentminded swipe of his hand.

A fool made to believe he can change a prophecy.

But Yongbok can’t help the small voice growing in his head, feeding off his worries and anxiety, echoing mindlessly within his mind.

But he can.

He can.

He is.

…

Time passes differently on humans than on angels. It now marks Yongbok in different ways, too. 

The hours he spends feeling sad are excruciating, stretching long and long till he starts to question whether the sun does rise at the end of the night. Or if it is a cruel lie recounted by humans to make the sadness less harsh, easier to bear. 

But those same hours he spends happily pass within the blink of an eye, their fragments stitching into Yongbok’s memory, a tapestry woven with threads of your silky voice and glimmering eyes. It is those happy moments he lived for the past month that he wishes to remember. 

Only those. 

He's gotten better at latte art, taking pleasure in drawing different shapes, animals, and even faces into the drinks. It’s less the satisfaction of being good at a task, and more so the smile that blooms on the faces of whichever customer gets their drink. Delighted by something he did, for once.

He’s good at making brownies. And apparently, his brownies are the best you’ve ever had. He’s only ever discovered the joys of baking because you were craving some but were feeling too lazy to make them. It was arguably hard to bake in the dark, as if ashamed of what your reaction would be if you found him struggling with pots and browned butter. 

But all of his embarrassment dissipated when you tasted them first thing in the morning, your eyes lingering longer on his figure when you found the plate. 

Mr. Kang agrees, too, so much that he’s asked him to put up these brownies for sale. Yongbok spends a lot of time with the kitchen staff, where Mrs. Kang, the head chef, teaches him the intricacies of carrot cake and cinnamon rolls. She calls him “son”,  Yongbok doesn’t know why an urge to weep overtakes him each time he hears the nickname.

You took him on picnics across the Han River, bowls of steaming hot ramyeon in your hands as you watched the sunset, sometimes the sunrise too. He reads books lying on the grass field, your shoulder brushing against his own. He doesn’t know why he remembers the swipe of your skin against his, or the specific scent of your perfume as it intermingles with that of the salty river. 

Sometimes it is bike rides across the river. You chasing the sun and him chasing something else— was it your smile, your happiness, a glimpse of your face each time you turned back to look at him? He doesn’t know the exact answer, but he knows that when your gaze met his across your shoulder, the wind swaying your hair as if spelling out lullabies for his soul, something excruciatingly tender bloomed within his soul. 

Sometimes it is day trips to neighboring cities, where you can see the beach once again. Where he swims and floats atop the water. Where he closes his eyes and feels at peace, where the water chases off images of his pain and leaves only images of you. 

He also volunteered at your local food kitchen. The people who eat there have called him kind, too. He feels as if you sat the course of how he would be perceived when you described him as such, the very first night you spoke in. He likes being there. He likes talking to people, he’s gotten better at it, too. 

He met Chan, and his two friends, Han and Changbin. He doesn’t remember how he ended up singing ad-libs for their newest mixtape. But they complimented his voice, said it’s perfect for harmonizing. You had simply grinned as if you already knew that from the moment you had first heard him speak. You spent the rest of the night eating grilled meat and playing video games over at their dorm. Yongbok doesn't think he laughed as much as that day. 

And each time he thinks the heights of his happiness are attained, that this is as joyful as he can get. That sorrow will undoubtedly follow closely, as it lingers just around the corner, waiting for the cup of his happiness to be filled to the brim. You prove him wrong. You make him laugh harder. You broaden his heart for him to receive even more happiness. 

As you are doing now, missing every target to win this pink cat plushie in Lotte World. 

“This is embarrassing, how can you miss all of them?” he sighs amusedly and you turn around, pointing a finger at his face. 

“Because you are staring at me with your…” you stammer, waving your finger in front of his face, “eyes.”

“How am I supposed to look at you then?”

“Just don't. I don’t do well with scrutinizing.”

“Okay, I’m not looking.” he turns around, closing his eyes for a second, waving his hand discreetly through the air. He knows that your delighted scream will follow. 

“Did you get it?” he feigns being surprised as you shake his shoulder, turning him around. “I did!” 

Your smile is as wide as an ocean, as beautiful as the sunsets you take him to witness. He’s lost in thought as he takes in your grin. 

“You look so pretty, Yn,” he says honestly, earnestly, because it is the only way he has ever known to speak to you. “Pretty like the sun.” 

“Oh,” your excitement fizzles out, the plushie growing lump in your hold. “Doesn’t the sun burn the more you look at it?” you giggle nervously, tucking strands of your hair behind your ear. They are rebellious, refusing to stay still, so Yongbok steps forward, gently doing it for you.

“Because the sun shines a bit too brightly to make sure everything else in the universe does.” he pauses, running his tongue across the expanse of his lips. “Just like you, with me and everyone else in your life,” he says. My light is a reflection of yours, is what you hear. 

“You are very honest,” you smile softly, bringing a hand to your ablaze cheeks, hoping to cool them down. 

“Is it a bad thing?” he asks. Nervous. You quickly shake your head, despising the thought of a negative emotion trapping his heart.

“No, no. It’s a good one. Truly.” 

“Okay.” 

“Should we go to the ferry wheel?” you suddenly ask, hugging the plushie closely to your body. 

“Yeah, sure, let’s go,” he grins. 

Yongbok’s limbs are slightly achy from all the rides you went on today, but nothing seems to deter the smile on his face, even as the line stretches for meters ahead. Nothing, except for the discomfort slowly growing on your face, your thumb tearing at the skin near your nails. 

“What’s wrong?” he questions, trying his best to catch your fleeting gaze. 

“There are too— too many people around, I feel a bit suffocated.” 

Yongbok doesn’t think, he simply grabs your hand and you are suddenly on the top of the ferry wheel, humans morphing into tiny ants to you from high above.

“Better?” he asks worriedly, tucking a strand of your hair behind the cuff of your ear. 

You’re still slightly dazed, but the wind that slams into your body feels like a gulp of cold water. 

“Your hands are shaking,” he notices, entwining your fingers with his, naturally, as if it is second nature for you both. “And they are cold. Are you dying?” he asks and you finally burst into giggles, shaking your head.

“No, I… I sometimes get anxious around people; it usually turns into a panic attack but I think you stopped it.”

“I helped you?” he asks, eyes softening and you nod. “Why are you surprised? you always do.”

Yongbok doesn’t know how to face the gentleness of your tone. It is a much harder opponent than the harshness he was subjected to. 

“Do they happen often?”

“It depends. They come and go like the seasons. I actually… I learned how to help you from my mom. Do you remember? back on the rooftop?”

“Really?” he asks, bringing your interlocked hands to his mouth and blowing warm air onto them. His lips almost graze your knuckles in the process. 

“Yeah. She got them frequently and she taught me how to ground her. And then I used those techniques on myself. Then on you.” you sigh, closing your eyes and tipping your head back. 

“Hers happened because of a past accident. She once got stuck in a mob of people and ended up fainting. it was my dad who pulled her up from the ground, it’s how they met, actually,” you grin slightly, before breathing in slowly.

“You know, I read that you can inherit trauma from your parents, but also from generations past. That  it changes the genetic structure of your mind. I wonder if that’s what triggers me.” 

“That's fascinating to think about. How emotions and experiences can be inherited.” 

“I know,” you smile, “I think it passed.” you gesture to your interlocked hands and he lets go promptly, staring ahead at the twinkling city lights, light pink dusting his cheeks. He’s embarrassed because he enjoyed the feel of your palm against his so much, maybe too much, enough to wish for your line palms to meld into one another. Becoming two indiscernible scriptures to the naked eye. 

“Wait. Does this mean we didn't need to wait all day for the rides?” you suddenly ask and he nods. 

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I don't… I don't like using my powers a lot around you.”

“Why is that?” 

“I'm scared that the more I use them the more you'll realize that I'm a fallen angel and that you have no business talking to someone like me.”

“You are very silly, you know that right?” you sigh, placing your cheek atop his shoulder. Yongbok’s world stops spinning right there and then. “I don't feel as lonely anymore now that you’re here. Angel,, human, or something else entirely… None of that matters to me.

To me, you’re just Yongbok.”

the question trickles suddenly into his being, tiptoes inside him gently like a droplet finding its way back to a waterfall— what is the grandest thing the universe has to offer?

To him you’re it. 

“I think I'm happy right now.”

“You think?” 

“I don't know how to describe it… But it feels like I have a little sun in my chest. It glows and it’s warm.” 

You tilt your head back to look at him, a wide smile on your face. He finds his answer in the sunset that filtrates through the strands of your hair, the last sun rays of the day coating your face in a warm glow, as if it was made to make your features shine the most, to make the shadows in your face look like a sculpture. 

“Yeah,” he says after a few silent beats, “I really am happy.”

“Does this mean we are moving?” you giggle, spreading your arms wide as if taking in the entire universe into your chest.

“Yeah, wherever you want us to.” His words are soft, resolute, draped with a gentle discovery— he followed you down to earth, he’d follow you everywhere in it.

…

“I don't know how I'll explain to people how I suddenly afforded this apartment,” you smile, hands on your hips, as you take in your new surroundings. 

Yongbok moves to stand directly behind you, his chest almost brushing against yours. you feel your heart palpitate at his proximity— so close yet so out of reach, simultaneously.

“Just say you moved in with me”

“Mm, I’ll say we are childhood friends and you just moved to the city.”

“Friends? Is that what we are now?” he grins, the light from the tinted windows bathing his features in a kaleidoscope of colors. He’s so beautiful, You you suddenly wish for a change to what you are. you don’t know by what exactly. But something, anything that will allow you to appreciate, venerate his beauty fully.

“Well, we aren’t strangers anymore.”

“I think you are my first real friend,” he says, a bit shyly, pink filling up the spaces between his tan freckles. 

Yongbok always speaks what’s in his mind, with this air of innocence tainting his words as if he doesn’t know that thoughts can be kept to himself. 

You never mind it. Though it churns your insides, makes you experience this particular attachment to him. You want to orbit around him, hear what he thinks of everything, of the colors it seems he experiences for the first time, the food he tastes, and the humans he speaks to.

And most importantly, you. 

You yearn to know everything he thinks of you. You don’t allow yourself to decipher where this need is coming from. You don’t think you’d be able to handle its consequences. 

“You’re lucky I'm like… The best human to ever walk on this earth,” you grin, throwing your hair over your shoulder and onto his face. He squints his eye to chase away strands of your hair.

“The humblest too,” he says, his eyes drifting across the living room. You chose an apartment on the smaller side, as opposed to his unlimited budget. But he likes what you did to the place. He doesn’t quite understand the intricacies of home decor, but he likes the plants everywhere, the flickering candles, and the fragrant flowers bathed in dim lightning. 

And he loves your painting room the most, with a neat library on the side. It feels like taking a walk straight into your heart. 

“Who painted that, by the way?” he suddenly asks, pointing to the painting in the middle of the room, right above the beige couch. 

“Hwang Hyunjin. It took me four paychecks to be able to afford it, three years ago. His pieces are now much more expensive.”

“Hyunjin…” he repeats, tasting the name on his tongue, it is familiar, and the memory suddenly hits him once again. “Oh, I talked to him before.”

“Did you?!” you ask excitedly, grabbing his arm and shaking it slightly. “Where, when, how?”

“At a bar, before I became... half human?” he says, unsure a bit of what he is now. “He actually invited me to his upcoming exposition. When was it again?”

“Today!” you nearly yell and he flinches.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I've been following his news. He's really my favorite artist.”

“Should we go?” 

“Actually?”

“Yeah. you seem to really like him.”

“Oh my god, I’m meeting Hwang Hyunjin. oh my god, I need a dress,” you grab his hand, pulling him away. “We need a dress!”

“We?”

“Let’s go shopping, we need to buy…”

Your words fizzle out in his brain, his whole focus on your entwined fingers as you push him through the room. Your palm feels like a soft petal brushing against his bruised skin. 

If he freezes time, just for a bit more, to enjoy the feel of your hand in his, would anyone blame him? 

The earth would understand surely— the desperate need to appreciate softness when all he has known is thorns pricking his skin.

...

“Yongbok!” Hyunjin's boisterous voice echoes through the art gallery, drawing every eye to you and Yongbok as you stride inside. Yongbok barely has a moment to take in the lavish surroundings before Hyunjin walks toward you, his polished shoes clicking rhythmically against the white marble.

“I knew you’d come!” he grins, grabbing Yongbok’s hand between his two large palms, shaking it warmly. 

“I didn’t think you’d remember me.” 

“Of course I'd remember you,” Hyunjin says, his face darkening for a fleeting second, before his eyes rest on you. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Hyunjin,” he smiles, grabbing your hand and shaking it a bit more softly. 

“Yn. I’m a big admirer of your work, truly.”

Yongbok’s eyes soften at your excitement— they don’t leave your figure when he tells Hyunjin that you have a piece of his hanging in the living room.

“Really?” Hyunjin’s face brightens up at the news, “which one?”

“The red roses in the vase. It’s one of my favorites.”

“That was in my beginnings,” Hyunjin muses, a hint of nostalgia tinting his words. “I put a lot of love in it.” 

“I can tell, the colors especially scream of passion.”

“Are you one for passionate love?”

“Is love truly love if it is devoid of passion?” you ask, tilting your head. Hyunjin’s eyes linger on Yongbok for a moment before turning back to you.

“Excellent! Please choose whichever artwork you prefer; it will be my gift.”

“Really?” you beam, brighter than Yongbok has ever seen you before. The sun suddenly perishes within him.

“Of course. The prettiest artwork for the prettiest girl,” Hyunjin winks smoothly, before patting Yongbok’s shoulder. “Shall I give you a tour?”

Yongbok’s voice is withered as it floods his ears— “Please.”

…

Yongbok’s eyes are fixated on the red liquid swirling around his glass. He fears that if his gaze deserts the wine he’s drinking then it would inevitably drift to you and Hyunjin, giggling together, like long-time friends. Or is it lovers? The lines blur so easily for humans.

He had feigned an ache in his legs, telling you that he’d sit down while you go on with the tour. You had placed a hand on his arm, a worried crease in your eyebrows. “Okay?” you asked. Comforting, warm. It is the adjectives that always come to his mind when he thinks of you with him. 

But you aren’t his to describe. His to be kind with. His. 

So, he hummed, a tight smile drawn on his face. 

It’s not that he despised Hyunjin’s artwork. On the contrary, Hyunjin is a skilled artist, he can see why he’s reaping the fruits he sowed years ago. And yet, what disturbs him is something silly, stupid, too feeble for an angel, a human even, to care for.

He doesn’t like how your laugh travels around the gallery, how you fell so easily into conversation with Hyunjin, talking about your shared interest in art. He won’t ever have a passion of years to talk to you about. How could he when his existence merely spans over three months?

Yongbok is shrinking more and more, till he becomes a single dot of paint on the painting in the very far end of the gallery. Forgotten, dim before all the others. How can he dream to compare if he doesn’t know who he is? If his memories of life don’t even contain the four seasons, pausing in winter, barely brushing against spring.

When his torn skin doesn’t bear blemishes from falls years ago, while riding the bicycle, while playing with other kids, proof of a childhood well spent. No, his scars are that of one stripped from his roots, cast into an unknown world, punished, ridiculed. 

He’s unworthy of being an angel, unworthy of being human, unworthy of being in your company. Why are you wasting time with someone like him, who’d only pull you down, someone who needs instructions to understand how to carry his heart? 

The thoughts play out in his head, again and again, on your ride back home. You are happy, radiating even at the thought of a painting delivered by Hyunjin himself, your favorite artist, sitting in your home. His skin ricochets off your happiness, morphs it into anger and bitterness, all directed at himself.

He hates Hyunjin. He doesn't. He hates Hyunjin with you. He wants you to be happy with him alone. Isn’t he horrible for wishing to strip you away from happiness? 

Horrible.

Horrible.

Abomination. 

“Can you help me take off my necklace?” you knock on his bedroom a few minutes after you arrive, walking in to find him sitting on his bed, deep in thought. 

He startles at your presence, backing away even more into the wall. You frown at the tumult you perceive in his eyes. 

“Get out.”

“What?”

“I said,” he speaks through gritted teeth. “Please, get out.” 

He can’t bear looking at you. He can’t bear you looking at him. What will you see? Someone poisoned by jealousy, whose insides are collapsing on themselves, whose body rejects his bruised soul, over and over again. 

Where else is he supposed to flee? If he sheds this skin, which one would finally accept him whole? 

“What’s wrong? you’ve been quiet all night, avoiding my gaze. Did something happen that upset you?”

He’s panicking, on the verge of combusting into tears. How would he explain this hatred coursing through his veins at the thought of being perceived? By your kind, beautiful beautiful eyes, nonetheless. 

“I really–“ a pause, “ I really don’t want to see you right now.”

You falter, your hand curling tighter against the doorknob.

“Because each time I do, I– I see you with Hyunjin, and I feel as if flames are burning inside my lungs, choking me.” 

“What?” 

“And I hate- hate how I… look how I exist right now. So please, leave, I don't want you to see me.” 

You hesitate for a few seconds, rooted in place. 

And then you close the door. 

You are inside. 

“Talk to me, what is it you’re feeling?” you speak softly, your voice cautious, none of the things he’s used to. It angers him all of the sudden. 

“This is exactly what I hate. You are wasting your time helping me decipher my feelings, you are pitying me. Can't you see how burdensome I am?”

You shake your head, taking a step forward. 

“I don’t, I like it, I… I love helping you, I love seeing the world through your eyes again. It feels like I'm learning new things every day thanks to you and I—“

“I’m an ABOMINATION,” he yells, the walls seem to shake from the voracity of his voice. “From the moment I was created, I have been nothing but anomalous, I… I don't belong anywhere, who was I kidding by coming here?” he tears at his hair slightly, now pacing back and forth in front of you. “Did I really think that feeling would suddenly fix the void within me? that talking to humans would make me normal–“ 

“Yongbok!” you cut him off, no longer capable of bearing the sound of his shaky voice. “Please you are not listening to me!”

“No, you are not listening to me! Look! Look at how ugly I am, look!” he turns around, taking off his white shirt, exposing his butchered back to you. “Look at everything that haunts me, please look at it, hate me and leave.” 

He pleads, naked and vulnerable before your eyes. He waits for you to deliver the killing blow, to cement the horrible thoughts he bears for his body. 

If it is your voice speaking of how worthless he is then he’d believe it more. 

A pin-drop silence coats the room. Yongbok believes you somewhat vanished from existence. 

And then. Your lips on his back, brushing across the plane of his shoulder in the softest, faintest manner. He almost thinks he’s imagining it, imagining you kissing his scarred skin as if it is a delicate petal, worthy of care. Worthy of admiration. Worthy of love. 

“Is this what you hate about yourself?” you whisper, your knuckles grazing his scars. “Why are you so mean to your body, Yongbok?” your voice shakes. Hot tears pool in his eyes at the sound of it. “ Didn’t it scab its best to keep you alive?”

“You are such an idiot,” you breathe out quietly, your warm palms settling atop his waist. “I won't hate you for this. How could I hate you for this?” 

Yongbok is dizzy, drunk off your voice and the way your touch makes goosebumps ripple across his skin. “How could I hate you when all I see is resilience?” Your lips brush against his back, the faintest kisses peppered down his spine. “When all I see is what kept you alive?” 

Yongbok’s blood has spilled into the first snow of Seoul, what feels like a lifetime ago. But somewhat, it is underneath the caress of your hands that he has felt most exposed.

“So, I am thankful for your scars,” another tender kiss, this time to the nape of his neck. “Otherwise, you would have bled on the snow and I wouldn't have known you. And it’s a horrible horrible thing for me to imagine.” 

Your chin nestles across the plane of his shoulder, your hands wrap delicately around his chest. Can you feel his heart beating wildly? Can you hear it spelling out your name? 

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself, Yongbok. Haven't you been through enough, already?”

It isn’t the thoughts in Yongbok’s head that finally make him breakdown. It is rather the feeling of your chest pressed to his back, your cheek resting across his shoulder, you hugging him for the very first time in existence, you enclosing him in a cocoon of safety the way his wings used to.  

“I’m here. you can cry all you want,” you reassure, soft and comforting. His grief for his wings suddenly seem too far out of reach, the safety of his feathers paling before the safety of you. 

Yongbok doesn’t think as he spins around, as he buries his head in the crook of your neck. You respond swiftly, bringing his body even closer to yours, running your hand comfortingly along his spine. 

He doesn’t mind your fingers grazing his scars, he doesn’t chase off your touch. On the contrary, he craves it, his cells calling out your name, thanking you for all the love you’re giving him. He wishes he could glue himself to you, crawl inside your veins, build himself a nest between the web of your nerves. He doesnt think he could ever survive mourning you. 

“Please— please don’t leave me,” he begs, lost in waves of uncertainty, he thinks that if he holds you tightly you won’t ever disappear from his hands, trickling between his fingers like grains of sand. 

“Don't be silly,” tears fall down your eyes too, landing on his back like dripping wax. You attempt to steady your voice but it still shakes like rattling branches. “Where would I go?”

“What if they take you away from me?”

A flash of white clouds Yongbok’s vision, the cold returns to his body tenfold. He blinks repeatedly, and then he finds himself atop an abandoned rooftop. The blood runs cold in his veins, his heart pausing in his chest as he hears heavy footsteps approaching. Did he place a curse atop himself? Did his worst fear come true as soon as he spoke of it? 

Are you gone?

Oh God, are you gone?

“Yongbok,” a familiar voice speaks, and life resumes its course inside his feeble body.

“Seungmin,” he speaks the name in relief, a breathtaking smile blooming on his face. He sees the scrunch in Seungmin’s eyebrows relax ever so slightly, before a placid look drapes across his face again.

“Why did you do it?” Seungmin asks and Yongbok’s grin falters. 

“Did they send you?” he asks, a hint of apprehension filling his words.

“No, I came to bring you back.”

“What?”

“I will fly you back and you will kneel before them and apologize. And you will vow to never speak to humans again, and it will be forgotten.”

“I don't want to.”

“Why are you— “Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance, “they are humans,” he says the words in disdain, as if looking down at them from atop an unreachable altar. 

“I know they are.” 

“They are weak. Driven by things they cannot touch or see.”

“And I love them for it.”

Seungmin frowns. “You’re defending them.” 

“Seungmin,” he sighs tiredly, “why are you doing this?”

“Because I'm trying to help you. This, emotions, feelings, love. It isn't worth the pain they will end up causing you.”

Yongbok scoffs loudly, angrily. “What do you know about love?”

“You think you are special? You think you’re the first angel to go through this? I loved someone too Yongbok!'' Seungmin yells, taking him completely by surprise. “And they had him get in a car accident to punish me for it. I still hear the screeching tires; I still see his skull fracturing against the ground. I had to beg— beg for them to rewind the seconds and bring him back to life. And all for what?” he scoffs, grabbing Yongbok’s shoulders and shaking them. “You are on cloud nine because this is something new for you, you think that those humans would ever accept you? But you are wrong! Tell me, what’s an angel to a human?”

The shout that leaves Yongbok’s throat is a foreign one to his being. “That doesn't matter to me!” he yells, pushing away his hands. “Look me in the eyes, ask me, what’s a human to an angel? I’ll tell you it’s everything. Everything if it’s her.” 

“This will ruin you. They will kill you, Yongbok. She will be your demise.”

“I’d rather die by her hands than live by yours.”

“What if she ends up dying by your hands?” Seungmin speaks calmly, coldly. Yongbok feels the ground give up beneath his feet. “What if in the process of hurting you they end up hurting her, what will you do then?”

“I… they won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I don't love her.”

“Who said anything about love?” Seungmin sighs, shaking his head. He looks almost desolate, somewhat that terrifies Yongbok even more. “You have your answer, I fear they have theirs too.”

Seungmin walks away, pauses, before turning back once more. He hesitates to speak, and in the seconds of silence that ensue, Yongbok discovers how terribly heavy fear is to bear. 

“I’m sorry, Yongbok.”

His tongue is heavy as it moves to ask— “what for?” 

“For the things yet to come.” 

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again?

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley X Female!Reader

Warnings: fluff, tears will be shed

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy, this is based off of “Would you fall in love with me again” from Epic the Musical. 10/10 would recommend

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The house stood still in the quiet of the night, its porch light casting faint halos on the frost-dusted steps. Simon Riley hesitated at the door, his gloved hand hovering over the knob. The key in his pocket felt heavier than his entire pack. This house wasn’t just walls and a roof—it was everything he’d left behind, everything he feared he’d never see again.

With a deep, unsteady breath, he pushed the door open. The familiar creak echoed in his ears, a sound he hadn’t realized he missed. The hallway smelled faintly of lavender, the same scent you always favored. It hit him with a wave of nostalgia so strong his knees nearly buckled.

The soft glow of a lamp in the living room cast warm shadows over the space. Simon’s eyes swept over every detail, drinking it in as though the house itself might vanish. The beige couch, the neatly folded blanket, the wedding photo on the mantle—it was all there, unchanged. Yet, it felt distant, like a life that belonged to someone else.

He stepped further inside, the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots startling in the silence. His bag dropped from his shoulder to the floor with a dull thud, his hands curling into fists at his sides. This was home, but he wasn’t sure if he still belonged here.

“Simon?”

Your voice broke the silence like a sudden, bright light in a dark room. Simon’s entire body froze, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he turned toward the sound, his heart pounding in his ears.

You stood in the doorway to the kitchen, wrapped in an oversized cardigan that swallowed your frame. Your eyes were wide, your lips slightly parted as you stared at him. The light from the kitchen framed you like a portrait, and for a moment, Simon thought he might be dreaming.

“Simon,” you said again, this time softer, your voice trembling.

He couldn’t speak. His throat felt tight, the words trapped somewhere between his heart and his lips. You didn’t wait for him to answer.

In an instant, you crossed the room, your slippers barely making a sound on the hardwood floor. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close with a force that took him by surprise. Simon stumbled back a step, but his arms found their place around your waist, holding you tightly.

“I’m here,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m home.”

You clung to him like he might vanish if you let go, your tears soaking into the fabric of his jacket. Simon felt your body trembling against his, and it broke something deep inside him.

Your knees buckled, and he followed you to the floor, his arms never leaving you. He knelt there, cradling you as you both gave in to the emotions that had been held back for far too long.

“I thought—” Your voice cracked as you tried to speak through your sobs. “I thought you were dead, Simon. I thought I’d lost you forever.”

He swallowed hard, his throat burning. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I didn’t mean to—God, I didn’t want to leave you like that.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at his face. His mask was pushed up to his forehead, revealing a face that was both familiar and different. There were new scars, lines etched deeper than before, and a haunted look in his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time you saw him.

“You came back,” you said, your hands cupping his face. “That’s all that matters.”

Simon’s gaze dropped, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of your words was too much to bear. “I don’t know if I deserve this,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know if I deserve you.”

Your brow furrowed, and you tightened your hold on him. “Don’t say that,” you said softly but firmly. “You’re my husband, Simon. You don’t have to ‘deserve’ anything. You’re here, and that’s enough.”

He shook his head, his jaw clenching. “Two years, love. I’ve been gone for two bloody years. You’ve waited for me while I—” He broke off, his voice faltering. “I’m not the man I was. I don’t even know if I can be him again.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, at the way he seemed so much smaller despite his imposing frame. You leaned closer, your forehead pressing against his. “You don’t have to be,” you murmured.

Simon’s eyes lifted to meet yours, a flicker of hope mingling with his uncertainty. “Do you mean that?”

“I mean it,” you whispered. “Simon Riley, I would fall in love with you a thousand times over. Every version of you. Every scar, every flaw.”

His breath hitched, and for the first time in years, his tears spilled over.

Simon pulled you against him again, his hands gripping you like a lifeline. His lips found your temple, pressing a soft, lingering kiss there as his tears mingled with yours. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I never stopped.”

You nodded against him, your fingers threading through his hair. “I know,” you said. “I love you too.”

The two of you stayed like that on the floor, wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of the past two years finally beginning to lift. The world outside didn’t matter anymore. In this moment, in this house, you were home.

Simon shifted slightly, leaning back just enough to look at you. “I’m going to make this right,” he promised, his voice steady now. “For you. For us.”

You smiled through your tears, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “You already have, Simon.”

And for the first time in years, Simon Riley felt whole.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[gamorxa]

RESTLESS NIGHTS •°. *࿐

PAIRINGS— paul atreides x valkyrie!reader

SUMMARY—from a young age you’ve been paul atreides’ personal apprentice, your duty being to remain professional in protecting the life of the heir to the house of atreides. however, things change after a rainy night of comforting paul after he awakens from one of his terrible visions.

NOTE—this is my first time writing and publishing anything like this for a character, but after seeing dune two i just had to. expect more creations from me in the future. Constructive criticism is welcome, just keep it nice and kind. let me know how i did!

word count: 1.2k

Valkyries are very protective beings. In battle, their ultimate purpose is to carry the fallen warriors that perished in combat, and were worthy of eternal paradise, to Valhalla where their souls would reside in blissful harmony. However, there wasn’t just one type of valkyrie. A heroine valkyrie is what you were — the kind that only guarded the lives of those dearest to them. Your dearest was no one, but the son of the duke of atreides.

When you were first assigned to the house of atreides you just barely reached the ripe age of seven years old. In those times, your duty merely consisted of being the only company around his age the young boy had in his life. Innocent soft exchanges of giggles escaped from dimpled cheeks that ached from continuous smiles. Small pieces of grass littered the wild heads of curly hair the two of you possessed from previously rolling in the freshly cut grass the maintenance keepers recently trimmed. Within years, the grass turned to responsibilities, and the dimples into abstract bruises from the numerous sparing lessons shared between the two of you. Thus, your years of childish assignments were gone.

Now, you reside in the chambers next door to the young heir in case of any and all emergencies. You lie awake in your pristine silk sheets staring at the ceiling. The thunderous Caladan rain pelted down onto glass windows surrounding you, keeping you awake. This was your first night back from your annual trip to the emperor's headquarters where your sisters remain. No other planets you’ve ever visited didn’t have rain as loud as Caladan’s.

A loud groan breaks the song of raindrops singing along the windows.

You bolt out of bed and grab a dagger with the valkyries signature emblem on the hilt. Your hands turn white in contrast to your usual brown skin from how tight you hold it. Raising to the balls of your feet to remain as silent as possible, you trudge over to the door, leaving the comfort of your room. The marble flooring in the hallway tickles the bottom of your feet, but you barely notice due to your desperation to find the source the sound came from.

More thunder cracks. Another groan.

Your head sharply turns to the left toward Paul's room. Your body turns rigid.

Oh no.

Sprinting, you throw open his mahogany dark wood door making it slam into the back wall. There in rumpled sheets lies the source. His limbs are tangled in his blanket as he thrashes around in his bed, his face scrunched up in an expression of pure anguish. Wild brown curls surround him like a halo while the moonlight shines on his pale skin. He looks like an angel. A fallen angel.

“Paul,” you mumbled, letting your dagger slip from your hands.

He stirs in his sheets, letting out another low groan.

Rushing to the side of his bed, you dropped to your knees and cradle his face scanning the rest of body. Just in case.

“Paul!” you repeated.

He bolts up abruptly making your hands fall onto the bed. He’s panting as he looks around frantically before resting his eyes on you. His expression softens.

“Y/n?” His voice is raspier than normal due to the hours of restless sleep.

“It's okay, it’s okay,” you cooed. Your face filled with concern as you brush some of his wild hair out of his face. “I’m here.”

He sighs out the majority of the tension built up, rubbing his face from sleep with his trembling hands.

“More visions?” Your voice is so soft it tickles his ears creating a blanket of comfort. He doesn’t understand how a strong warrior could possess such a comforting voice, but that's one of the reasons he liked you so much. You never failed to make his worries disappear — not with a voice like that.

He only nods.

“Want to talk about it?” You rise from your spot on the floor to sit on the side of his bed making you at eye level and in closer proximity to the stressed boy. His eyes are slightly glossed over, and he’s avoiding eye contact as if he’s embarrassed.

“No,” he looks down in his lap before locking eyes with you, “I thought you were on your trip?”

You shake your head, “I came home early.”

Home. You saying it so casually almost makes Paul visibly melt.

“I missed you,” he whispers. His words hang in the air like a forbidden secret. Well, it was forbidden seeing as the relationship between the two of you was meant to be strictly professional. However, you two managed to lay on the thin layer of gray area in the matter.

You could only bashfully turn your head away towards the window. You hated how he’d say things like that in random moments. More so, you hated how much your cheeks would turn warm and your lips would scrunch to the corner of your face showcasing a deep dimple in the apple of your cheeks. The rain was still coming down harder without any plans to stop for the night.

The boy grabs your chin with his pointer finger and thumb and redirects your attention to his face. You could only look down at your lap before eventually looking into his eyes.

Desire. Burning desire is what his eyes scream as he looks at you.

You escape his hands and rise to leave a painfully lingering kiss on his forehead.

“Get some rest, Mr. Atreides.” You say, slightly teasing as you move to get off the bed. However, he reaches for your hand stopping your movements.

“Stay,” he pleads with desperation laced in his tone.

You hesitate.

“Please, Y/n, I need you.” His eyes are low and bright from the moonlight still coating the inside of his room. His blanket lies low on his waist hiding his boxers, and showcasing his chest of lean and faint abs from his weeks of training. He looked so…

“Fine,” the words slip from your mouth before you realize. Before you know it, he’s scooting over and raising the covers to allow you to easily slip into his sheets. They’re warm from his body heat making you release a sigh of breath you didn’t know you were holding.

He looks at your chest before shyly looking you in the eyes, “Can I-”

You tiredly nod your head and open your arms out welcomingly. The boy immediately goes to rest his head on your chest, wrapping his arms around your waist and tangling his legs with yours. This position feels completely natural and comforting from numerous other nights just like this one in the past. Your hands go to his curls and start massaging his head.

“Thank you,” he rasps out, barely staying awake, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Always,” you started, “I’ll always be here.”

You look down to find that the tired boy has already fallen asleep. With a small smile on your face you look up at the ceiling as more lighting cracks outside. You close your eyes assuming he missed your words.

He heard them. He always does.

[slowd1ving]

[INAMORATA] SNIPPET . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE, SOMEWHAT JIAOQIU??

more jiaoqiu and moze being a little creep, male incubus reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Of course you don’t end up stealing a kiss outside the building—Moze taking the opportunity to clean the bathroom obsessively while buzzing from the liquor, while you walk Jiaoqiu out. 

Of course you don’t mean to, but you’re drunkenly complaining of the professor for your statistics module, and he’s merely gazing. When the sun’s long gone to its slumber—and the only light available is the halo around your head from the flickering streetlamp—who can blame him for the way his eyes drink your pout in, the way he’s getting lost in the way you smell? Menthol cigarettes and something sweeter, something his nose picks up that could be caramel but could also thrum deep in your veins to intoxicate others. 

He cuts you off when it gets too much for him, right when you push your glasses up to continue to ramble comfortably. 

“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—” 

You swear up-and-down you weren’t planning this; you’re taken completely aback as he surges, pressing you up against the rough brick of the building. He’s warm, you think deliriously—with his hand cradling your cheek and his other nestled in the back of the loose pullover you’re wearing, you’re warmer than you’ve been in weeks. 

It’s not desperate, but you can feel the build-up of emotion behind it: taste the cherry on your breath, the tequila on his. Alcohol may have prompted this, but even a fool could savour the heavy yearning on his tongue. 

“Jiaoqiu,” you mumble, but he merely tilts your head, nipping at your slicked lips with an eagerness he only seems to display when it’s the witching hours. He’s shorter than you, yet tonight he’s the one caging you in an inescapable lock—so hungry, so avaricious and naturally, you oblige, raking your hands in his pink hair. 

You taste blood. You taste life as you feel his steady pulse against your body, lust as he groans and melts into your touch, desperation as he entwines his arms around you with the sole goal of pressing himself into you even further. 

You are equally insatiable, gradually feeling the vivid colours flow from his tongue onto your own. 

You are equally gluttonous, but your work isn’t going to finish itself and you’re quite a good demon, if you do say so yourself. 

You are equally voracious, and perhaps completely degenerate, yet still you wistfully and regretfully ease your lips from his—though your hands remain white-hot on his body. 

It’s enough energy to get through the rest of this day and then some. It’ll do. It has to do. 

“I’ll see you at the Film Festival,” he murmurs, but the two of you know the encounter between you both will be sooner—a clandestine encounter between sheets, in fact. 

He’s walking home, so you watch him disappear into the night—and when his small figure is swallowed up in the void space between street lamps, you watch a little while longer. 

Unbeknownst to you, someone else has been watching this entire time too. 

[rynbutt]

pierced. epilogue. | spencer reid.

It's Spencer's birthday and there are a lot of things to be shared.

you can find the other parts on my masterlist.

cw: fem!reader, 18+ content (MDNI), kissing, other stuff shhh

a/n: im pretty proud of this one fr

His kiss against your lips was feverish– it was hungry and wanting, punctuated by his warm hand desperately squeezing the skin of your thigh, the other tangled in your hair as it sprawled over your pillow like a halo. 

You were always breathtaking like this– your face contorted in pleasure as you breathed soft whines and moans, unable to form coherent words. Spencer found it fascinating, how you bewitched him body and soul. You made everything melt away with your gentle touch and your soft kisses. Maybe it was how you cradled his face like you would divine art. Maybe it was how you looked at him, eyes so sultry and enchanting yet wide with innocence.

Spencer couldn’t handle it half the time, it drove him mad how he longed for you in every aspect of his life, how he spent every waking minute away from you wishing you were wrapped in the safety of his arms, where he knew no one and nothing could harm you. 

“Happy birthday, baby,” your voice was breathless as you whispered the words against his lips. One of your hands pressed into the nape of his neck, the other gripped the wrist beside your head, holding onto anything that would ground you in reality.

Spencer responded by kissing you again, swallowing your breathless moans as he snapped his hips against the soft flesh of your ass. The sounds were lewd and salacious, but it only provoked him further. His grip on your thigh was bruising at best, his mind growing foggy with desire as he lost control of his ability to notice the obvious strength he had over you.

You didn’t mind though– you never did. It only spurred you on further, your moans and whines growing louder and louder as your belly warmed. Tonight was supposed to be about him. It was his birthday after all and you wanted him to be the centre of attention. But when you spread your legs for him, your curves adorned in delicate lace, he couldn’t help himself.

“Spence–” You cut yourself off as another whine left your dry throat; it seems you forgot how to naturally function when Spencer’s cock was splitting you open, your head filled with nonsense the moment he filled you to the brim.

“Fuck, angel–” Spencer’s voice was low with lust, his lips pressing to the underside of your jaw. His breath was warm against the column of your throat, his lips pressing desperate kisses to your smooth skin. 

Spencer never got tired of you, he knows he never will. He’s so hopelessly in love with you and you have him wrapped around your delicate finger despite what you like to think. You were wrapped around him so tight, your core pulsing around him with such desperation.

He’s surprised he lasted as long as he did. You looked so beautiful with your skin adorned with intricate lace and bows– he kept it on while he fucked you, admiring every dip and curve of your body, truly convinced every part of you was carefully crafted for him and him alone.

Your hands combed through his hair as he calmed down, your legs tangled with his and the sheets. While fucking you was his favourite pass time; this part was always worth the wait. His body was heavy with exhaustion but he couldn’t take his eyes off you. You were always so gentle, something he both envied and valued in you. You were safe; you were home.

“Marry me.” The words left his lips in a whisper. It bothered him how he hadn’t asked you yet– how he hadn’t even thought about it until that very moment. Spencer had always questioned the notion of marriage, wondering why people did it when– to him– it seemed outdated; almost pointless. He saw it with his own parents and he saw it with his friend, but with you it was different. Calling you his wife made him feel warm, being able to put a ring on your finger and call you his forever. He was going against his own reasoning and Spencer was willing to say his old way of thinking about marriage was wrong. Because with you, it seemed like the only reasonable choice he had ever made.

Your fingers stilled against his hair, your heart beating hard in your chest. “What?” You almost thought you misheard him.

“Marry me.” Spencer spoke a little louder, his chest blooming with warmth at the smile that tugged at the corner of your lips. You gently covered your mouth as a small surprised laugh left your throat, you didn’t mean to laugh, you really didn’t, but Spencer Reid– The Dr. Spencer Reid– wanted to marry you. “Don’t laugh, I’m serious,” he feigned offence, pulling your hand away from your face.

“I’m not laughing at you, I just–” You sighed, eyes blinking up at him softly, “You, Dr. ‘I don’t really believe in marriage’ want to marry me?”

He let out a breath. “I’ve thought about it.” He thought about it for maybe four seconds before deciding because he already knew what the answer would be, “and I want it. I didn’t think I would, but then I met you and… it just seems like the only logical progression.”

“Mm, I love when you talk about logical progressions,” you teased, your hands cupping his face gently, resting your forehead against his.

“You still haven’t answered me.” Spencer wasn’t nervous, he knew you loved him and wanted to be with him. Even if you said no, he wouldn’t mull over it because he would know that you had your own reasons. 

“What do you think the answer will be?” You were curious and it was so easy to tease him. He didn’t like when people pushed his buttons, but you could push all you like and he would adore you all the same.

“I think you’ll dance around it just to annoy me,” he started with a grin, “but inevitably you’ll say yes because the idea of getting to call yourself Mrs Reid would be too good to pass up.”

Oh how he knows you.

“Mm, you caught me,” you giggled softly, drowning in the softness of his beautiful brown eyes. You brushed your thumb over his cheekbone, “I’d love to marry you, Spencer.”

He smiled coyly. “See?” 

You rolled your eyes playfully, scooting yourself closer to him to press against his warm skin. He draped an arm over your waist, pressing his nose into your hair and breathing in your scent. This is exactly how he wanted to spend his 30th birthday, with you wrapped in his arms, tracing letters into your hip as your nails gently scraped against the skin of his back, following every gentle ridge of his ribs and spine, memorising his body beneath your fingertips.

“Are you sure we have to go?” Spencer called to you as he stood in front of your full-length mirror tying his tie. The end of the day came far too quickly– one minute he had your warmth wrapped around him, your lips and bodies clashing in feverish need. Now he was getting ready to go to dinner at a new fancy restaurant deep in the city when he would much rather stay tangled with you in bed.

“Yes, baby,” You replied, lining your lips in your bathroom mirror. “Penelope and JJ want to make tonight special for you for your birthday.”

You had already made it special. You made him breakfast, spoiled him far beyond what he deserved, then let him have you for hours. His birthday was already perfect but he knew his friends had tried hard to do something nice for him– but you said yes to his marriage proposal, so he’s doubtful this dinner could at all improve his day.

You stepped out of the bathroom, clasping the necklace Spencer had got you for your birthday last year around your neck. Your heels clicked against the floor in a way that was so alluring he was ready to ditch the dinner and have you again. But you would definitely protest, not wanting him to ruin your perfectly styled hair and makeup. He would just have to hold it together for a bit longer.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, a smile playing on his lips. Your dress hugged your hips and waist, the neckline showing off your cleavage and the slit up the side to your mid thigh sending him reeling. You smiled at him, reaching for his tie to adjust it.

“You look very handsome,” you pressed up on your toes, kissing his cheek. His hands fell to your waist, holding you close as he pressed a peck to your lips. “Alright, we should go.” Spencer let out a soft sigh, holding his elbow out for you to link your arm with his. You chuckled softly, holding his bicep as the two of you left your shared apartment. 

Spencer’s fingers were laced with yours as you walked into the restaurant, walking slightly slower than he normally did since you were in heels; something you found rather adorable. Derek saw him first, wrapping his arms around Spencer and patting his back as he wished him a happy birthday. Derek planted a kiss on your cheek as he hugged you next, letting the rest of the team swarm Spencer with hugs, birthday wishes and presents. Spencer pulled your chair out for you before sitting down next to you, scooting his chair slightly closer to yours. He had his hand on your thigh the whole night, his thumb stroking the side of your knee. 

“More drinks! This is a day to celebrate!” Penelope cheered, pouring herself and JJ another glass of wine. Derek swirled his tumbler of whiskey around, lifting it up in a cheers motion to Spencer.

“Amen to that,” he nodded before taking a sip.

“What are you having, Reid? On me,” Emily offered, eyes narrowing at the man of the hour. Spencer waved her off, not typically one for drinking.

“Give mine to Y/N, I’m good,” Spencer said. 

“No, no, I’m good, Spence,” you squeezed his hand under the table. 

“Whaaat!” Penelope looked at you, stopping mid-sip of wine. “My loves, we must celebrate!” She pointed at the both of you and Spencer rolled his eyes playfully.

“Fine, but nothing too strong, please,” Spencer gave in, earning a cheer from everyone at the table. 

Emily turned to you, “what’s my girl having? Gin and tonic? Spiced rum? Wine? Name it and you’ve got it,” she grinned.

“No, I’m really good, thank you,” you replied with a breathy laugh, desperate to get the attention off of you. Emily noticed your slight embarrassment and backed off, getting up to get Spencer a drink from the bar. 

You quietly excused yourself, getting up and taking your purse to the bathroom. Spencer could tell something was bothering you. He excused himself to Hotch, following you to the back of the restaurant. He gently knocked on the bathroom door, calling your name. You washed your hands in the sink, letting out a sigh before opening the door.

“Are you okay, angel?” Spencer asked, voice laced with concern. He searched your eyes for a moment and he could tell something was on your mind.

“I’m pregnant, Spence.”

Spencer felt his mind go blank, his eyes widening at your confession. You didn’t sound upset when you said it, nor did you sound thrilled. You wanted to gauge his reaction before you started tangling yourself up in your own thoughts. 

After a year of dating, Spencer had mentioned the idea of kids to you, asking you if it’s something you wanted. You knew he wanted it, he was so good with kids and kids gravitated to him. It made your heart swell whenever he would play with Henry or Jack, wondering if that’s something you wanted for yourself. You wanted to give him that, of course you did. But when he asked you, you had just got a promotion and you were about to begin your second semester back at school and Spencer’s job was crazy, it didn’t seem like adequate timing. So you told him one day.

One day was apparently today.

“You’re… You’re pregnant?” He repeated, his voice barely above a whisper as the words sank in. His heart fluttered at the idea of you carrying his baby, a little boy or girl, he didn’t care. You were going to have his baby. He was going to be a family with you.

“Yeah, I am,” a smile tugged at your lips. “I wanted to tell you in a more… creative way? Like hide it in a book or give you a crossword or something but–” You cut yourself off, gently shrugging your shoulders as Spencer reached for your hands.

“How–How far along are you?” His voice was shaky, he was so nervous and excited and had no idea where to put all the emotions he was feeling.

“Eight weeks,” you grinned.

“Shit,” he cursed, a smile breaking out across his face. He pulled you in for a kiss, his hands cupping your cheeks. You held his suit jacket in your fists, kissing him back with just as much excitement and love. He pulled away slightly, “this is by far the best birthday present.”

You chuckled softly, “lucky her parents are hitched,” you teased.

“You know you can’t actually tell the sex of a foetus until 18 to 21 weeks, baby,” he said matter-of-factly. He gestured his head to the side, “it’s possible as early as 14 weeks but–”

You kissed him again to shut him up, “call it a mother’s intuition, Spence." Spencer led you back to the table, refusing to let go of your hand for the rest of the night. He had a lot of trouble sitting on all the news he had to share but he would tell them another time, all he wanted to do was spend the night with you and enjoy every waking minute of you.

a/n: i know most of you won't read this but i just wanna say thank you for reading this, i know it's not super canon compliant but it was more just a fluffy little series for me to write and i had a blast. and i know not everyone likes the pregnancy trope but god dammit! our boy deserves a family of his own!

i will definitely be doing more series in the future and i'm already working on another project that i hope you'll all like! anywho, love all of you and imma give you all a fat kiss goodnight, muah!

taglist: @crazycat-ladys-blog @cillsnostalgia @secretly-tumb1r @33-81 @elissanatok @outrunangelss @cultish-corner @666-gothic-bat-666 @evvy96 @littlemarvelstan8 @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @meg-black @dreamsarebig @anuncalledbridge @fioletowelowe @ladylincoln @spencereidsgf420 @bollzinurmouth @scarlettssub @ipseitydelrey @donttrustlove @mcntsee @ruziazyn @valinherfantasyworld @khxna @maybe-not-this @shardsofmarxx @danadinosaur3 @justsarahbella @ah-blossom @lorelaireid @btskzfav @reidsdoll @pinkpantheris @violetvsworld @readergf @pangirl-fangirl @emideadpoets @blackbeautyiloveyouso @amethyst-marie368 @amethyst-marie368

[pursuitseternal]

Congrats on 1500 followers! Can I please play your Smut Ask game? Please? 👉👈 🫣

19. “You’re all mine” - “hm…” - “say it” - “I’m all yours.”

Ft. Astarion x Reader

“I’m all yours…”

Act 3 Astarion x Reader

CW: tooth rotting fluff, mating press, creampie

No more Underdark, no more Shadow Curse…

Sunlight once more on your skin, and Astarion couldn’t bring himself to leave it. Rivington was loud and crowded, but you don’t care. Not when you can see him smiling again now that you managed your way through the darkness of Reithwith. Back in the City….

Back into the sun.

It took some convincing, but Gale finally agreed to let you and your love take an afternoon to lose yourselves in the light.

Just a picnic, you had offered to Astarion. Well, a basket of food for you, a scroll of lesser restoration, and your neck for him.

Away from the crowds and eyes now, you spread your blanket on the grassy hill. The sun at its zenith, you can feel it tingling and burning your skin.

But Astarion craves that, you realize, as he pulls off his cream, ruffled shirt and lays at your feet in naught but his leathers. You scan him, shaking your head. That smirk on his face already tells you it won’t be long before those warm brown trousers are set aside too. He picks up the scroll to heal you and giggles. “Somebody planned for some extensive aftercare,” his smirk deepens.

You just give him a knowing smile, flounce your skirts, and settle on the blanket beside him. His fingers tease the pale pink ruffles in the hem of it. “I didn’t think you would ever wear something so… delicate. I almost don’t recognize you without a shiny, metal can on your body.” His crimson eyes rake over your form, noticeably lingering on the skin that shows— your legs beneath your skirt, your forearms that dart from the short frilled sleeves, and your bosom that bursts out the top of your bodice. “…almost,” he breathes, eyes settling on the marks that have grown on the side of your neck.

One arm extends towards you. Your heart in your throat, and down you go, already laying alongside of him, sprawling in the sun and cradled by his arm. His cool breath wafts over your neck as he nuzzles your bite scars. “I only need a taste, I swear…” comes the age old request, his little ritual of asking each time, even if the answer is always the affirmative, whispered like a prayer from your lips.

His fangs sink in slowly, his skin warmed all over by the heat and radiation of the sun. You know, as your blood runs and courses through both your bodies, you know he actually feels alive.

He wants to live, and now, he feels like it—the bloom of life within from your blood, the blazing light of the sun on his pale skin.

It doesn’t take much to coax him, just a sweep of your hand across his lower back, and he’s on top of you, sucking loudly in your ear. That ruinous body of his slots between your thighs, and now you realize just why he had teased you so often to wear a dress for once.

His lips drink you down, but his hands, those cool, featherlight hands skate up your outer thighs. The whisper thin fabric of your skirt ghosts up more and more… until he’s rucked it up around your waist.

His voice tickles your ear as he moans into your neck. “Oh… darling, I can already feel how wet you are. All this… just for me?” Fingers tease your panties, right where your dampness gathers. “Such a display of carnal lust, you wanton minx. All this is mine… you’re all mine…”

“Hmm?” You pull yourself out of your hazy cocoon of bliss and warmth, your body growing warmer and more aroused by your lover’s weight and the sun’s heat.

“Say it,” he orders, punctuating his command with a roll of his hips into your mound, even as his fingers press that damp gusset of your underthings to catch you clit.

You loll your head back to center, opening your half-lidded eyes to look up at him. Sunlight glows like a halo around his silken, silver hair, making it hard to see anything of his face than the gleaming crimson of his eyes. Your answer bubbles to your tongue as you lift your hips. “I’m yours, all yours,” you breathe.

“If that doesn’t just warm my undead heart,” he purrs. “How about a treat for my treat… it is a summer picnic after all…”

His mouth presses sweetly and softly against your lips. Wet and insistent, his tongue presses between your lips, and you let him in. He squishes your breasts as he shifts his weight, his hands hurrying to free his cock as he just lowers his leathers enough. That warmed, blunt cock head teases your entrance, your panties barely a barrier between you; and it’s one he so easily conquers with a slight tug of his finger.

“There we go,” he purrs as inch by inch he fills you. He’s slow and tender, working inside you with gentle rolls of his hips. All is warm and heavy, full and undulating. His mouth is locked to yours, his cock buried deep in your sex. And you have to keep your eyes closed, the light of the sun almost as blinding as how brightly he burns for you.

Drowning in the rhythm of his fucking, you are swept further into your bliss with every roll of his hips. His cock, thick and perfect, drags across every inch of your cunt, catching those places that make your spine arch and your belly coil with heat. Hot within, hot without. He presses his heavy frame into you, driving you into the blanket and dirt. He groans in your mouth, the metallic taste of your blood still strong on his tongue. Wave after consuming wave, his thrusts snap against you, that addictive flesh-slapping sound muffled by your simple skirts. He grins, lifting your thighs to press them to your chest. Your cunt bare to the light and revealed to the sun, now his thrusts echo in your ear and down your spine.

He floods you with pleasure, all your skin exposed for his touch. His thrusts grow erratic, his breathing against your flesh ragged. He’s near, so near… just a little more and you know he will tingle with pleasure in his balls and warm with bliss from the inside out.

A roar in your ear, and he fills you, coating you with cum deep inside your cunt. It’s enough to make you tremble and cling, to buck and writhe as your match him in his climax.

Hot all over. And just as loved.

Your hands trace the scars on his back, thier rises and ridges familiar by heart. But for now, his skin’s heat matches the afterglow of that slow-rolling passionate love making.

He’s warm and sweet, mischievous and cunning…. And he’s all yours.

Smut Ask List | Astarion Masterlist

[pretzel-box]

MDNI | TW: Body Horror, Detailed Graphic Description of Gore. Mention of Needles

Tags: Established Relationship, Devotion, Obsession, TW Tags above

Words: 2,2k

Sebastian Solace could hear your faint breathing in the silence, another form of melody that graced his ears. It was calming and invited him to pause from the burden of the daily life and dream instead. He was sure, your presence alone is like a bright shimmer at the edge of his void world, not blinding but so unbelievable radiant, a glow that pulls him towards your existence like the moon that beckons the tides.

His gaze lingers a bit longer than intended and yet not long enough to satisfy that hunger in his soul. He traced the curve of your form, with a fleeting glance, as you sit at the desk, lost in the pages that stretched out before you. Each turn of the paper is a soft whisper, a delicate flutter that harmonizes with the quiet rhythm of your breath. You are unaware, absorbed in the world between the lines, stories and memories, yet your every movement feels choreographed by the stars themselves—effortless, graceful, like a long lost dream.

Sebastian watches, mesmerized by the way your fingers brush the edges of the book, gentle as if you hold something precious. The faint light spills across your skin, casting a soft halo that wraps around you, an ethereal glow that seems to exist for his eyes alone. In the stillness, you are his celestial body, his guiding star, unknowingly illuminating the vast, shadowed corners of his heart.

Even the way you tilt your head, lost in thought, feels like the subtle pull of gravity, drawing him closer, though he remains in the quiet distance. He wonders if you can feel the way the air shifts around him, how it hums with the silent longing he tries to contain deep inside him. You are his solace, his steady beacon in a sea of darkness, and though you are unaware of his gaze, every part of you seems to call to him, softly and irresistibly.

The way your voice wrapped around his name sent a shiver down his spine, a sensation as delicate as the brush of sunlight after a long storm. "Oh, Sebastian," you had said, and it was as if the very air he breathed had shifted, softened, warmed. There was a tenderness in your words, a gentleness that seemed to cradle him, filling the empty spaces inside his chest.

Your voice, like the wind, swept through the quiet room, curling around him in invisible tendrils, soothing, comforting, and undeniably real. If sound could embrace, then surely this was the closest he'd ever come to feeling human warmth drenched in love. It enveloped him, like the gentle embrace of arms he longed to know. Each syllable lingered in the air, thick with sweetness, as though the very essence of your being flowed through the sound, leaving a trail of honey in its wake.

"Dreaming as always," you teased, your words lilting in a way that felt like a dance. "You surely got your head in the clouds." And oh, how right you were. He was far beyond the realm of mortals, his thoughts soaring high, lost among the stars you unknowingly filled his world with. His heart, caught in the sheer comfort of your presence, was suspended somewhere between the heavens and earth, weightless, adrift. You were not just the pull that grounded him, but the entire sky he yearned to float within, a cosmic force that kept him both dreaming and awake at the very same time.

He smiled faintly, helpless under your spell, for every word you spoke was like stardust falling gently into his soul, filling the dark spaces with light. You had no idea of the gravity you held over him, how your voice alone shaped his universe, a melody that kept him tethered to you, even as his mind wandered through galaxies made entirely of you.

Time passed, yet not a single day saw Sebastian’s love fade or waver. It flowed endlessly, like the ceaseless currents of the ocean, drenching you with his quiet, unwavering devotion. His love became a part of him, woven into the very fabric of his being, shaping every thought and action. He was ready to forsake even the simplest of pleasures, content to immerse himself entirely in the depths of your existence. Every movement, every breath, every word he spoke seemed to carry your name, a silent vow of his love that coursed through him like water through the veins of the sea.

"Hold still," he mumbled softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, soothing and gentle. There was no command in it, just a quiet reminder as he held the sharp silver needle between his large, grey fingers. The metal gleamed faintly in the light of his glowing lure, casting soft reflections across the water. He carefully threaded a piece of red string through the needle’s eye, makeshift and fragile, yet it was all he had. The first aid kits he’d scavenged from the Blacksite over time had long run dry, leaving him with no choice but to use whatever he could find.

Your arm lay before him, a deep gash marring the skin, crimson blood flowing down in slow rivulets, like rain sliding down a windowpane. It pooled on the floor below, dark and heavy in the water. Sebastian’s chest tightened as he worked with quiet precision, his fingers moving deftly, though the sight of your blood filled him with a deep ache.

He wished for better tools, for a world where you would never be hurt, where his hands wouldn't have to stitch your wounds with makeshift threads. But this was the Blacksite, where even tenderness had to survive in the cold, unforgiving depths.

His focus was entirely on you, though he remained silent. He didn’t want you to feel the weight of his worry, the way his heart clenched with every drop of blood that spilled. His touch was steady, careful, as if you were more precious than anything else in this forsaken place. And to him, you were.

Painter’s digital face flickered on the nearby navipath screen, his expression shifting to something indescribable—an emotion too complex for mere pixels to convey, especially on this tiny screen next to the door. He observed Sebastian with a silent intensity, studying the careful way his grey fingers moved as he worked on you. His glowing eyes flickered, tracing the delicate thread being pulled through decaying skin, before his gaze settled on you—on what was left of you.

Sebastian had become a creature of instinct, driven by something darker, something primal. He had torn through the dark halls of the Blacksite with a violence so raw, so brutal, that it left no room for mercy. Mere Limbs were shredded, layers of soft flesh ripped apart as if it were nothing more than paper beneath his hands. Deep crimson blood had flowed like rivers, drenching the cold metallic floors in a sea of red. The stench of rotting bodies clung to the air, thick and suffocating. He had bathed the Blacksite in death, and yet it was never enough.

He needed more.

Your body, once divine, had begun to rot so long ago. The soft skin of your face, once untouched by time, had long since withered away. Maggots crawled through what remained, eating away at your remaining existing flesh that had shriveled up and lost its radiant color, but Sebastian couldn't see it. Or perhaps he refused to. His eyes, dark and hollow in that shade of blue, only saw the memory of you—the beauty you once held, the light you once gave him. He couldn't bear to lose it.

So, he had followed in Urbanshade’s footsteps. He had learned, in the most twisted way, to preserve you. Piece by piece, he replaced what decayed, ripping parts from the bodies he’d slaughtered, stitching them together with thread, with force, with desperation so solid that it became the foundation of his delusion. He practiced, over and over, perfecting the art of sewing until murder became a ritual, a divine act of art in his mind in the name of creation.

Sebastian Solace had turned the Blacksite into his own cathedral of carnage, a place where death and love were inseparable. He had twisted his devotion into something monstrous, into a grotesque form of art where your body, patched and stitched together from the remains of his victims, was his only masterpiece. His love for you had become a relentless hunger, one that consumed him as completely as it had consumed the bodies he tore apart to keep you whole.

And still, he sat by your side, gently stitching, as if he were mending something sacred.

„Sebastian. They are gone.“

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on you, taking in your once delicate features, trying to grasp at the fading remnants of what you had been. But the longer he bathed in your presence, the more your appearance twisted and warped, a grotesque distortion of the memory he clung to. The rosy tint that had once colored your cheeks was gone, replaced by the sickly pallor of decaying flesh. Your skin, that soft, precious surface he had adored, was now peeling, hanging in ragged strips from your bones, exposing raw, festering meat underneath.

His heart quickened, the rhythm erratic as his mind scrambled for answers that weren't there. Where was the gentle glow in your eyes, the light that had once held him captive? Instead, hollow, sunken sockets stared back at him, their emptiness filled only with the dull sheen of rot. The stench of death clung to you, thick and nauseating, wrapping itself around him, filling his lungs with each breath until the taste of it settled heavy on his tongue.

The skin he had so tenderly sewn was slipping, the stitches frayed and torn, unable to hold together the decomposing mass that had once been you. His hands twitched, instinctively reaching for the needle and thread, desperate to fix it, to make you whole again. But no matter how many times he stitched, how many bodies he tore apart to replace the rotting parts, it was never enough. Your flesh, his precious masterpiece, was slipping away from him.

He could see the maggots now, squirming and writhing beneath the layers of your skin, feasting on what remained. The sight turned his stomach, but he couldn’t look away. He needed to save you—needed to preserve what little of you was left. Yet, the more he tried, the more your body melted into something unrecognizable, a grotesque nightmare that mocked his every attempt at salvation.

He broke like glass and died inside from a pain that couldn't be described with words. In the endless blue eyes were a deep reflection of total confusion as all traces of emotional warmth has left his body. Seconds passed, then minutes and somehow he wasn't sure if life really continued in that moment.

“I tried to eat them,” Sebastian whispered, his voice hollow, as if the confession carried no weight anymore, just a haunting echo in the stagnant air. He hovered above the floor, eyes tracing the dark puddle of blood mixed with filthy water beneath him. His reflection stared back, twisted and ghostly in a liquid that wasn’t even yours.

“After they died... I tried to eat their flesh to preserve them,” he continued, almost as if speaking to himself, his words barely audible. His gaze remained fixed on the pool as if searching for something—an answer, perhaps, or absolution. “I started with their neck... I remember, they loved it when I kissed their neck.”

His hand drifted to his mouth, his voice trembling, though his face remained eerily calm. “I sunk my teeth into the cold flesh... tasted the first drop of blood. I pulled at it, gently tearing away the skin, chewing it like it was some delicate meal. But all I tasted was metal—cold, bitter metal.”

His fingers twitched, reaching out to stroke the grotesque, rotting leg of the decaying mass that sat slumped in the chair, a body that barely resembled what it once had been. Painter, from his place on the screen, watched in silent horror as Sebastian caressed the flesh with disturbing tenderness, as if even now he could find traces of the beauty he once loved.

“It wasn’t like them," he muttered, his voice growing softer, more distant. "It wasn’t what they were. All I could taste was death. Cold, tasteless, soulless death.”

His hand trembled as it slid down the decayed limb, his eyes glazed over, lost in the memory. “But I kept eating... trying to find them in the flesh, in the blood. I devoured piece after piece, convinced that somewhere in the rot, they still existed. And then I woke up.”

His voice cracked, the weight of his confession finally settling in. “And I realized, I had tainted their beauty.”

He paused, staring at the ruin before him, his body still, his mind racing. “I wanted them back. So I began sewing. Stitching them together piece by piece. Everything I ate, I replaced. Everything I destroyed, I repaired. I cut away what was lost, what had withered. And everything that was them... everything that had been theirs... I loved.”

His fingers traced the jagged edges of the sewn flesh, a twisted mockery of the love he once held for you. In his mind, he had preserved you, kept you alive, bound to him through his grotesque ritual. But in the quiet shadows of the Blacksite, all that remained was a macabre testament to his obsession—a reflection of the madness that had consumed him.

And Painter realized, Sebastian is still utterly in love with you.

[d-targaryenshoe]

Love Of Tomorrow - Colin Bridgerton

Word count: 968

Summary: How becoming a father can change a man's feelings, quite strange is it not?

The first light of dawn crept through the heavy curtains, casting a soft golden glow over the room.

Colin Bridgerton lay on his back, head propped on pillows, gazing at the two people who had become his entire world.

Beside him, you, his beloved wife, slept peacefully, your hair spread across the pillow like a halo.

Nestled between you, in a tiny cradle of blankets, was your newborn son, a perfect bundle of warmth and innocence.

Colin’s heart swelled with an emotion so profound he could hardly find words for it.

He had always imagined what it might be like to become a father, but nothing had prepared him for the sheer depth of love and protectiveness that surged through him every time he looked at his child.

The baby, with its tiny, delicate features and the softest skin, seemed almost too perfect to be real.

Every breath his son took, every little noise he made, felt like a miracle.

Colin gently brushed his fingers over the baby’s tiny hand.

The infant stirred slightly but did not wake.

Colin marveled at the small fingers, so perfectly formed, and felt a lump in his throat.

He couldn’t believe that this little life was his to care for, protect, and love.

You stirred beside him, your eyes fluttering open.

You smiled softly as you took in the sight of your husband gazing down at your child.

“You’re still awake,” you whispered, your voice thick with sleep.

Colin turned to you, his eyes shining with happiness. “I can’t seem to take my eyes off him,” he confessed, his voice filled with awe.

You smiled and reached out to touch his cheek. “I know the feeling,” you said softly. “But you need to rest too, Colin. You’ve barely slept since he was born.”

Colin shook his head. “I don’t want to miss a single moment,” he said, his voice catching slightly. “Every time I close my eyes, I feel like I’m missing something.”

Your heart melted at his words.

You had always known that Colin would make a wonderful father, but seeing him now, so completely and utterly in love with your son, filled you with a happiness that you could hardly contain.

“Why don’t you hold him for a bit?” you suggested, your eyes twinkling with affection.

Colin hesitated, a look of uncertainty crossing his face. “Are you sure? What if I wake him up?”

You chuckled softly. “He's your son, Colin. He's used to your voice, your touch."

"Besides,” you added with a mischievous grin, “you’re going to have to get used to holding him at some point.”

Colin nodded, though he still looked a little apprehensive.

Carefully, he reached out and lifted the baby from the cradle of blankets, cradling the tiny body against his chest.

The baby made a small noise but then settled back into sleep, the tiny head resting against Colin’s heart.

Colin felt a surge of emotion so intense it took his breath away.

Holding his son in his arms, feeling the soft rise and fall of his tiny chest, he felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility.

This little life was so fragile, so precious, and it was up to him to keep him safe.

You watched him, your heart full.

You could see the love and wonder in Colin’s eyes, and it made you love him even more.

You had always admired Colin’s carefree spirit, his sense of adventure, and his boundless energy.

But seeing him now, so gentle and tender with your child, made you realize just how deep his capacity for love truly was.

“You’re a natural,” you whispered, your voice full of admiration.

Colin looked up at you, his eyes shining with gratitude. “I don’t know about that,” he said, his voice tinged with humility. “But I’m going to do my best.”

You smiled and leaned in to kiss him gently on the lips. “You’re going to be an amazing father,” you said with certainty.

Colin smiled back at you, his heart full. “And you,” he said softly, “are already an amazing mother.”

You blushed slightly at the compliment, but your eyes sparkled with happiness.

You had always known that motherhood would be challenging, but having Colin by your side made everything feel possible.

For a while, you simply sat there in the quiet of the early morning, taking in the wonder of your new family.

The world outside could wait.

At this moment, everything you needed was right here, in this room.

As the sun continued to rise, filling the room with a warm, golden light, Colin felt a deep sense of contentment settle over him.

This was his life now, and he couldn’t imagine anything more perfect.

Every adventure, every journey he had ever taken, had led him to this moment, to this little family that he loved more than anything in the world.

“I think we should stay in bed all day,” Colin said suddenly, his voice filled with a playful determination.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? And what about your duties? Your responsibilities?”

Colin shook his head. “Nothing is more important than this,” he said, his voice firm. “I want to spend every possible moment with you and our son.”

You smiled, your heart swelling with love for the man you had married. “Then it’s settled,” you said with a grin. “We’ll stay in bed all day.”

Colin beamed at you, his heart light with happiness.

He leaned over and kissed you, a sweet, lingering kiss that spoke of all the love he felt for you.

When you finally pulled apart, Colin settled back against the pillows, holding your child close.

As the day went on, the three of you stayed in bed, wrapped up in each other and in the joy of your new family.

[adoresia]

— Morning Monologue

pairing : Dad!Gojo satoru x reader

synopsis : The comedic chaos of parenthood unfolds as Gojo Satoru rambles on about his dreams for his baby in the early morning light. While Gojo’s enthusiastic monologues flow freely, his little one’s unimpressed expressions provide a humorous contrast. This light-hearted tale captures the blend of love and laughter that defines their bond, showcasing Gojo's playful spirit and the delightful challenges of being a dad.

warnings : nothing just fluff

sierra speaks : based on DDG and Halo cause they’re tooo funny 😭😭

It was barely dawn, sunlight creeping through the curtains, and the entire apartment was quiet—except for Gojo Satoru, who was wide awake and talking non-stop. He was lounging in bed, his silver hair messy from sleep, but his voice still full of that typical Gojo energy, as he rambled on and on to the tiny baby cradled in his arms.

“Y’know, being the strongest sorcerer in the world is kinda like being the best dad,” Gojo mused, staring at his baby’s wide eyes. “No pressure, just perfection in every department. You’re lucky, kiddo, you’ve got me to show you the ropes. Infinite Void? You’ll be a natural.”

Your baby—still too young to even comprehend the wild words flying over his tiny head—looked up at him, blinking, seemingly processing none of it. Instead, his expression was... well, let’s say less than impressed.

You were laying on the other side of the bed, half-asleep, but listening to this morning monologue unfold. It was a regular occurrence at this point—Gojo waking up, deciding that 6 AM was the perfect time for his fatherly wisdom. The baby had no choice but to listen, a captive audience to Gojo’s self-proclaimed brilliance.

“And you’re gonna have the coolest techniques, just like me. You’ll have all the girls—well, maybe not all the girls, 'cause you know, I’m taken,” he said with a wink in your direction. You let out a soft snore to pretend you were asleep, hoping to dodge the goofiness. Gojo chuckled before turning back to the baby. “But anyway, you’re gonna be the coolest kid in Jujutsu society. And don’t get me started on that hair—everyone’s gonna love it. You got my genes, so we’re basically unbeatable.”

The baby squirmed, still half-listening (if that). But then, there it was—the moment you'd been waiting for: Your baby gave his father the dirtiest side-eye you had ever seen. Even at this young age, your baby had inherited the sass. The look was a mixture of annoyance and “can you not?”—like he was silently begging for some peace.

Gojo froze mid-sentence, his eyes widening in mock horror. “Oh, so that’s how it is, huh?” he said, feigning heartbreak. “You’re already tired of me? My own flesh and blood? I see how it is. Fine, I’ll just—" He dramatically rolled over to the other side of the bed, away from the baby. “I’ll be over here, not talking, since apparently I’m too much for my own child.”

The room was silent for a beat—until you couldn’t hold it in anymore. You burst out laughing, turning over to face them. “Gojo, if you don’t leave my baby alone!”

Gojo rolled back toward you, grinning that signature smile, like he knew exactly what he was doing all along. “Just trying to pass down some of the legendary Gojo wisdom. Can’t help it if my kid’s a little too young to appreciate it.”

You shook your head, still laughing. “He’s not even a year old, Satoru. Give him a break.”

Gojo smirked, leaning in to give the baby a gentle kiss on the forehead. “Alright, alright. I’ll save the life lessons for later. But just wait till he’s old enough to understand—then he’s in for it.”

You smiled, watching them both. Even though Gojo’s constant chatter could be a lot—especially so early in the morning—there was something endearing about it. He was fully committed to this dad thing, and even when the baby wasn’t feeling it, Gojo made sure to bring the fun, every single time.

[starmocha]

Remember when I said the Grassland!Sylus childhood friends/arranged marriage/soulmates AU was at around 4.6k words?

she grew and I still have like three scenes I need to finish writing, but instead of doing that, I kept writing new scenes and...I think I lost control of the story and my life (╥_╥)

So I'm posting another snippet, because...my brain is tired and I really, really, really want to finish this by Sunday because I have another AU wip that I'm also obsessed with I mean I need to finish part 3 of that other Sylus breeding kink fic I promise it's coming

Reminder that this story will include light breeding kink, pregnancy kink, smut, body worship, gratuitous usages of terms of endearment ("my bride" and "my beloved"), Sylus being grossly in love with you, basically lots of fluff. Anyhoo...

The following morning you were lazing in the field as the flock of sheep grazed peacefully all around you. The warm sunlight had you yawning, already feeling yourself being lured by the tempting sun into drifting back to sleep. As the time passed, your eyes felt heavier, and you nodded off a little. Another yawn escaped before you decided a few minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt. Slowly, you closed your eyes, letting them rest for a few minutes. “Is this what you do when I’m not here?” You immediately opened your eyes when you heard Sylus’ approaching voice. You let out a soft surprised squeak when he knelt down next to you, his face looming just mere inches from yours. He was smirking. “Lazing around and sleeping? What if your sheep gets stolen by wild beasts, my beloved?” You glared at him. “I was not sleeping. I…was blinking.” “Your eyes were closed for far longer than a blink should be.” “I had some dust in my eyes.” “I’m quite sure I heard you snoring.” You blushed and shoved his face aside, glowering when he started laughing at you. “Did you come all the way out here just to tease me?” “Mmhmm,” he answered with a pleased nod as he sat back with his legs propped up. His elbow rested on top of his leg while he cradled his chin in his hand. You noticed in his other hand was a wreath crafted from leaves and berries. Your heart quickened and you gasped softly. You looked at him expectantly. It was at that moment that you noticed the dark bags under his eyes. You crawled over to him and he sat back, allowing you to settle in between his long legs. You reached up and touched his face. “Did you not sleep last night?” you asked him worriedly. He simply smiled and shook his head. Without a word, Sylus placed the wreath on top of your head. You reached up and touched it tentatively as you looked at him confused. “I wanted to finish this for you,” he explained, smiling, “Just as I had thought. This suits you.” “R-really?” “Mmhmm,” he hummed again, nodding. He leaned in to steal your lips. “You look beautiful.” “Sylus…” You could feel your cheeks warming up as he spoke. “Now everyone will know you are mine and I am yours.” You felt touched by his gesture. Without thinking, you threw your arms around his neck, surprising him into losing his balance. Sylus laid on the grass with you on top of him. You grinned and kissed him happily. He looked up, gasping softly when he saw the sunlight had formed a radiant halo behind your head. How…ethereal... He smiled, his hand gently grasped your chin, his thumb brushing over your soft, trembling lips. “We are already promised to one another,” he said, “but if I may be presumptuous, I would still like to ask.” You looked down at him confused. “My beloved,” he said, voice soft and sincere, “will you be my bride?” You stroked his cheek, and as you leaned down closer to his face, your wreath tilted on your head. “What do you think?” He smiled. “Your wreath is going to fall off.” “You’ll put it back on for me, right?” He huffed in amusement at your audacious question, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, reaching up to fix the wreath for you, “I will…my bride.” For that brief moment, you felt like your heart had stopped, and then you smiled again as you leaned in and kissed him, feeling his strong arms wrapped around you and holding you close to his body. “This is my vow to you, my bride” he said, “There is only you in my eyes. In this life and all of the lifetimes afterwards, I will always choose you.” “Same for me,” you answered, gazing back at him fondly. You stroked his cheek, letting yourself drown in those passionate crimson eyes. “I will always find you,” you promised, “In all of our lives together, I will always find you and choose you, my love.” Your ardent words beckoned his lips to yours, and for the rest of the day, you lay together under the warm morning sun on the grassland, lost in your own world of bliss.

[angelesca]

𝐯𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥

☽˚.⋆ “𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐡𝐦?” ☽˚.⋆ make a deal with the devil, and pay the price w.c. ¬700 // content: devil!sunday x gn!reader, pseudo-marriage(?), blood, vague violence (but includes "slit neck"), sunday is kinda dominant here, a teeeny smidge of "enemies-lovers"

𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬. it is unforgiving; it slices and splits the latitude of its white canvas. wounds along the roof gape open, sunlight bleeding through the lacerations. it gleams atop the rouge galore. you sink to your knees, weak.

you beg with yourself desperately, to restrain the morbid curiosity and force your eyes anywhere but the sinister that lurked below. by your knees were bodies you used to know. 

“a deal… but only the devil makes deals.”  you replay the conversation only minutes ago.

the man sat on the altar, folding one leg over the other. his lips curved amusedly, “is that so?” 

your mouth contorts into unreadable shapes, imitating the phantoms of words, “you… r–really did it,” your lips quiver. 

red blood freezes solid blue in your veins. all that you have left to offer is cold flesh.

“i have rid of your enemies, foes, all that dared to oppose you. this was my end of the negotiation. and now, i will have you grant your half of the deal.”

peering at malice personified, you wonder how this was fair? his appearance is as chaste as angels, but his words bare its blade, threatening your neck and piercing skin. you have nothing to protect yourself with, but hands calloused with prayers, gripping the sword at bay as you attempt to intimidate him with a sharp stare – a weapon of your own. what else could you do but fight for your life? 

the devil pushes himself off the altar table, each step sinking into the blood from the bodies he reaped. he paid less than a penny to the thought of the mutilated corpses. they were nothing but meagre pests, their remains rotting like disease on his shoes.

he stares down at you from his standing position. his shadow dominates over your body, eyes watching. lifting your chin, he inspects the quality of his novel toy.

you meet his eyes, a quiet whisper, “what do you want with me…?”

“you know that already, don’t you?” his silvery tongue is honed with venom, fingers slithering along your jaw. the serpent coils himself around you.

you pay it no mind, competing with his stare. 

he smirks, eyes rolling in disbelief. perhaps this toy is faulty. “you accepted the terms of our deal. is your revenge not satisfactory?”

the harsh texture of his gloves play with the softness of your skin, tracing the length of your neck.

you grit your teeth. there is no escaping; the contract establishes your soul under his submission.

“fine.” you decide to pay the price. “it is only fair…” your voice trails off, mouth trapped in static.

those golden eyes of his are darkly vampiric, syphoning your determination which fuels him. you are his livestock, hooked upside down with a slit neck, dripping blood into his mouth. a chill runs down your spine. 

he crouches in front of you, hand cradling your cheek as his thumb wipes away your pearling sweat. he hums, “good.” the sun praises him with golden radiance, his glorious halo reigning high over his head like a crown. he rules over you, commands you. completely, entirely, and wholly his.

“say my name.” and seal your fate.

the atmosphere constricts– sudden– your breathing. hitches. heavy air… lack of oxygen… his eyes orbit your features, glimpsing into your universe, observing you inside out. you choke out the name that is forced roughly in your throat: “... sun…day…” 

“do you pledge to be mine?” sunday kisses your ring finger, the weight of commitment encircling it, locking eyes with you to ensure that you witness the officiating. you are his, but he is not yours. 

the exhange of vows, a finality which binds your life to his. this must be his sick idea of a marriage, but you do not sense his earnestness. it is more akin to a predator playing with his food before consuming it.

your jaw clenches, gaining back your breath as you entertain his fantasy, “... i do.”

“yet, you look like you want me dead.” sunday nuzzles into your neck, hiding a smirk. “my spouse is quite charming, hm?”

a/n: originally this was nsfw *bonk* but it felt awkward as i built up the plot so i removed it lol. if anyone wants, i can post it as an extra part on my ao3?^^ if the ending feels rushed, it's because it's 3am for me and im tired ahaha thanks for reading!🐕