#he was there when bad lost his color

[qnpc04]

this clip makes my heart ache so bad and i don’t even know how to explain why it’s just fusosodldk

[itspileofgoodthings]

so many people have said that as you approach your 30’s things start to fall into place but I don’t feel that at all. the closer I get the more it feels that everything is dissolving and falling apart

[whos-hotter-jjba]

Hottest JJBA Outfit Bracket - Round 1 Match 44

[p4nishers]

i know some people already pointed it out but like. eddie was in black. BLACK. he was in LITERAL MOURNING CLOTHES. he was already mourning. already prepared for the worst.

[sunni-stuff]

Everything changed when that pregnancy test read positive.

The day you fumbled into his office, bearing what you thought to be bad news, John's excited face threw you for a loop.

Wasn't he supposed to be upset? Tell you that he didn't want to have a kid with someone he didn't fully care about? Why was he crying? Why did he embrace you so tenderly?

"I'll be there for both of you, Dovie," Price reassures in the nook of your neck, arms caging you against his chest.

Take care of both of you.

Both?

"M-Mr. Price, with all due respect—"

Price cuts off your protests. He leads you out of his office. His large hand grips your waist more possessively. "Go rest your feet up in the lounge; I'll take care of everything." His lips press to the crown of your head, ushering you away gently at the reception entrance.

You were supposed to have one fun night, not to be locked in for the rest of your lives.

Your days of working at a desk were replaced with John's house. It was far from the bustling base you had grown used to. The space was warm and homey. Bits of memorabilia were scattered about. Medals adorned the walls, and old photos sat on the shelves.

John said you only have one job now: making yourself at home.

There was so much space that you didn't know where to start or even how to start! It's not like there was a plan for having your boss's child! So much was happening so fast it left you overwhelmed, sitting on his couch with nervous hands. "Mr. Price, I'm really not sure about all this; I mean... what we did was a big mistake, right?"

From upstairs, you hear John laugh. He's been up there all morning, fixing the nursery for your child. He wanted to create a special room for them, saying that his kid deserves nothing but the best. Heavy footsteps announce his presence as he closes the distance between you. Calloused fingers grip your chin, forcing you to look into his ocean eyes. "You don't want this?"

His touch has you melting, words dying on your lips as you get lost in those eyes. God, why did he look at you that way? Churning like laundry, your gut writhes. A violent spin cycle grips your innards, knotting and wrenching them mercilessly. "I never—I never said that; I just think we're taking things too fast, don't you?" The half-hearted mumble escapes your lips, unconvincing even to yourself.

John's expression shifts; his eyebrow raises in slight scrutiny. "If you believed that, you wouldn't be here."

He's right.

"I do-"

He cuts in swiftly, voice firm. "You don't."

John's grasp tightens on your chin. He leans in, eyes intense. Your heart races. His lips brush yours. The kiss—chaste yet electric. A moment suspended in time. Emotions flood through you both, unspoken but palpable. "You have me. Whatever you want is yours, all you have to do is say the word."

John waits, poised for your word. His eyes betray a craving—silent, deep, and raw.

He belongs to you. He's all yours.

Your lips purse in a line, lip caught between your teeth.

Anything you want?

"I don't like the color of the nursey..."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

P1

❥ I wasn't originally gonna do a part 2 but... I really like this one, next fic will be longer, possibly fluff and smut maybe who knows ❥

[bluebeads-art]

As the flash hits your eye, you feel something crashing into you from all directions. Below you is obvious, Bonbon situated themself to bump into you while the picture was taken. You look to your right, and Mirabelle’s cheek is pressed up to yours. On your left, Isabeau’s sheepishly hugged you to his side. There’s a hand in your hair, too, and it feels like Madame Odile. [...] “We need a souvenir of this trip,” Mirabelle adds. She rushes to the ground to pick up the picture and snort-laughs as she looks at it. “Oh no, Siffrin looks like we’re holding him hostage!” — Curtain Call, Chapter 9, by @openphrase123 (Link in the replies)

2024 October 22nd

Fanfic fanart fanfic fanart!! When I read the "hostage" line, it invoked such a clear image in my head of Siffrin tensed up like a startled prey animal that it got added to my list of things to maybe draw immediately.

Dooon't think about the words 'left' and 'right' in that quote too hard. I know how to read I prommy. :) (I did Not process those words and lost the coin flip in the composition phase...)

Close-up and ramblings about the cans of worms I unleashed upon myself under the cut

Time taken on this was [head in hands] 48 hours and 37 minutes.... That bloated number has two culprits:

1) I got a new tablet! My old one was 10 years old. Its plastic was melting and the electronics had ghosts in 'em, so it needed the sweet release of retirement. However, I had just gotten to the line art phase when the switch happened. Clumsily getting used to the new one during the most precise phase of the process did devastating things to my perfectionism.

2) I made a GRAVE mistake with how I chose to color this. I wanted to keep the grayscale layers for accuracy instead of just slapping a B&W filter over the colored version, so all the colors come from gradient maps, color balance layers, overlay layers, and raster layers clipped to other layers. Listen. I'm used to working with lots of layers. I like keeping things separate so I can edit them more easily. But this is the worst layer system I have ever created. Going from color to B&W requires toggling exactly 20 layers & folders on or off. There are 87 visible layers total. This file lags when you edit it. I've never wanted CSP v1.13 to have layer comps more in my life.

Not helping matters was Isabeau. I said he was the easiest to draw in my last post, but he took that as a challenge, apparently. It's a simple fist-on-hip pose, why was that so hard!?! His face gave me grief too.

Odile's lil' wave got added at the end of the line art phase. I've never added to a sketch that late in the game before, but I felt bad about how little screen area she got, haha. Girl, I tried, but this composition was not kind to you.

Giving Isa, Odile, and Siffrin skin colors felt cursed. Well... "color" is maybe a stretch for Sif. The pallor from being affection-jumpscared isn't helping. In the dev's nose reveal post, they said that Siffrin isn't white but is white-passing, so BOOM albinism headcanon. Like c'mon, they wear a big hat and have most of their skin covered because the sun is a deadly laser when you have little to no melanin and idk if sunblock exists in-universe. Heck, maybe most Islanders have it, their whole religion is about the night sky so maybe they're nocturnal. This makes perfect sense. :)

[spideyjimin]

Wait for your love | jjk (teaser)

—  pairing: firefighter!jungkook x female reader 

—  genre: kind of exes to lovers, parents au, angst, fluff, and smut 

— rating: 18+ 

—  summary: sixteen years ago, your life was turned upside down when you surrendered to the temptation — none other than jungkook, the star basketball player on your school’s team. today, after all that time, you reunite under tragic circumstances; a car crash where he saves your life.

—  words: 577

—  author’s note: here you have the teaser of the fic i’m currently working on 🤗 you have a tiny little teaser below & i hope you’ll enjoy it ❤️

—  tag list: let me know in any way if you want to be tagged when i post this and if you are part of my permanent taglist, you will automatically be added ✨

Jungkook and his team got called for a car accident involving several cars, and when they arrived, the scene was horrific.

There are probably five cars pressed and smashed one against the other. There are people injured and bleeding walking around the scene. Paramedics are already taking care of them, but Jungkook is walking to the cars to retrieve the people stuck inside. His captain screams orders and tells him which car he should go to.

His eyes look around, his heart breaking when he sees everyone involved and still stuck in their cars. Visions like this are quite common for him, it doesn’t happen all the time but it’s still recurrent. At the end of the day, his job is to save people in this type of situation.

When he reaches the car, he was assigned to, he takes a look at how many people there are inside. There’s just one person, a woman behind the steering wheel. She has her hand on her head, clearly showing that she might have a headache. She doesn’t really move. Instantly, Jungkook tries to open the door, but it’s showing a bit of resistance.

It feels impossible to open the door, but Jungkook sees the woman’s head falling. He’s getting worrier; she’s slumping into sleep which isn’t a good sign as she was holding her head barely seconds ago. He then proceeds to break the window so he can try to open it from inside. There are other possible ways, but it would be harder and more dangerous to get her out of the vehicle.

“Ma’am,” he says with urge.

Eventually, he manages to open the damn door from the inside. A good part of the car’s front is crashing into her. Before even thinking of taking her out, he places a cervical collar to protect her neck and spine.

“Ma’am,” he repeats. “Can you hear me?”

She doesn’t answer at all. Jungkook gets closer, his fingers brushing the hair from her face, but when he finally gets to properly see the woman’s face, his heart skips a beat. This woman is none other than you. His mind can’t start to get lost in the past right now. He needs to focus on taking you out of the car.   

You’re in pretty bad shape.

There’s blood on your forehead, you most probably have a wound on top of your head. There’s also blood at the level of your stomach, turning your green shirt into a very dark color. He can distinguish a big fragment of glass shoved into your belly. It doesn’t look good. Your legs are also completely smashed by the front, causing the steering wheel to be very close to your body.  Hopefully, your legs aren’t too injured. He doesn’t even want to start thinking about all the bruises on your body.

Slowly, he places one hand behind your back while his other hand slowly pushes your legs. He’s trying to be as careful as possible to avoid causing any other injury.  His strong arms hold you once he manages to fully remove you from the car. His eyes look down at your face with evident pain. He notices how you’re trying to open your eyes which makes him think that you’re trying to fight the urge to fall asleep.

“Yn,” he says while walking to an ambulance. “Please, stay with me,” he whispers with despair. “I’ve finally found you, and I can’t lose you right away.”

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

SAGAU where the Creator is slain once, accused of being an imposter, and reborn as... a Melusine.

there's screaming and pain, the sensation of a thin blade digging into your chest- then nothing. nothing but the soft melody of running water. tentatively you open your eyes are met with dancing colors and shapes, little shell houses and baubles making a small, cozy village. your hands have become mittens, your skin swirling with pretty patterns, a pair of antennae sprouting from your head, and where there were previously cuts dripping with blood have turned to markings that shimmer slightly in the light. another Melusine approaches you and asks if you're lost, and when you merely shrug she introduces herself as Cosanzeana and shows you her slowly growing flower garden.

it's nice here, in Merusea Village. unlike the rest of Teyvat, the Melusine don't know nor care much about any sort of Creator myths- they came from Elynas, after all- so they happily regard you as a sibling who simply got lost on the way. finally you're free from the world above, everyone who chases and tries to harm you, spending your days collecting components to trade and swimming beneath the waves. Mamere in particular becomes a close friend, both of you regarded as a little strange but still beloved by all your siblings. she shows you her artwork and you help her collect paint, and in the coldest nights when you're swarmed by bad dreams, you tell her of your previous life as she swears to keep it a secret.

the only time you venture out into the far caverns alone is when you meet a familiar face- Childe's Foul Legacy form. you always loved the transformation, when Teyvat was just a game on your computer, but now you hastily hop a few steps back. the others treated you as a fraud, tearing at your skin until you gave in and died- he would be exactly the same. but Foul Legacy just blinks, slowly crouching to your height and staring into your eyes, speckled with tiny stars. he trills quietly in awe, then lowers his head into a bow in presence of the true Creator.

the other Melusine cluster around you when you bring him back to Merusea, curiously poking at his armor and glittery wings. you all see him as beautiful, and he is beautiful! Legacy stays with you in the village, accepted with open arms, much like Seymour stayed with Mamere for a time, and it becomes common to see a slightly sparkly Melusine running around with an Abyssal beast at their heels. he swims with you, navigating through the Primordial Sea, and shields you from any outsiders that happen to appear, the ones who dared to harm his Creator so horribly.

you, a Melusine, and Foul Legacy, your protector and best friend.

[nochepsicodelica]

Bear boyfriend Toji who dreads getting sick more than the average person. He gets so grumpy during this little stunt in his health because he can't do much besides manage his harsh cough and runny nose, rest in bed and eat, but that's not even what he's most upset about. He's so pissed off that he can't be around you, unless he wants to get you sick too.

Oh, but you make it so hard on him. Walking into the room with a mug of tea with that smile that could nurse anyone back to health. You linger for longer than you should, even after he told you that if you're in there for too long, you'll get sick too. It's an annoying dilemma because on one end, watching you be sick is one of the most heart wrenching things he's ever seen. Like him, you pretend that you're fine, when really you feel so debilitated by the virus that invaded your immune system. You tell him you feel better, but your hearing is muffled and your voice is gravelly and doesn't seem to be recovering quickly. Toji sees right through it and his protective instincts kick in. He insists on doing everything necessary to get you back up and running. On the other end, he wants to see you and kiss you and just hold onto you through this horrible time he's having. He hasn't kissed you in almost three days. It really sucks that he's sick, but it's entirely unfair that you can't be near him. There is truly so much for him to be reasonably grumpy about.

"Hey, you're gonna get wrinkles on your handsome face," you say, smoothing down the crease between his eyebrows with your thumb. "Do you really want me out of here that bad?"

He sighs. Your cool hands are heaven on his burning skin. "You know I don't, ma," he croaks out, pulling your hand down from his face and holding it. "I want you here, but you can't stay."

"Baby, you lost your pretty color. You look like a zombie, but also, it's killing me to only be allowed to check on you once every hour. I think it's time I come sleep in here, again."

"No," he protests, while shaking his head. He wishes he had rethought the gesture once he's steady again. He feels like he shook his brain and his head hurts, now.

"Toji, i'm taking care of you. I'm sleeping in our bed, tonight. I'm more worried about you than I am about getting sick."

He wants to laugh at how you sound like a mother scolding her child, but he knows it'll throw him into a nasty coughing fit. He can't argue with you too much in this state. He doesn't want to argue anyway. You care and it feels nice.

"If I get sick, I get sick," you say, settling down next to him, on your side of the bed.

Toji has never been one to pull the 'woe is me' card, but when you're smothering him with so much affection and cooing at him while caressing his uncomfortably warm face, it's hard not to lean into it. You relieve his discomfort with your methods of care. Be it medicinal remedies or your extra love and affection, even your patience. You weren't the one who proposed keeping distance from him. You didn't want to sleep on the couch those last couple nights, but you did it for the sake of letting Toji be comfortable. He's your lover and you don't see a reason to avoid him, like what he has is something more fatal. His contagiousness is disregarded, because it doesn't matter.

You know he would do the same for you so you don't wrinkle your nose when he starts feeling safe enough to nuzzle into you and sluggishly kiss you, while clinging onto you. He's extra clingy, too. Your body is a lot cooler than his, so it feels nice when he rests his cheek on your chest or when his hot, clammy hands go to your arms. You don't turn away or block your face when he coughs. You rub menthol onto his reddened chest and neck, and watch as he grins dumbly when his nose clears up for a little. When he falls asleep, you stay with him, even if he doesn't wake up for the next five hours. You watch over him and only get up to grab things that are necessary, like his medicine, some water, and a damp towel to wipe the sweat off his forehead and neck.

He takes on the role of the little spoon when you take care of him. Being pampered by you makes him feel small in all the best ways. He feels protected, like you're his guardian. It's really as if the only remedy he needs is you. The expanse of your love for him is unquantifiable, but when you wrap your smaller arms around him and press featherlight kisses onto his skin, it's like a force field that blankets him.

[peachylynnie]

gift exchange

word count: 2.4k

synopsis: in which you get sick on christmas, and sylus is there to make it better.

contains: sylus x mc!reader (not dating but sylus is down bad), christmas themes, a singular reference to his myth, a singular reference to grassland romance, mentions and consumption of food, suggestive themes, cursing, angst, and fluff.

a/n: i got sick. again. on christmas too. you know what that means. sylus time! on a related note, i hope everyone had a wonderful christmas. my rafayel fic is gonna upload soon as well. enjoy! reblogs and comments always welcome! do NOT copy or translate my work. sylus does NOT endorse plagiarism.

you curse as you rip open a hot chocolate packet. "sick on christmas," you grumble as you pour the contents into a mug. "how the fuck is that even possible."

of course, anyone can get sick at any time. it's inevitable. but, seriously? of all the days the pain in your throat and ears could have appeared, it just HAD to be on fucking christmas day. sure, it's not like you had any plans. normally you would celebrate with grandma and caleb by feasting on countless dishes and singing christmas songs from an old karaoke machine caleb swears isn't broken. but they're not around anymore.

you sigh miserably as you trudge over to the water dispenser for hot water, not wanting to think about your lost family. as you press the button for hot water, you lean against the dispenser, trying to figure out what you're going to do for the rest of the day. you were planning on visiting the market to make a nice dinner or perhaps order takeout at your favorite restaurant. but those are no longer viable options since your throat is killing you and your ears are incessantly burning. maybe you can order delivery? but that means you're going to have to clean up afterward, and you did NOT want to clean anything at the moment, especially with the state you're in.

shaking your head, you bring your mug back to the kitchen counter and search for a spoon.

"water for hot chocolate? i'm disappointed, sweetie."

you jump, an "oh, fuck!" leaving your mouth. sylus had materialized in front of you, a plastic bag in his left hand and a present box in his right. not like you noticed though. you were too startled by his sudden appearance. "what the fuck, sylus?! can't you knock?!"

"no," he deadpans, placing the bag and box on the kitchen counter. his fingers make quick work of untying the double knot on the bag. "besides," he spares you a glance. "i don't think someone who uses water to make their hot chocolate deserves a knock."

you roll your eyes. of course he fixates on that and doesn't explain why he's in your crappy apartment slandering you instead of downing at LEAST three glasses of wine in his luxurious penthouse on christmas day too. "well, screw me for being lazy, i guess," you mumble, crossing your arms.

"don't tempt me."

"huh?"

"what?"

you shoot him a look before grabbing your mug and heading to the other side of the kitchen counter. sitting on your squeaky high chair, you ask, "why are you here, sylus?"

he takes out a styrofoam container and opens its lid. immediately, the comforting smell of miso greets you. as sylus opens a cabinet to retrieve a pot (you don't question how he knows where to find it), you try to look at what else is in the plastic bag. tilting your upper body, you notice another container and hope it has some rice inside. what you don't notice is sylus' breath hitching when he turns back to you after pouring the miso soup into the pot and turning on the stove.

you were wearing a nice, loose top in your favorite color. except, its neck portion was completely cut off, leaving your collarbone and shoulders deliciously exposed. and because you were leaning on your side to take a look at what he had brought you (he loves when you're curious about anything involving him), the sleeve was slowly yet surely sliding down your arm, threatening to show a cup of your bra.

sylus instantly turns back to the stove, even though the miso soup shows no signs of boiling. rubbing a hand over his face, he shakes his head. no, he's not here to ogle at you (the top looks really good on you, and fuck, did your bra cup your breasts really nicely). he's here to take care of you. earlier, mephisto alerted him you were taking some cough drops. and knowing you, you probably didn't have any food on hand to sustain you through your sickness, given his last (secret) visit to your apartment to stock your (empty) fridge. taking a deep breath, sylus returns to the kitchen counter, reaching for the other container. he notices your inquisitive eyes.

"i'm here because it's christmas." he opens the container, and to your delight, it's omurice. marveling at how fluffy the omelette looks and how savory the fried rice appears, you almost miss his answer.

"huh?" you frown. "you're here because it's christmas?"

"is that not what i just said?" sylus jests as he plates the omurice and places it in your microwave.

"well," you start carefully. "shouldn't you have better things to do? like take luke and kieran shopping or pop open another bottle of wine because woo! christmas!"

the silver-haired man shakes his head with a chuckle, propping his hands on the kitchen counter. you try not to focus on his exposed forearms too much. forget the omurice and miso soup; you'll take his arms instead.

"first of all, luke and kieran are busy—"

"on christmas?!"

"yes, sweetie, on christmas." he raises a brow at you for interrupting. you drag your sleeve back up sheepishly.

"second of all, what makes you think i haven't already indulged in a bottle of wine today?" he tilts his head and crosses his arms, gazing at you with a hint of amusement in his ruby eyes.

you pout and look away. "fair point, i guess."

enjoying your cute reaction, sylus returns his attention to the stove. pleased to find the miso soup boiling, he turns off the stove and takes out a bowl from your cabinet (again, how does he know where to find that?). using a ladle to pour into the bowl, he hums a little tune. you try not to snicker at how terrible he sounds. after sliding a bowl of soup and a plate of omurice to you, sylus plants his elbows on the counter and rests his chin on a palm, allowing him a perfect view of his beloved (though you don't know you're his beloved yet; luke and kieran called him a loser before getting their asses handed to them).

"uh," you look at sylus, then at the food, and then sylus again. "you're not going to eat?"

he shakes his head. "i already ate before coming here."

hesitantly, you pick up your utensils. "you know you technically haven't answered my question, right?"

"i'll tell you once you finish." sylus responds immediately. it's almost as if he knew what you were going to say.

no longer wanting to torture your stomach, you cut into the omurice and take a bite. "mmm!" you cover your mouth as you chew. the softness of the egg, the savoriness of the fried rice—oh, you're in heaven. "this tastes really good, sylus!" you take a sip of the miso soup as well. not only does the warm broth soothe your throat, but the spice that comes with it clears up your sinuses, ceasing the burn in your ears.

the man in front of you can't help but smile at the sight. you, in your most vulnerable, beautiful state, enjoying his cooking. he could die a happy man here. and it wouldn't be the first time his cause of death is you. not that he minds or anything.

"thank you, sylus." you take a few more bites before swallowing. "seriously, i needed this."

"i know, sweetie," he says gently. "i know."

you glare at him, but not with as much malice as you used to. "did mephisto snitch on me or something?"

sylus lets out a laugh before grabbing the present box and joining you on the other side of the counter. "he simply saw a poor little hunter in need of some saving."

"since when does being sick mean needing saving?" you mutter as you set your utensils down, having finished the meal. you make a mental note to ask where he got the food. you're definitely going to visit wherever this exquisite meal came from (the man sitting next to you would die if he knew you wanted to visit his place).

sylus hands you the present box, causing your eyes to widen as you finally process its existence. "merry christmas, sweetie."

instead of accepting it, you jump out of your seat and dash to your room, though not without yelling a "wait here!" your heart beats rapidly as you open your closet door, your eyes landing on a small box wrapped in glossy black paper. yes, you were planning on spending christmas alone. yes, you were planning on giving this to sylus as nonchalantly as possible AFTER christmas (as much as he infuriates you, you still wanted to gift him something. why? you're not sure). and yet, here you are, holding the gift to your chest as you sprint back to the kitchen. "here," you pant as you thrust your gift into his lap. "merry christmas, sylus."

now it's his turn to be surprised. peering at what you just put in his lap, sylus can't help but blush profusely. you gifted him something. you actually gifted him something. you went out of your way to buy something for him. you thought of him. sylus brings a hand to his mouth, his fingers gripping the sides of his face hard. oh, you're too much. it's taking him everything to not crash himself into you and hold you tightly with his arms, to press himself so deeply into you until there is no chance in heaven or hell you could be separated from him.

"sylus?" you snap him out of his thoughts. "you okay?"

he blinks. "ah." releasing his face from his grip, sylus looks at you with a composed smile. "i'm alright, sweetie. thank you for the gift," he says as he starts unwrapping.

"it's not much," you say shyly. "thank you for your gift too. i'll open it after you finish opening yours."

sylus nods as he opens the box. his lips part when he finds what lies inside. a pair of black gloves, thermal lined with genuine fleece and adorned with adjustable straps. but most importantly, embroidery by your hands. he could recognize your handiwork anywhere thanks to your previous adventure in the grasslands. the white dove delicately sewn into the wrist of the right glove and the initials of his name intricately engraved into the wrist of the left. the man can't help but smile for the umpteenth time tonight. you really were something else.

"i noticed you wear fingerless gloves whenever you ride your motorcycle," you start as you fiddle with the hem of your shirt. "as stylish as they are, mr. sylus," you tease. "i think it's better to have gloves that keep you warm during late-night joyrides, especially now since it's winter." finding the courage to grin at him, you conclude your explanation with, "merry christmas, sylus."

sylus swears he sees an angel sitting next to him. how could you not be an angel? with the way you're smiling at him right now? and the amount of thought you put into this gift? (he's trying not to obsess over the fact that you observe him whenever he rides his motorcycle.) the head of onychinus has never believed in angels. but now, he does. thanks to you.

"thank you, sweetie," he tries to say as calmly as possible. "i will cherish them." when he attempts to put the gloves on, you stop him.

"wait, you don't need to put them on yet! you're going to get hot."

"it's fine," sylus assures as he secures the straps. "i want to."

"okay," you flush, happy that he likes the gift. "let me open yours now."

you wonder why his box is so heavy as your fingers rip off the tape. a gasp escapes your mouth as the wrapping paper falls to the ground. "sylus," you tremble. "i can't accept this."

a record player. a sleek, gorgeous record player with an obsidian platter, supported by a mahogany base and a crystal case. you stroke the tonearm, dragging your index finger all the way to the headshell and relishing in the cool feeling the metal provides. "sylus…" you trail off.

"there's more, sweetie." he murmurs. out of thin air, sylus materializes several vinyls with his evol. your eyes widen, recognizing the images that lie at the center of each disc.

"oh my god, sylus!" your favorite band, he got you vinyl records of each album from your favorite band. they've never even had vinyl records before. holy fucking shit. "sylus!" you chant excitedly, leaping into him as you wrap your arms around his neck. "sylus! you shouldn't have! oh my god!"

you jump up and down eagerly, leaving the man stunned in his chair. his arms are outstretched, unsure what to do for the first time ever. you freeze, realizing the position you are in. "oh uh," you quickly retract from him, a red hue forming on your cheeks. "sorry about that." you go to sit back down in your chair, but sylus doesn't let you. he pulls you back to him with an arm around your waist and a hand at the back of your head. standing at full height, the head of onychinus hugs you tightly, so tightly it's as if he never wants to let you go. you hesitate before returning the hug, questioning the man's motives. but he doesn't say or do anything. just stands embracing you. realizing he bears no ill will, you pat his back playfully. "you know i'm sick, right?"

his grip doesn't loosen. "yes, i know."

"you're going to get sick, sylus," you tease, trying to pull away. as much as you appreciate his warmth, the last thing you want is for him to get sick. just the thought of it strikes fear in your heart. you're not sure why. "come on, let go."

sylus sighs before untangling his arms and sitting back down. he'll give in for now. besides, he wouldn't trade that elated look on your face when he revealed the records for anything in the world. he supposes he can enjoy such a view some more.

you giggle excitedly as you examine the vinyl records. "oh, should i play this one first? oh, what about this one? no way! you got this one too?!"

as always, you don't catch the woozy, lovesick smile that appears on sylus' face as he folds his arms and leans back to admire you. if this is what christmas with you is going to look like in the future, sylus desperately hopes you'll spend every christmas with him from now on. but, just to be sure, because nothing is guaranteed in the future, he follows your example and says for the second time of the night, "merry christmas, sweetie."

[sinofwriting]

Cover It All Up - Charles Leclerc

Words: 2,214 Summary: As she starts to get ready to meet her boyfriend's mom, she can’t help but be nervous considering that last time she met a boyfriend’s family he dumped her all because his parents didn’t approve of her.

Masterlist | Support Me! 

After the disaster of Lando Norris, she had told herself no more British men and no more F1 drivers. She had at least stuck to one thing.

Charles was different from Lando. The only thing they really seemed to have in common was that they both were F1 drivers and competitive people. But where Lando would get stroppy when she beat him in paddle or during their one bowling date, Charles would laugh, grinning at her as he kissed her in celebration, telling her how easy she made it look, despite that sometimes not being the case at all.

It wasn’t that Lando had been a bad boyfriend, he had been nice, just not for her. Or rather she wasn’t for him.

She thinks about it as she stares at herself in the mirror, regretting the sleeveless top she bought to meet Charles’ mom. It was pretty, the color complementing her perfectly, there was just one problem. The lack of sleeves. Meaning her tattoos were showing.

She had lost count how many she had after getting her first one when she was eighteen and then getting three more within that same month. She had some on her thighs as well, a tattoo on the back of her shoulder and a small one on her ankle.

She loves her tattoos, there isn’t a single one she regrets but as she looks at them now, she does. The shame and embarrassment from meeting Lando’s parents still has a spot in her mind.

They barely had spoken to her during the dinner, their eyes lingering on her tattoos, the multiple piercings in her ears. Her words had seemed to fall on deaf ears, her compliments, and questions. She hadn’t been surprised when a day later Lando told her that they didn’t approve of her. It made her laugh. Lando’s parents not approving of her because she had tattoos and a few piercings in her ears. She had been surprised when he broke up with her in practically the same breath.

“It’s just a lot, isn’t it?” He gestured at her. Blood had rushed to her cheeks. “What do you mean?” “Well,” He chewed on his lip for a second. “The tattoos, the piercings.” He shrugged. “It’s just a lot, a lot to see, to deal with.” That had made the blood rush more, knowing he was referring to when she got her last tattoo. “And besides.” He continued. “I can’t really be with someone that my parents don’t approve of. It would never work.”

The memory has her eyes stinging, she had never felt so small or embarrassed before. Taking her top off, she puts it back on its hanger, placing it back in the closet before looking at its contents. There wasn’t much. Charles had tried to get her to bring more stuff to his, but she had figured one suitcase was more than enough. It filled the two drawers he gave her, she ignored the existence that those two drawers belonged to a dresser that was hers, and her clothes that had to be hung up fit perfectly in the section he gave her. She also ignored that they didn’t fit perfectly, tons of free space around them.

As she looked at what she brought with her, she sighs. So much of her wardrobe was short sleeves, tank tops, and sleeveless things, all to show off her tattoos and here at Charles’ she only had one top that had full length sleeves.

It was cute, it just wasn’t the top she wanted to wear, she had imagined wearing when meeting Charles’ mom, but it would have to be the one. Pulling it off the hanger, she quickly pulls it on, just barely resisting the urge to make a face as she looks in the mirror. She forces her eyes away from the mirror as she begins to take her piercings out, including her fake septum one.

As she takes her helix out on her left, she sees Charles behind her.

“You’re putting different ones in?”

She makes a humming sound.

He smiles, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Can I pick again?”

She can’t help but smile at the question, leaning back into him for a second. “You can pick something for my lobes. I’ll be wearing this top.”

He frowns as he looks at her tray of jewelry. “I thought you wanted to wear the one you bought yesterday.”

“It didn’t look nice on me.”

“Well, that can’t be true.” He lightly scoffs, before holding up a pair for her approval.

She shakes her head at the opal earrings, but opens her hand for him to place them in. “Next thing I know, you’ll be giving me earrings with your number.”

He flushes at the comment, looking away from her.

“Charles!”

He grins at her laughter, wrapping himself around her again, watching as she puts the earrings in. “You look beautiful with my number on you, mon amour. I can’t help but want to see you in it all the time.”

“Can I not pick another one?” He asks after a moment of her fiddling with her earrings, the backs of them always giving her a little more trouble. “Like uh,” he taps a spot on her ear, trying to remember it. “Your conch.”

She shakes her head, turning in his arms. “I’m not wearing any others today. You can pick all of them tomorrow.”

His eyebrows raise, “Including this one?” His hand goes between their bodies to gently press at her navel.

“Including that one.” She kisses his cheek. “Now, are you ready to go?”

He nods, eyes darting around her face, drinking her in before he frowns. “Amour, you aren’t wearing any other piercings?”

She shakes her head, stepping back. “I’m not wearing any others today.”

“I thought you just meant your ears, I didn’t think you meant your fake ones.” His frown deepens. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her go anywhere and only wear one visible piercing. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” She tells him. “Just not feeling today.”

He looks at her, something not feeling right, but he nods. “Okay.” He kisses her forehead. “Let’s go then.”

As they walk to his mother’s, he can’t help but look at her. Not just because it’s hard for him to not look at her, which it is, because something is wrong. He’s never seen her cover up her tattoos when it hasn’t been cold out and he’s never seen her with so few piercings. It just isn’t her. It’s not who she is.

Her grip on his hand is also a little tight and he can see her fingers on her other hand constantly rubbing at her palm. She’s nervous, he realizes, feeling a bit stupid. He had thought that he had calmed the worst of them, but now as they grow closer, he fears he hasn’t.

Maybe he hadn’t told her enough how excited his mom was to meet her, to see her. She had so many questions about her tattoos and her piercings, where she got the fake ones, and so many other things it made Charles’ head spin. He had never seen her so excited to meet one of his girlfriends before.

“She’s going to love you.” Charles tells her as they reach the front door, pressing a small kiss to her cheek.

“Promise.”

She smiles at him, her nerves bleeding through. “Okay.”

He presses another kiss to her cheek before opening the door.

“Maman!” He calls, stepping inside. He wants to go further in the house but knows better than to leave the entryway with his shoes on. Bending, her hand still in his, he loosens the laces of his shoes with his free hand before getting them off. Staying bent over, he loosens the laces on hers as well, smiling at the large sigh she gives.

Standing straight he nearly jumps at the sight of his mom watching the two of them, a fond smile on her face. “Maman!” He greets, giving a squeeze to her hand before letting it go to hug his mom.

Wrapping his arms around her, he expects for her to murmur how much she’s missed him, fuss about his hair, press a kiss to his cheek, while she hugs him back, but all she does is give him a quick squeeze before moving out of his arms and past him. He looks at her wounded, but she doesn’t notice, enveloping his girlfriend in a hug, whose eyes widen before she returns it.

“Oh, you look beautiful, Y/N. I was so happy when Charles told me you’d be coming today.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Leclerc.”

“Pascale, please.” She says, finally pulling away. “Have you eaten? What would you like to drink? Come sit.”

Charles watches, mouth slightly dropped as his mother ushers her into the kitchen, completely ignoring him. She always asked him that, and told him to sit, no matter that he had grown up here. He was one of her babies, she always said, before gently pinching his cheek.

“Water is more than fine, Mrs. Leclerc.” He hears her laugh as he enters the kitchen and sees them sitting at the table.

“Please, call me Pascale.”

She smiles at his mom and he can feel the love he has for her grow more as she reaches for his mom’s hand, taking it in hers for a second. “Pascale.” She says, “Water is more than fine. And I have something for you.”

“Oh, there is no need for that.”

Charles watches, surprised as he sees her reach into her purse and pull out a jewelry box. He had no idea that she had brought something for his mom. “Charles mentioned that it can be hard to find nice topaz and opal jewelry.” She says, voice quiet and Pascale opens the box.

“It’s beautiful.” She breathes, carefully taking it out of the box.

His eyes widen as he sees the necklace in his mom’s hand. It was stunning. The topaz perfectly framed with opal. He had never seen anything like it.

“Mon amour,” the words are breathless as he shakes his head. “How did you?”

She ducks her head, “I wanted to give something to you,” she looks at Pascale. “That represents all of your kids. It was hard to find, but I’m happy I did.”

Pascale places a hand over her heart, tears stinging her eyes and she puts the necklace gently on the table before wrapping her arms around the girl. “Thank you, ange. Thank you so much.”

Charles watches as she melts into the hug, her nerves finally seeming to leave her and the sight of the two most important women in his life embracing makes him breathe easier, his own nerves disappearing.

“Now,” Pascale starts, pulling away. “Charles is going to pour us some wine.”

“Maman,” he tries protesting, but she continues ignoring him and he huffs before letting his feet lead him to where the wine glasses are.

“And you are going to tell me all about your tattoos.”

“Oh.” She looks shocked and Charles brows can’t help but furrow.

“You of course don’t have to.” Pascale rushes to say. “I just have seen so many pictures of them, from Charles and your Instagram, and would love to see them and hear about them. Your piercings as well. I had no idea you could get such good fake piercings.”

“No, I-I would love to tell you about them.” Her eyes glance over to Charles, who is concentrating on pouring wine. “I was just a bit nervous meeting you with all of those things. I didn’t know you had an interest.”

Pascale looks at her in confusion. “Since Charles showed me your photos, I have wanted to meet you. You are such a gorgeous girl and you make him so happy. And I love your tattoos. Did Charles never say?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Charles!”

He stops, eyes wide, just about to set the glasses of wine on the table. “What?”

“You never told her that I love her tattoos? Charles!”

“I thought I had.” He defends, putting a glass in front of both of them before sitting in the chair next to his girlfriend, his arm immediately coming up to rest on the back of her chair as he presses a quick kiss to her cheek. “I’m sorry, mon amour.”

“It’s okay.” She tells him, with a small laugh. She turns her head to look back at Pascale. “Really even if he had told me, I might have not believed him.” She pauses, taking a sip of a wine. “The last time I met someone’s parents, they didn’t care for my tattoos and piercings. He broke up with me over it.”

The older woman scoffs, shaking her head. “Their loss and our gain. They are lovely from what I’ve seen.”

“Would you like to know about my favorite one?”

“Yes!”

Charles watches fondly as she pushes up her left sleeve, exposing a myriad of tattoos before pointing at the one just above her wrist on the inside, telling his mom all about it. It’s a story he’s heard before, more than once, but just like his mom he can’t help but listen intently as well.

[inklore]

does it feel good?

— qimir x f!reader

premise: he is your beginning, the whole reason you have made peace with the darkness inside your head, and you know someday he may become your end. whether by his saber or by him finally consuming completely. you welcome both.

contents: established master x acolyte dynamics, shared force bond, unprotected p in v, foreplay, light choking, biting, scars and burn marks mentioned, death, teasing, over stimulation | wc: 2.7k+

note: i love that we all saw the water scene and went yeah that's for the smut writers. glad we are collectively going insane over this man.

The moons paint the water in a shimmering light that bathes its surface in sapphire that fades to the deepest of blacks the longer you stare into it. The waves that hit against the ragged stones are like a siren call to your aching body. 

Your muscles are still tight and coiled from earlier. Your molars grind together when you lift your arms to pull off your ruined and stained clothes. A burning sensation felt through your body as the fabric covering your torso moved against every burn, cut, and bruise you had acquired tonight. 

You didn’t stop by a reflective surface to check how many battle scars you’d earned. Badges of honor. More wounds worn like metals placed on your neck by a pleased master. Wounds, he’ll help you heal, stitch up, seal with the press of his palm to the tattered skin—stolen supplies from planets you can’t remember the name of with faces you can only remember the dead eyes of, used on the ones that don’t close up right.

The moonlight makes them look less serious. The illumination colored the dried blood and tissue into something misty. Almost tantalizing to the eye. Unlike the light of day, where you’re sure it will look less glamorizing. The ugly truth of the way your skin is going to bubble up and mold over to protect itself once the healing process begins is less glaring in this hue. 

Your toe dips into the water. It’s always warmer than you think it to be. Always welcoming you in like it’s been waiting for you to return. Waiting to wash away the grim and blood that seemed more permanent on your skin than your own flesh. 

You wade at the edge for a bit, pushing around the water with your feet. The water wading at your ankles. 

The ringing hasn’t stopped. 

It rarely does until you’ve closed your eyes and settled it. Until your body is less taut, muscles released from the on switch of fight. The power inside your veins thrumming like a wasp trying to free itself from the tissue of your bones. 

As if it had gotten stuck in there and couldn’t find its way out. Refusing to settle down or leave until you’ve maimed, avenged, and proved yourself—leaving your body and muscles in their current state. 

You’re not worried about something being in the water. If there were, you would have been able to feel it. Sense it’s beating heart and the danger of allowing it to keep beating. You’re alone as you walk further into the water, sinking into it’s depths until your body is completely engulfed. Your neck and head the only things going untouched. 

The freshly made badges on your skin burn when you scrub your thumb along the edges of them. Specks of dried blood float along the surface of the water before they’re lost to the darkness below. 

Amongst the ringing in your head, you can hear the screams of anger that tore from your lungs when the Jedi had gotten the upper hand. The green of his saber leaving red against your skin. Making your moves turn from confident to something rage fueled. 

Somewhere among the ringing, you know his scream is in there. Amongst the many cries for help and cracking bones. 

They always linger. Always hold on like a power pack to your dark side. 

You know your body won’t fully relax until you’ve stopped the ringing, though. You didn’t believe in blessings or curses. Bad fortune or good. Everyone’s life ended the same way. If you did believe in the farce, you would think the ringing that goes from the base of your skull to the drums of your ears was a curse. 

A quiet mind is a blessing. 

The buzz of the force within you too heady when you're in the throes of battle. War. Darkness. It’s always been like that. Even before him. 

It’s only gotten worse with him beside you. Like the bond the two of you had opened too much too deep and you feel everything more clearly. More unfortunately. 

He taught you how to silence it. To reign it in after the adrenaline and pace of your heart slowed. 

There were still things you had to learn. Things you were kept from knowing by your old master, the one who only saw one way to wield your power. A cowardly excuse for a master whose burial you wish you could have witnessed. 

It’s aggravating, almost. Anger inducing for sure. 

Someone not believing you are capable of knowing the truth about the power you wield. It’s criminal to not allow someone to be their true self all because of a set of rules that only benefited one group of people. One way of living, when there were so many. 

Your aggravation has faded by now. The anger is still there and buzzes through you. But you no longer feel like a part of you has been held back. Stunted and aching like your chest had for years—as if a rock had found itself in the base of your heart and took up rent there—until Qimir showed you the way. 

Your true self. 

Your full potential and all you were capable of. 

All that had been inside of you, held back for so long. 

Filling your lungs with air, you sink yourself under the water and hold yourself there. Eyes closing as you center yourself. Slow the wasp in your marrow to something dull. Stop the ringing in your ears until all you can hear is the hum of the water hitting the rock above the surface. 

Just you and the force. 

Just you and the water. 

Until you feel him. 

Until he’s there inside your mind.

Until you feel a hand at the base of your skull, fingertips brushing at the nape of your neck to let you know he’s not just in your head. He’s beside you.

Your eyes meet once you’ve filled your lungs with air again, and you wipe the water droplets from your lids. 

You watch him splash water against his neck, running the palm of his hand along the dirt and grime that clings to his skin. Cleaning himself of any traces of the deaths the two of you have left in your wake tonight. 

His calm demeanor always pulls you back from the edge. Always brings a calmness to your blood. To the beating of your heart. Even when shit has gone haywire, his demeanor never switches up. Never slips into something that could be labeled as sloppy or driven by anything other than who he truly is. What he’s made of. 

His calm seeping through your shared bond until you have no choice but to relax.

The handful of times you’ve seen that calmness turn into something animalistic, it’s made you envious, on the same hand, it’s made the space between your thighs burn. 

“You did well tonight.” 

“The smell of my burning flesh still clinging to my senses says differently.” 

The corner of his mouth lifts in amusement, “you did well.” He repeats. Ducks his head forward to wet his hair. His fingers running through the strands, droplets falling down his face. Your eyes follow them all the way down the column of his neck to his chiseled collar bones. 

It doesn’t take one wielding the force to know what your mind is projecting. Doesn’t matter that the two of you share a part of your brain. The thoughts of past nights spent together, Qimir teaching you the ways desire can be wielded and used to your advantage—or disadvantage, depending on how you look at it. 

Your face turns from him. Eyes moving up to the moon. 

Trying to hold back your thoughts the way he taught you. Even if it is futile against him.

“How do you feel?” 

Has the ringing stopped, Is what he’s really asking. Do you need another lesson? Are you still weakened by that ailment? That curse? 

Except he wouldn’t be as dramatic as that. Not with this. Not ever. Especially when it came to your power. Your capabilities. The perfect little acolyte he’s trained you to be. 

“Fine.” Your answer clipped, honest. Because you are fine, and your stubbornness will not allow you to let this turn into another lesson about you not being able to be as calm and collected as he is. No shadows of doubt lingering over who he truly is. His purpose. His wants. His desires. His darkness. 

He’s always been able to read right through you, though. Even without taking up space in your being. The force has little to do with that fact. 

You were never afraid of the darkness that lived inside of you. Never afraid of the power you could wield and the lives you could take. 

The only time you’ve felt true fear is being seen. 

Accepted. 

The potential to let someone of importance down and not withhold your end of a deal you’ve inked your name in blood just to be beside. To prove yourself to someone who’s your equal. Another half of your very being.

His face shows nothing but that calm amusement when he wades behind you. His fingers moving against your skin in an act to rid you of the spots of dirt you’ve missed on your neck and shoulders. 

Swallowing hard when his fingers scrape against past scars, he lingers there for a beat. Running the pad of them against the raised skin. A whisper in your head. 

You heal beautifully.

It’s a softness you’d never thought him to be capable of when you found out who he truly was. The man behind the mask. Even if the unmasking had been done unintentionally. 

It’s not softness you feel from his touch, though. No, his touch eases the strain in your muscles, only to gather itself in your belly. Your body burning with anticipation, knowing how this goes. 

How you’re rewarded when you impress him. 

When you do as you are told, your master is ever the generous one. 

“You’ve proven yourself tonight.” His lips brush against the tip of your spine, “killing without a weapon, not stopping until you were the last one standing. Freeing yourself from the ones who held you back for so long.” Your breath hitches in the back of your throat when his mouth presses down on that same spot at the beginning of your spine. 

A hand snaking around your throat, his palm wet and warm against your collarbones as he pulls your neck at just the right angle to have you looking at him. 

“Did it feel good?” 

“Yes.” You swallow, wrap your fingers around his wrist. “It always does.” You whisper, your eyes flashing down to the upturn of his lips. 

His nose runs along your cheek to your temple, his eyes closed, inhaling you. “I can always smell it. When you let yourself become one with the darkness. Right before you take a life.” His thumb runs a circle against the vein, which tells him the pace of your heart has picked up. As if he’d need it to know, as if the two of you don’t share something that links you completely to the other. “It still lingers. It’s distracting.” 

It’s not a question, but you nod. Your eyes flutter when he pushes his hips forward, and the hardness of his cock moves against your ass. 

He doesn’t ask permission, the two of you knowing you’re past such kindnesses, when his hand cups your mound. He knows what your body needs right now. What it wants, what it’s expecting. He can feel it too. His index and middle fingers spread your pussy, giving him access to that pleasure point on your body that only he knows how to stroke just right to have you pliant and singing for him. 

As if you were not already devoted to him. As if he were not your reason for being.

He’s your beginning, and you have no doubt he will be your end if it comes to it. 

The pad of his finger circles your clit in that slow way that lets you know he’s going to take his time with you. Going to drain every last bit of strain and tightness from your muscles, pushing that buzz between your legs and making him the only sound in your head—until he thinks you have had enough. 

Until your reward is good enough for him to be satisfied with how you took it. Until he knows your mind is back where it needs to be—here, with him. 

His mouth meets the hand at your throat, his teeth sinking into the parts his fingers aren’t pressing into. “You’re everything I could have hoped for.” His tongue laps against your pulse.

Perfect.

You may never know if he actually means the words; you can only feel what he allows you to feel through your shared connection. He’s better at blocking than you. But he knows you need to hear these praises. Knows how good and pliable it will make you. His words stoke the fire inside your soul that burns through your darkness. That allows you to become completely consumed by him and the desire to be on this side. 

Of being free. 

What he does allow you to feel lets you know there is some truth somewhere in there. You can feel it in how hard his cock thrusts against your ass when your body pushes back into him. You can feel it in the way his thoughts stream through your mind. 

So obedient.

Your cunt’s so greedy for me.

You’re mine.

The skin on your fingers stings from gripping the rocks in front of you. The pain you should feel from the heel of your palm digging into the jagged stones, lost in the haze of pleasure consuming your body. 

Qimir consuming every last part of your being. 

Taking over every dark corner of your mind and not letting you feel or hear anything but him.

Your moans become more shaky, your chest heaving as you pant and curse. The weight of the finger on your clit grows heavier, faster, deliriously good the more you near your orgasm. 

Your lips are moving in inaudible words. Words he understands, making him grin against your jaw. 

“You want my cock tonight?” You know he’s read your mind, or rather, your body. Know he can feel what you desire and crave. What your minds begging him for. “Hmm, do you think you’re deserving of that big of a prize? You spill a little blood, and suddenly you’re greedy.” He hums, “you did well. Do you think you deserve it, though? No?” 

Heat burns your cheeks; his chuckle makes you sob into the night air. The stubbornness to please and be as perfect as your counterpart wants you to be is not in favor of the mounting pressure that’s building in your pussy right now. 

“I already think you’re perfect; don’t push it.” His foot pushes easily at your ankles. Your thighs spread enough for the head of his cock to press against your entrance and thrust inside. 

“Mmm,” you whine at the stretch. Your eyes fluttering closed at your swollen walls being filled. Walls that tighten around him as he sets a fast pace. Matching the rhythm and stroke of his fingers. Sending your body on an overwhelming precipice of a carnal need to come. 

The heaviness of his breath as he says your name against your skin—the quick flashes of the pleasure he feels from being inside of you—is what finally sends you over the edge. 

Your orgasm rocking through you like a storm. Your body shaking against him, walls fluttering and squeezing around his cock, making him groan. Your throat raw and scratchy from the noise that’s pulled up from your lungs when everything in your body is set completely aflame. 

Your hand falling from the rocks, and pressing your nails into his wrist, trying to pull his hand from between your thighs. The over-stimulation of his finger moving against your clit even after your orgasm has passed makes you cry out and ripple the water around the two of you as you squirm. 

The tip of his cock hits that spot inside you that makes your vision go white. That falters your fight against his torment. 

“You can do better than one. You deserve it, don’t you?”

[blindmagdalena]

You Let Me Complicate You

18+ 4k homelander x f!reader. bickering, post-breakup sex, dubcon/coercion, angst, jealousy, emotional manipulation, implied murder, stalking, boundary smashing, breaking and entering, cunnilingus, penetrative sex. read on AO3. written as a follow-up to the breakup, but can be read as a standalone. gif credit.

Breaking up with Homelander is... complicated. After all, it is a god that loves you.

"What do I taste like?" You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over. "Love," he said at last. "Like you love me." You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you. If that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier.

Homelander is an aberration.

Stronger than a hundred men, faster than a bullet and sharp as a tack all paired with a teaspoon’s depth of emotional maturity. He’s volatile, twisted, broken in ways no amount of therapy could ever hope to duct tape back together. He’s no better off than a dog that bites to kill. No matter how he got to this point, the best thing for him–for the world–would be to put him down by any means necessary.

Too bad you can’t seem to stop fucking him.

It’s late when you hear the front door open with a distinct crack. You’re sprawled out on the couch in the living room, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. What comes next is no surprise to you–a shock of primary colors filling the narrow doorway, a handsome face made ghoulish by the haunting light of the television in an otherwise dark room.

“You nailed the door shut,” Homelander says, the inflection of his voice somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Because you broke it,” you throw back, a stale Twizzler balanced between your lips. It had tasted good enough when you started eating it, but now–in his presence–the sweetness of it has turned sour.

“You changed the locks,” he says with a light shrug, cape swaying as he meanders towards you. “My key didn’t work.”

“Your key? Stealing a key to my house does not make it your key,” you say tersely, lifting your foot to press it firmly to his thigh, stopping him in his tracks. 

He glances down, a mirthless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he catches your ankle in his gloved hand, yanking you down the couch so suddenly you lose your Twizzler to the floor with a gasp. It’s one thing to know that Homelander has strength enough to throw cars like frisbees. It’s another to feel it. It sends a rush of adrenaline through you like a jolt, followed swiftly by something hotter low in your naval.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, dropping your ankle. He lifts his knee and slots it between your legs, his opposite boot on the floor, his hand braced on the back of the couch, pinning you in place.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you cut in dryly, moving to shift up the couch, away from him. He snatches your shoulder, halting you with ease. His thumb strokes your skin idly, goosebumps erupting beneath his touch.

“And I’ve realized that this whole… thing between you and I, this ‘will they, won’t they,’ ” he says, bobbing his head side to side. “It’s getting stale. Don’t you think it’s about time we progressed the plot?” He asks, leaning in close.

You brace your hand against his chest, holding him in place as ineffectually as you did earlier. You both know it’s all a game. It’s all pretense. There had been fondness between you once–love, even–but you’re done with that now. You have to be done with it, or Homelander will swallow you whole. He’s a black pit, a murderer, and his need knows no end. He’ll destroy you and everything you know and love if he thinks it’ll satiate that need.

You’ve lost enough. You can’t afford to lose any more of yourself to him.

“Jesus Christ, you even think in TV script,” you say, pushing on his chest. He leans back, but not by much. It sends a terrible little chill down your spine. “I’m starting to think the only thing that might actually kill you is an original thought.”

His eyes narrow and his bright white teeth flash predatorily in the darkness. “You’re lucky I haven’t broken your neck,” he says, hand slipping from your shoulder to your throat. The sharp press of his thumb into your windpipe steals your breath, makes your thighs tighten on either side of his leg snug between yours. His lips split into an unkind grin. “Or maybe not. You’d probably like that.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, gripping his wrist with your other hand. Your pulse is starting to throb against the leather of his glove. He moves his thumb from your windpipe to your jaw and turns your head away, leaning in with a deep, pointed inhale along your neck.

“Is that why your hormones are going haywire? Because I disgust you?” He asks, grinding his thigh between your legs in a way that makes you gasp. “Y’know, given how full of it you are, I was sure I’d smell the bullshit on you. But all I smell… is how fucking wet you are.”

He grabs your hip and the memories come to you like muscle memory. How good it feels to be gripped and fucked and loved by someone beyond your comprehension. To feel as if you’ve stopped the world turning and called the sun itself to shine on you alone.

You twist your chin out of his grip and level him with a heated stare. “I hate you,” you hiss, grasping for the knife you know will twist the deepest. 

It works for a second, his smug expression faltering, but only for an instant. His jaw sets, and his lips curl into that same unkind smile. “C’mon, babe,” he coos, the intimate familiarity woven into that pet name making your skin crawl. “We both know that I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He kisses you like he always has. Like you belong to him. In a way, you suppose you always will. There’s nothing you can do to pry your throat from Homelander’s jaws. Nowhere you can run that he won’t eventually find you. Like quicksand, the more you fight, the tighter he clamps down. Truth be told, though, that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that the tighter he grips you, the less you want to fight him.

His tongue slithers into your mouth like a serpent into the garden and you bite down hard. While pliant between your teeth, the flesh doesn’t yield. It never will. He never will. Instead he moans a little chuckle that fades into a rumble against your lips.

“That how it’s gonna be?” He asks, the words rasped into your mouth. “Y’wanna bite and claw? Play hard to get?” He laughs, the sound of it reedy and light, like it’s all a silly little game of make-believe. “I can do that.”

He reeks of his own desperation for what he says to be true. More than anything, he wants to dress up his desires as yours. He wants to believe he’s giving you what you want. That way, he can trick himself into believing you need him.

He bites the middle tip of his glove and tugs it off with his teeth, tossing it aside. His bare thumb brushes your lip, smearing his spit and yours. “I saw you with that fucking loser,” he says, the airiness suddenly gone from his voice.

Your stomach drops. Two days ago you’d been with a man. You’d been so desperate to forget him that night that anyone would have done the job. You stumbled out with some nobody from the bar who’d been good enough for a sloppy makeout session in the back of his truck, but not good enough to bring home. It hadn’t ended well.

How close of an eye is Homelander keeping on you?

“I’d be angry if it hadn’t been so fuckin’ pathetic,” he says through his teeth.

“Liar,” you say tightly. You feel his fury in the tension of his body. He’s pissed that you’d seek this out anywhere else. As if he still has a claim over your body. Your pleasure.

His eyes flash up to yours. He sneers, pushing his thumb between your lips. “I watched you bite his lip until he bled. I watched him slap you,” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridges of your bottom teeth. The memories come to you as he speaks them, every moment of it made bleary by alcohol. “You wanted it rough, but he couldn’t handle you, could he? Because you’re used to something better. You’re used to a god.”

You sneer right back at him, yanking your head to the side, his thumb slipping from between your lips. “Could you be any more in love with yourself? Go fuck yours-”

“I still had to kill him, of course,” he continues nonchalantly, grinding your thoughts to a screeching halt. He laughs humorlessly. “For kissing you. And, well–for everything else, obviously. Slapping you,” he says, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. The same one the man had struck. “Humping your leg like a fucking dog.”

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, throat tight. Bile burns at the back of it. All you wanted was to get away from this. The blood, the horror of it. Yet no matter what you do to dissuade him, he brings death to your doorstep. “You have everything. You could have anyone. Why are you–”

“Because I want you,” he hisses, words so sharp his sharp teeth snap together. “Because I love you, and that’s what you do when you love someone,” he says. You can feel the accusation building in his words. “You don’t give up on them. And if that means cleaning up every dirty little mistake you make,” he says softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So be it.” 

A cold shiver rolls down your spine. You stare woundedly at him, lips parted, brows pinched together, the misery of it all etched into every line of your face. He stares at you in turn, and after a beat, his own hard expression softens.

“Hey, hey,” he says, the heat of his breath a ghostly kiss on your lips. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. “I forgive you.”

He kisses you again, more tender now. Your eyes prickle with tears. His gentleness hurts so much more than his violence. It disarms you, carries you to a time when things were simpler between you. Sweeter and warmer. 

Homelander makes the world feel wonderful and dangerous, like standing in the middle of an electric storm. Being loved by him is the feeling of having your ribs cracked open, your heart cradled in his bare hands, possessive and bloody. What had been thrilling grew stifling, a feeling you realize now never truly went away.

He’s inescapable, literally and figuratively. Even when he isn’t inviting himself into your home or lurking in the periphery of your vision, Vought’s hero is plastered on every billboard and screen in the city. You haven't been able to breathe without inhaling the thick miasma of him.

Tears roll down to your temples as you kiss him back, both hands fisted in his soft hair, tugging. He makes a pleased little sound against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He’s always kissed like a man possessed–like every brush of your lips is a drop of salvation–but the hunger he’s developed since you tried to leave him is unparalleled. He kisses you like he means to devour you whole.

You bite back a sob, but the hiccuped noise of it catches his attention nonetheless. He breaks from you, looking down at you with a feverish mix of yearning, impatience and something that almost resembles pity, which might be the closest thing he knows to sympathy.

“Hey,” he coos, dusting your jaw with feather light kisses. “Don’t cry.”

“It’s awful,” you choke out.

“What is?”

“Your love.”

“I know,” he says after a prolonged pause. “It’s all I know.”

You look at him, the image of him bleary through your tears. There’s a morose resignation in his ocean-storm eyes, a distance that makes him seem far, far away from you, even as you taste the heat of his breath on your lips.

Focus returns to his gaze, and suddenly he’s present again. “It’s all I know,” he says again, his tone made of wood, stiff and splintering.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lift your palm to his cheek, hovering just shy of touching. He’s pulled to it like a magnet, nuzzling into your palm, eyes closing. His hand slides down the familiar slopes of your body, settling at your hip, where his fingertips sink in like claws, the pressure of them shy. For as vicious as things have gotten between you, he’s never hurt you. A fact he lords over you as if he should be applauded for it.

I love you more than anything. You know that, right? That I would never do anything to hurt you? He’d asked you during that first fight. When everything went wrong. 

You’d only been able to nod then, trapped with a man you didn’t recognize wearing the face of the man you loved.

That’s right. Of course you do. Because if I wanted to hurt you, I would have. It would have been easy, huh?

Despite how desperately you’ve tried to fortify yourself against him, it’s still so easy.

Homelander is an aberration, but so too is he a man, and there was a time when the man was all that you saw. When the monster at the core of him reared its head, bloody and unrepentant, that became all you could see in him. Now, the two are so irrevocably tangled in the sinew of the other, you’re never sure which you’re looking at.

“I miss you,” you confess to the man in him, voice so soft only his ears possibly could have discerned the words. As if you can hide the words from the monster lurking behind if you speak them quietly enough. 

He looks as confused as your own aching heart. “I’m here,” he says, everything in his tone willing you to believe it. He doesn’t understand that you miss who he was before you knew what he was.

A mournful noise swells in your chest, but he kisses you before it can escape. “I’m here,” he says again, the hand at your hip turning into a fist in the fabric of your clothes, tearing them at the seams. “I’ll make you feel better,” he says between presses of his lips, hungry and rushing, like he can outspeed your miserable grief. “Let me make you feel good.”

Sex has always been an avenue of redemption for Homelander. Whether he’s frustrated, anxious, wounded or a combination of them all, he’s sought to remedy it through a good orgasm. He treats you as though the notion should hold true for you: the fight doesn’t count so long as he makes you come.

Yet again, you’re left stricken by him. As you have a dozen times before, all you can do is nod. Deep in your core, you know he’s right. He can make you forget this horrible ache in yourself, the grief and the fear. He can take you away to the dream you’d lived before you met the beast in his shadow. 

Coherent thought turns to water slipping between the cracks of your mind as Homelander’s bare fingers brush your inner thigh. You suck in a sharp breath that leaves you as a shudder and you clutch at his collar, twisting the fabric, unsure if you mean to push him away or pull him closer.

Homelander makes the choice for you, closing the distance and kissing you too gently, too sweetly. You spur him with your teeth, needing it faster, harder. Needing it to hurt just enough to not feel entirely right. He ignores your prompt, focused wholly on tasting you, on sliding his fingers up into the waiting warmth between your thighs. He presses the pad of his middle finger to your clit, deft and familiar.

You sigh, closing your eyes, ready to lose yourself to the feel of something good. He slides serpentine down your body, kissing you through your shirt, nipping at your skin through the fabric for the way it makes you jump. His lips trail down until they pass the hem of your shirt, finding where he’s stripped you. His mouth is unbearably warm, breath hot huffs on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting everywhere.

He mouths at your hip, sucks the skin dark before trailing further down, leaving a constellation with his lips. The scorching wet heat of his tongue feels like a brand on your clit, replacing his hand with his mouth. 

You thread your fingers into his hair, widening the spread of your legs to allow for the way he shoulders under and between them, lifting your lower half. He nuzzles into the nectary sweetness of you, moaning unabashedly for your familiar taste.

What do I taste like? You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. Everything about him fascinated you; did his super smell lend itself to super taste? Could he pick out each note of you, dissect your profile into sections?

He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over.

Love, he said at last. Like you love me.

You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you, if that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier. If he plunges his tongue to the core of you in the hopes he might discover lingering shreds of what the two of you once had.

A moan escapes you. His fingers bite into your thighs, tongue coaxing more. Restraint dissipating, you tighten your grip on his hair and tug, grinding hard against his mouth. He knows the stepping stones of your pleasure as well as you know yourself, knowing just when to suck, when to lick. He’s more relentless than any other man could hope to be, never needing to stop for breath, never succumbing to aching muscles. He maintains a pace that sends you careening so viciously towards release, you give a choking gasp when it hits you, your head thrown back against the couch as euphoric relief rolls through you in waves.

Homelander shrugs out from under your trembling thighs, his mouth slick and shining, eyes predator wide. You’re both panting, silently gauging the other. You’re first to break the standoff, his hunger infectious. You climb onto your knees and grab his shoulders, pushing his back to the couch, straddling him. He keens when you kiss him, an addictive sound that gives you a deceptive sense of power.

He murmurs your name in fervent repetition, dragging his mouth along your skin, inhaling you like a drug. You unbuckle his belt with the ease of experience, unzip his pants and slip your hand inside. Curling your fingers around his cock, you find it already hard and dripping in anticipation.

“Anything you want,” he breathes, the words coming between the prayer-like recitation of your name. “Money, diamonds, anything, I’ll make you a queen,” he says, eyelids fluttering at your touch. He pledges these things like an act of devotion, but you recognize this Faustian bargain for what it is. It will cost you your heart and soul.

“I’ll make you a god,” he moans at a particularly deft twist of your wrist.

Making you come will have to be enough for now.

“Fuck me,” you tell him breathlessly. “The way I like it.”

Like flipping a switch, the dazed pleasure in his eyes sharpens. The corners of his mouth tug, his upper lip twitches, eager tension slipping into his touch as his hands slide up your thighs, grasping your hips. His fingers sink in tight enough to bruise, despite the gentleness of his touch. The immeasurable power lurking within his unassuming frame is a novelty that never wears off, a thrill that shocks you to your core no matter how many times you experience it.

Like a vicious storm, he’s beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Caught in the eye of his maelstrom, the only thing left for you to do is weather him.

He guides you down onto his cock in one slow, agonizing pull. Even with his spit and your orgasm easing the way, it’s too much all at once. Relishing the aching burn of being split apart by him, you make a noise that gives him pause. You don’t let him stop. You brace your hands on his shoulders and lift off of him almost entirely before sinking back down deeper than you had before, wringing a moan from him in turn.

Homelander’s fingers dig securely into your back as your bodies slot together and find an old, familiar rhythm. By now he knows exactly the angle to take to best pleasure you. You let out a shaky sigh at the warmth that spreads through you, the pressure of your climax building, his heat sinking into you like the light of the sun itself.

You’re used to a god.

You cup his face and kiss him. You bite his lip until you should taste blood. You dig your nails into his skin so hard your knuckles ache. If he notices it, he’s only pleased by it.

“I’d move heaven and hell for you,” he swears between kisses, ripping the shirt from your body. The cool air hits your damp, hot skin like a shock. 

“I don’t want them,” you say, voice catching on one of his sharp and sudden thrusts. He’s close. You can feel it in the tightness of his muscles, in the erratic, merciless way he drives into you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice reedy, tight. He kisses down your chest, scrapes his teeth over the swell of your breasts. “They’re yours. It’s all yours. I’m yours.”

Those words should hit you like a prison sentence, but they don’t.

They make you come.

Homelander holds you tightly as he, too, breaks into pieces, filling you with light and heat. He chokes more promises against your skin, kisses the salt from your skin and licks it greedily from his lips. You spin in place in his arms, dizzy on your own orgasm, riding out the aftershocks with his cock throbbing against the quiver of your cunt.

For a long while there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths and the distant din of the television. The tremors wracking your body gradually fade, and the chill of the open air begins to set in.

Homelander holds you tight as the sweat on your skin cools. He kisses a trail from your neck to your shoulder, nuzzling there before he rests his head down, face tucked into the crook of your neck. You feel wrung dry, eyelids heavy. You card your fingers absently through his hair, body boneless against his. Your eyes ache from crying, but you don’t mind it. Strung out like this, the aches left in the wake of pain and pleasure both feel equally good.

“It’s late,” he says warmly, a smile in his tone. He sounds lovesick, the way you both did once upon a time. Back then, you thought you knew every dark corner of his insatiable heart. “We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you agree, voice frayed. He lifts you gingerly from his lap, adjusting to cradle your naked body to his chest. Despite how Homelander unspools himself before you, you’re always the one left reduced. Bare and vulnerable both physically and emotionally. You slip your arms around his neck as he stands, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I could take you to the tower,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine. “My bed’s bigger.”

“No,” you say, remembering a door you cannot reach, no matter how many times you grasp for it, and the god’s hands that sent you spinning. He’s already so capable of turning your home into a prison. You’re not sure you’d ever escape his penthouse. “I want mine.”

Perhaps the most terrible fact of all is that Homelander is neither a god nor a monster. 

He is simply a man without limitation.

“Sure,” he says, kissing your cheek. The touch lingers, dripping with his adoration. “Anything you want.”

So long as it includes him.

[moonlinos]

It would’ve been sweet if it could’ve been me

♡ Pairing: Bang Chan × fem!reader

♡ Genre: Single dad!Chan, friends to strangers to lovers

♡ CW: Explicit sexual content (minors dni!), mentions of parental guilt, themes of loneliness, Chan is stuck in the past, lying, mentions of feeling lost in life, story spans over a number of years, nipple play, oral sex (male receiving), unprotected sex, creampie

♡ Word count: 8.2k

♡ Synopsis: Being a single dad to Hyerin is all Chan has known for the past four years. He and his ex-girlfriend reached an agreement that saw her going off to live a life she had always dreamed of while he was left with a life of loneliness, which he endured with a smile on his face for his daughter. A small gleam of hope seems to appear in his life in the shape of you. But hiding himself under a haze of lies seems to be his only option if he ever wants to keep you.

♡ A/N: Based off a request by anon! Thank you for requesting, this was so much fun to write 🩷 I will admit this is a lot more focused on Chan as a character than I originally wanted it to be, and I kinda went a bit crazy with the plot, but I hope you still like it! The song Chan sings to Hyerin is Little Star by Standing Egg 💗

Every day in Chan’s life is a monotonous, never-ending cycle. Like watching reruns of bad TV shows on gloomy Sunday nights, every second of his past and upcoming days is etched into his mind like a quilt of mundane tasks and repetitive moments.

But that wasn’t always the case.

Once, excitement filled his every waking moment. His weekends were a whirlwind of new places teeming with bustling crowds and unfamiliar faces who became fast friends. During his university years, he and his friends lived their lives with ardor, savoring every moment as if it could be their last. His days were filled with an array of unplanned parties and impromptu trips which brought a kaleidoscope of color to his life.

Until he met Dana.

He was about to graduate, and she swept into his life like a hurricane — flipping everything upside down before disappearing just as quickly, with only destruction and ashes remaining in her wake.

He was infatuated; she was bored. That was clear from the start, but Chan was too blinded by affection to be concerned with such a minute detail. So long as he got to have her by his side, he was happy. Their relationship lasted a year, yet it changed his life forever.

He was twenty-one when Dana announced her pregnancy. On his twenty-second birthday, she told him she didn’t want to be a mother.

By that point in his life, Chan had already forsaken everything he had for her. He turned his back on his old friends, the vibrant life he once led, and everything that once made him who he was. Without Dana, he would be left with nothing but the ugly reflection of his self-destructive choices made in the name of a loveless love.

And so, they came to an agreement. Dana would leave — that had been her plan from the start, anyway — but she would leave Chan with a small piece of their story.

Hyerin was born on November 20th, 2019.

Dana left on a plane to New York City on December 1st.

Now, the only speck of color in his life is Hyerin. In the four years Chan has been lucky enough to be her dad, he has found she is much more than simply a reminder of Dana or what could have been between them. Hyerin is his entire world. She is the love he’s unknowingly been searching for his whole life, and he would sacrifice every last bit of himself to make sure she only ever knows happiness.

They live a quiet life, with Chan working a less-than-fulfilling corporate job and spending all his free time with her. He sometimes allows himself to wonder what happened to his old friends — did they all eventually settle for the mundanity of adult life, or are they still chasing an endless thrill? But he never dwells on it too much. The sweet memories of his early twenties are now nothing more than a comforting escape when the weight of loneliness becomes too overwhelming.

Today is one of those days. A late Friday night after his shift, Chan sprawled on his couch with Jisung, a co-worker who became his first friend after many years, a silly smile on his face as he reminisced about a trip to Jeju in his sophomore year of college. This is how he lives most of his life; when he’s not in the present with Hyerin, he’s stuck in the past.

How could he not be stuck in the past? So many people he loved and memories he cherished were there.

“I don’t get how you just left all of that behind for someone,” Jisung scoffs, loosening his tie. “Why couldn’t she just join your group of friends?”

“It’s complicated,” Chan sighs, eyes wandering toward Hyerin’s bedroom door for the umpteenth time to make sure she’s still sleeping soundly. When he turns to look back at Jisung, his expression prompts him to elaborate. “What? You want the whole story?”

Jisung shrugs. “It’s not like we have any other plans for tonight.”

“Well, there was this girl in my friend group. We hooked up a lot, but our relationship went beyond that,” Chan explains, fingers tapping his thighs as the memories flood his mind. It was a sore topic, one he certainly didn’t enjoy remembering. “We never dated, but Dana was jealous, and I couldn’t blame her. Me and this girl were… very close. I couldn’t be in a relationship while also being that close to her, but I also couldn’t imagine us being only friends. So it was easier to walk away.”

Chan conveniently leaves out the fact that he walked away because an artificial love strangely provided solace for his heart, unlike the searing torment of unrequited love, which engulfed him like molten lava.

“And that was the last time you ever had that type of relationship with anyone?”

“With Dana? Yeah—”

“Hyung, you know what I mean. You told me yourself Dana didn’t love you,” Jisung points out. “I mean this other girl.”

Chan shrugs dismissively. “I guess, yeah. Doesn’t matter, though.”

And Jisung scoffs loudly at his words, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. Memories of that love flood Chan’s mind, and he's ready to let them sweep him away when Jisung abruptly turns so he sits facing him, resolve swimming in his eyes.

“Give me your phone,” his loud voice reverberates through the small apartment, prompting Chan to shush him with a stern look. “Give me your phone,” Jisung repeats himself with a harsh whisper.

Chan rolls his eyes but ultimately smiles at his friend. He retrieves his phone from the end table, handing it to a much too enthusiastic Jisung. “The password is Hyerin’s birthday,” he tells him, albeit a bit apprehensive.

He watches amusedly as Jisung types away at his own phone before doing the same on his, handing him the device with a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What did you do, you little menace?” Chan questions the younger boy, narrowing his eyes. Jisung simply shrugs.

“I got you a date tomorrow. Thank me later.”

Chan immediately sits up on the couch, eyes darting toward his phone screen. A chat with a single message from him to an unknown contact makes him question his entire friendship with Jisung.

Me: I’m your date for tomorrow 😉 Me: O’neul restaurant, 6 pm. See you there, cutie

“Jisung, what the fuck?”

“What?” His friend asks between giggles. “Sora has this friend she said desperately needs a date, and I have you in the same situation,” he explains, clearly proud of himself. “I just did you both a favor while also getting boyfriend points.”

Chan’s eyes shift toward his phone once more, inwardly cringing at the messages with a heavy sigh.

“And was making me sound this creepy necessary?”

Jisung waves his hand dismissively. “Nah, that was just a little treat for me.”

“And why the fuck is her name Mystery Girl?” Chan queries, the irritation making him unknowingly raise his voice.

“It’s a blind date,” his friend explains. “This girl’s apparently super picky, kept turning down every guy Sora suggested. So, she came up with this solution. Can’t turn you down if she doesn’t know what you look like.”

Chan groans, ultimately sinking back onto the couch with a defeated sigh. Jisung was trying to be a good friend, he knew that, but he wasn’t at all thrilled with the prospect of a date. Not only did he not want one, but he also had no time for such a futile thing. He had Hyerin, and she was the sole reason for his existence. He didn’t need anyone meddling in their little world. But he didn’t have the courage to tell Jisung that.

It would be a lie to say the past four years weren’t lonesome. Falling asleep alone in a cold, empty bed was a sorrow he had simply grown numb to. Yet, he still yearned to have someone to share the grapples of routine life with, someone whose presence alone would effortlessly diminish his worries, someone he could make love to before falling asleep and waking up intertwined.

But he couldn’t afford to have that.

At least this date was bound to fail; the woman’s demanding nature, coupled with Chan’s unwillingness to even be there in the first place sure to make their wasted time brief.

Just as he’s about to grumble about the messages again, Hyerin comes stumbling out of her room, her small feet shuffling against the floor as she rubs her sleepy eyes.

“Oh, honey, were we being too loud?” Chan asks sweetly, and his eyes discreetly shoot daggers at Jisung, who mouths an apology.

Hyerin firmly shakes her head, the crooked pigtails Chan clumsily had tied this morning coming undone as she does so. He smiles at her, propping his elbows on his knees and waiting for her to speak her little mind.

“I had a dream,” she mumbles. “With a dragon.”

Chan gasps, hands wrapping around her tiny frame and picking her up before walking toward her room. It took him some time, but he ultimately learned that it’s best to ease her back into bed while she’s distracted, lest she throws a tantrum.

“And was it a nice dragon?” He asks. Hyerin giggles, and Chan is positive that the sound has the power to light up even his most somber days.

“Of course it was a nice dragon, daddy,” she tells him. “You said I only have nice dreams ‘cause my mind is pretty, remember?”

Chan nods as he gently tucks her back into bed, triple-checking that she is comfortable and warm. “Of course, of course. How could I forget?” He slaps a hand on his forehead with a sigh. “Hyerinnie has the prettiest mind. It can only make up pretty things.”

Hyerin smiles at him, tugging her blanket close to her chin, her doe eyes already heavy with sleep and blinking languidly. Chan asks her the same question he does every night, although the answer remains unchanging every time: would she like him to sing to her? She drowsily tells him she wants to hear him sing her favorite song, Little Star.

Chan promptly gets under the covers beside her — Hyerin pouting and whining about how he’s stealing her blanket for himself, to which he can’t help the hearty laugh that escapes his lips. Since turning four, she’s developed quite a strong personality that Chan soon finds he adores, much like everything about her.

He turns on his side to watch her features as he sings; her nose and mouth so similar to his, and the way she furrows her brows while falling asleep mirrors his own habits. Chan might not be a happy man in his job or his personal life, but the boundless happiness his little gift provides him surpasses anything else he could wish for. Every now and then, he finds himself wanting more, but it’s not long before he realizes he already has everything he needs.

Chan goes over his rather extensive list of how to care for Hyerin with Jisung for the tenth time that evening, making sure the younger man knows what to do in any situation that could arise in the couple hours he’ll be gone. Hyerin is the one to usher him out of the apartment, assuring him she’ll be fine with her uncle Han, and Chan has to stop himself from wallowing over the fact that his once tiny baby is rapidly blossoming into a young kid.

He made no real effort to dress for his date; a simple button-up shirt and jeans served him just fine, seeing as he plans to return home as soon as possible. His date and he haven’t talked much at all since his initial texts yesterday, texting each other only to confirm the time and place of their basically forced date.

He arrives fifteen minutes late, all but running from the bus stop to the restaurant while cursing Jisung under his breath. This was definitely not worth the hassle, and Chan wanted nothing more than to be back at home with his daughter. He’d pick watching Tangled with her for the hundredth time over an unwanted date in a heartbeat.

Chan finally walks into the restaurant, informing the waiter that he’s there to meet Cherry. His face visibly grimaces as he mutters the words. Fuck this blind date bullshit.

He’s led to his table, dragging his feet behind the waiter. His attention is immediately drawn to the pencil holding his date’s messy ponytail together. He chuckles quietly, circling around the table and forcing out a smile to introduce himself.

But then he’s met with a sight he had long given up hope of ever seeing again: you.

You, who were next to him as he made stupid decisions during college. Like when he drunkenly thought it wise to bet his laptop in a game of beer pong.

You, who always made him your special hangover soup after a party. He especially loved it when you let him keep the leftovers, knowing that he and his roommate were hopeless in the kitchen.

You, who filled the space in his cold sheets with warmth and always made his bed feel like a sanctuary.

You, who let him make love to you despite you both swearing to be only friends.

You, who later had to watch him walk away from you like a coward, driven by sheer fear.

You, staring back at him with a stunned look on your face.

“Chan?” You ask, an unsure lilt to your words.

And Chan embarrassingly fumbles over his words, his tongue tying itself into knots in front of you. He notices you pursing your lips to stop from giggling and clears his throat a bit too loudly, a few patrons turning their heads to look at him. But he can’t bring himself to care, not when it seems the universe has turned the wheels of his fate in his favor for once.

“Uh, hi,” is all his brain can muster among the jumble of thoughts inside his head. He mentally berates himself for acting so damn awkward when you’re clearly not as affected by this encounter as he is.

“Damn, it’s been so long,” you marvel, eyes not leaving his face for a second. “I thought you moved to a different country or something. It’s so strange how we never ran into each other.”

Chan forces out a chuckle, hands now fiddling with the menu on the table. Of course you two never ran into each other; he only ever leaves the house for work or when he has to accompany Hyerin, and he doubts you frequent playgrounds or zoos.

“Yeah, I… don’t go out much anymore,” he simply says.

You hum, and he properly takes in your appearance. You haven’t changed one bit; from your hair to your choice of clothes, you’re still the same girl who ruled over his every thought during college.

You two order your food and fall into an infuriating cycle of small talk. Chan doesn’t want to talk about the weather or if you have seen the latest movie yet — he’s desperate to ask you how you’ve been, if you ever pursued your dreams, if you can still outdrink anyone in your friend group, and—

And if you’re still single because you find relationships a hassle.

But as the food arrives, you fall into an even more frustrating cycle: silence. Chan feels restless, squirming in his seat every few minutes while you calmly eat and watch the people around you. He remembers your habit of scanning crowded rooms and making up stories for strangers with your vivid imagination. He wants to ask if you still do that, but it seems he’s only grown into more of a coward since your last encounter.

You’re the first to break the silence, waiting for the waiter to leave with your plates to ask what Chan has been doing since graduating. It’s a casual question with no weight to your words, as lighthearted as you have always been. And the complete opposite of his every possible answer.

How can he tell you he’s given up music altogether, now surrounded by gray walls and lifeless faces in his corporate job? How can he tell you he’s alone most of the time, partly by choice and partly because he doesn’t know how to dig himself out of this comfortable hole he’s trapped himself in?

How can he possibly explain that he agreed to be a single father, sacrificing his own happiness for the selfish whims of a woman who never even loved him?

You’re still the same; the same carefree eyes and attitude, same easygoing approach to everything life throws your way — such as meeting him again after years.

All of him has changed.

Chan can’t tarnish your colorful life, can’t sit before you and spill out his problems or grumble about the overwhelming loneliness in his life when he knows damn well that was a consequence of his own choices.

He wants nothing more than to be the same Chan he was in college. Creating life stories for strangers in dive bars with you, not caring about whether he’ll have enough money to pay the water bill next month, not having to bear the burden of something as precious as a human life depending solely on him.

It’s selfish, but he wants nothing more than to go back.

So he does.

“I actually still write songs, though it’s only a freelance thing,” he lies. He hasn’t written a single note in years. “Other than that, I’ve just been taking it day by day. Same as I’ve always done, I guess.”

And your eyes immediately light up — you’ve always loved his songs, after all. Your conversation flows much like it used to in the past after that, with you making witty jokes and Chan laughing loudly at them. You tell him you started working as an art teacher for the elderly when living off of commissions became impossible, and that you adore the stories they share about their younger years. They remind you of your own stories together, you admit with a genuine smile.

Your conversation is endless, continuing even as Chan walks you to your car in the empty parking lot. The night has grown colder, and the crescent moon gleaming in the sky above him almost feels like a sign that things will change for the better.

As you two stand in front of your car, a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. Ever the free soul, you ask him outright if he would like to come back to your place. There are no further implications hidden in your request beyond a hookup. Nothing’s ever heavy with you, every little thing always feeling light as a feather.

He says he would love to, but quickly excuses himself under the guise of calling his roommate about the spare key. Chan hurriedly calls Jisung as soon as he turns a corner in the parking lot, ensuring you won’t be able to hear him. It’s juvenile, the way he’s actually taking pleasure in almost creating a different version of himself — a version much closer to who he was when you were his, at least in some sense of the word. He’s a father, he should be responsible and dependable, but the weight of that role had been thrust upon him far too abruptly. He can’t be faulted for wanting to go back in time.

“Okay, I have no time to explain,” he blurts out as soon as Jisung picks up the phone. “Would it be too much to ask you to stay the night?”

Jisung chuckles at the other end of the line. “Damn, was the date that good?”

Chan ignores his sly comment, because yes, the date was everything he never thought it could be.

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” he assures him. “I’ll even pay you if you want. How much—”

“Hey, no need for that,” Jisung cuts him off. “You know I love looking after Hyerin.”

And the pang of guilt inside his chest at the mention of his daughter’s name almost knocks the air out of his lungs. He feels ashamed, as if he’s neglecting his daughter for a hookup, going after a fantasy that has long crumbled and faded away.

“How is she? Is she okay?” He asks, guilt washing over him like a wave. He hadn’t thought of his daughter for a second that entire night. “Did she cry at all? Did she notice I was gone for longer than I promised?”

Jisung calls out his name with a chuckle, prompting him to stop his rambling. “Relax. We painted each other’s nails, she did my makeup, had her dinner, and is now sleeping soundly after listening to another one of uncle Han’s phenomenal stories about frogs,” He details, causing a hearty laugh to fall from Chan’s lips at the image of Jisung’s face painted with Hyerin’s cheap children’s makeup. His friend then adds, “Go get laid, man.”

And so Chan hangs up the phone, all but running toward your figure waiting by your car. You smile at him, taking his hand and pulling him into a tight embrace. It’s the first time he holds you in almost five years, and he feels his dull world away from Hyerin slowly fill up with vibrant hues.

It takes you less than fifteen minutes to reach your apartment building, and Chan is thanking any higher power that might listen for that. The sheer anticipation of what is implied to happen once you two are alone together has him picking at his cuticles until it stings.

He’s nervous, to put it lightly. A couple of terrible drunken hookups in dingy motels after office gatherings were his only sexual encounters after Hyerin was born.

But once you’re standing in front of him in your living room, your eyes never leaving his even as you’re slipping off your heels, Chan knows you’re both equals in this playing field. 

He’s the one to pull you into a kiss, lips barely grazing against yours. But the feeling of finally kissing you again after so many years was like wildfire, consuming him wholly until the kiss turns feverish. His hand travels from your shoulders to your lower back, pulling you flush against his body. You hum against his lips, fingers clumsily undoing his buckle, and the prospect that you might be as eager as he is has him gripping the fabric of your dress.

Chan swears his vision goes black the moment your fingertips brush against his hardening erection, the feathery touch enough to make him sigh into your mouth.

A hand is pressed to his chest before he has the chance to think, and you’re pushing him backward until his back meets the wall. You immediately drop to your knees in front of him, leaning forward and nuzzling your face against his clothed cock.

“I missed you,” you whisper, hungry eyes looking up at him. “Don’t think I got to say that.”

Chan takes in the sight of you, memorizing and storing it in his mind alongside the countless images he already had of you on his knees for him. His fingers thread in your hair, your lips falling open with a sigh.

“I missed you too,” he professes. You have no idea how much.

With a smile, you quickly work his zipper open, pulling his jeans down his legs and pressing a wet kiss to his clothed erection. Chan feels your tongue lap at his member through his boxers, lips sucking around the head as your nails scrape the flesh of his thighs lightly.

It feels like you mouth at his length for hours, the light gray fabric of his boxers stained with your saliva and his precum, leaving Chan panting and tugging at your hair. You trail soft, wet kisses down his thigh while pushing his boxers out of your way, his cock already swollen and flushed. He’d be embarrassed for the way his body reacted so responsively to you if you weren’t also visibly as affected.

Your tongue circles his length languidly, lapping at a small bead of precum with a hum. Finally wrapping your lips around his tip, your tongue flicks teasingly beneath the head of his cock, Chan sucking in a deep breath and using his grip on your hair as leverage to pull you toward him. You almost obediently drop your jaw to slide his now fully hardened length into your mouth, your hand wrapping around the base as you begin to bob your head up and down his cock. Chan hisses your name when you relax your throat after a few passes, taking him fully into your pretty mouth, your nose brushing his pelvis.

“Fuck, you always looked so pretty like that,” Chan chokes out. “Pretty lips taking me so well.”

You groan at his words and the vibrations traveling along his shaft have Chan growling with a harsh tug of your hair, causing you to sputter as his cock hit the back of your throat. You seek purchase in his hips as tears prick the corner of your eyes. You’re unrelenting nonetheless, circling your tongue around him before pulling away, hands now sliding up his thigh before gently gliding over his balls. As you slowly lick from the base of his shaft all the way up to the sensitive tip, Chan’s gaze shifts down as he catches a glimpse of your thighs rubbing together. He feels himself twitch, and immediately pulls you away from him.

“Don’t wanna come like this, I need to fuck you,” he rasps out.

You stand back up, legs wobbly, and fumble with the buttons of his shirt while he slides your dress down your shoulders. Your movements are messy and filled with urgency, your breaths quickening as you both want nothing more than to strip away any form of barrier between you. Piling up five years of yearning will do that.

As your impatience reaches its peak, you tear open the last remaining buttons of his shirt, your nails grazing his skin as you slide the fabric down his shoulders. A wave of goosebumps travels across Chan’s body, and his hands abandon the task of removing your dress in favor of tracing the curve of your ass before picking you up off the floor.

“First door on the right,” you tell him, your words answering his unspoken thoughts as if you could read his mind. Chan nods, your proximity making it impossible for him not to press his lips to yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip before licking into your mouth with a low hum.

He collides with a wall, missing the entrance to your bedroom by a hair’s breadth, and you giggle against his lips. Chan smiles back. Nothing’s ever heavy with you.

He lowers you onto the bed gently, his body instinctively slotting between your spread legs the way he did so many times before. You soon also wrap your thighs around his waist as you always did, pulling him closer until his cock is pressed up against your clothed pussy.

“Wanna ride you,” you tell him, grinding your hips forward and eliciting a quiet moan from Chan’s lips as he hastily nods. With a tight grip on your waist, he flips you both effortlessly.

Promptly sitting up on his thighs, you finally rid yourself of the inconvenient fabric of your dress, followed by your bra, your nipples instantly hardening. Chan sits up, eyes transfixed on your chest as his calloused thumbs trace the nubs before his lips circle around one, sucking harshly. As you gently roll your hips, he can feel the way your soaked panties cling to his skin as your core presses up against his thigh.

Your fingers tangle in his hair with a whimper, pushing his face into your breasts as he bites the sensitive skin. His lips leave your nipples with a wet sound, then trailing kisses up the column of your neck until his gaze is locked on yours again. He was dying to mark you, bite and suck on your skin until it blossomed into a beautiful maroon — but he knew better. You weren’t twenty anymore, and you weren’t his; in no sense of the word.

“I’m on the pill,” you tell him, eyes heavy with lust.

And he knows this is a terrible idea. This was exactly how he came to be a father.

But it’s not his mind that’s doing the thinking, and so he nods, his grip on your hips tightening as you pull your soaked panties to the side just enough to slide the swollen tip of his cock against your slick folds. Chan sucks in a breath, fighting a war against his own body not to come from this feeling alone. It wasn’t just how long it had been since he was with someone, it was you. It was all you. The effect you had always had on him having never faded, simply laying dormant until his body had you again.

Chan rests his forehead on yours as you slowly sink down on his length. His lips find your neck again, gently sucking the skin into his mouth as you slowly grind down on him, a whine falling from your lips and going straight to his cock. His hips buck up unwittingly, causing you to moan loudly in his ears. But your slow pace remains, and Chan knows he should savor this moment, but he wants nothing more than to fuck you into the mattress until he forgets every minor issue aggravating his brain.

Such as the fact that he knows you will leave his life again the second you find out he lied to you.

So his hands find your waist and he flips you down onto the mattress once more. His eyes bore into you as you suck in a breath.

“Fuck me,” you plead, hips grinding into his cock again. “I want it, please—”

Chan doesn’t waste another second, retreating only to plunge back harshly into your cunt. He moves with deep strokes, hips falling into an erratic rhythm, your nails digging into his back as your thighs clenched around his waist. All he can hear is static and your choked moans as he presses you into the mattress.

“Missed this so fucking much,” he groans against your ear. And finally succumbing to his desires, he bends down to suck and nibble on the delicate skin of your neck, mind too focused on how your walls squeeze around him to worry about marking you. He laps at the small bruises he leaves behind, your fingers tangling in his hair as you mewl.

You roll your hips, matching his rhythm, and Chan feels a familiar heat rise within him. He reaches down to glide small circles around your clit, your body jolting and squirming. He absentmindedly smiles against your skin.

After an entire night of pretending his life was the same as it was five years ago, fucking you required no acting.

“It’s too much, fuck,” you whimper, tugging him by the hair until your lips are crashing together in a sloppy kiss. Your walls tighten around him, body clenching as the tension finally snaps, your orgasm coursing through your shaking body as Chan growls into your parted lips.

He keeps fucking into you, until his hips meet yours one last time, and a low groan reverberates through the room. His cock twitches inside of you as his body stills, filling you with his warm release which leaked out of you and onto your sheets as he pulled out with a sigh.

Chan throws himself onto the mattress, labored breaths leaving his heavy lungs. He pulls you into his arms, and you melt into his embrace as if it were a habit. It’s as though he’s gone back in time, even if temporarily.

He feels like he’s simply a guy making love with the girl he adores in the familiar comfort of his dorm room again.

When the first rays of sunlight seeped into your room, Chan was already awake. He watched as you slept, eyelids fluttering and a small smile adorning your lips.

It was as if you were his, in every sense of the word.

Guilt.

That’s what Chan feels every time he sees Hyerin’s laughing face on his phone’s wallpaper when he’s out, entertaining the silly lie he crafted.

It’s been two months since you reconnected and you effortlessly slipped him back into your life. The reunion with his old friends was expected — but Chan dreaded it, regardless. He found that out of the nine people that once comprised their group, only five remained. He wasn’t the only one who had gone his own way.

But he was the only one who had done it in the worst way possible, carelessly ghosting every single one of them, hoping his existence gradually faded from their memories.

That made facing his once best friend frightening. Minho was the first friend he made on the very first day of university, when Chan walked into his dorm room only to find he had snuck his cat into the building.

They were roommates for two years, and best friends for four. Chan complained loudly when he was assigned a new roommate. Minho was silent as he watched his best friend turn his back on him with no explanation.

Minho initially ignored him entirely, and Chan doesn’t fault him. When his vibrant face turned cold upon seeing him walk into a bar, Chan knew he earned that the moment he decided to ignore his friend’s every text message and phone call. When Minho made backhanded remarks about how nice it felt to have him back in their group, he knew he deserved it for not answering the door the only time his friend came looking for him.

It takes a drunken argument leading to a fist colliding with Chan’s cheek for Minho to finally address him. It takes them being escorted out of the bar by security for them to finally have a conversation, tears and resentment flowing freely as they sat at a bus stop late at night. After that, their friendship returned to what it was before, as if they had never been apart even for a second.

Despite the years and the changes, Minho was still his best friend — which was why he was the only person he came clean to.

Hyerin loved Minho, especially his cats. Her new favorite pastime quickly became going over to his house to play with her new ‘friends’, as she called them. And Chan was overwhelmed with happiness to witness his best friend falling under his daughter’s spell — his house now containing its very own box filled with every toy Hyerin mentioned even once, his kitchen stocked with all her favorite foods, and his cats falling asleep beside her anytime they came over to visit.

It was as if he was watching his two worlds collide. His past and present, which he had separated out of a senseless fear, intertwined so effortlessly it made him feel stupid for ever thinking he needed to build this barrier. For assuming the people he loved so much would reject him.

Made him feel even worse for walking away in a futile attempt to protect his feelings, because it only resulted in more hurt.

After so much of his time spent wondering, Chan finally has the answer to his questions. Some of his friends did settle for an ordinary adult life, some already married and some focusing their energy solely on climbing the corporate ladder. Still, some remained relatively unchanged — much like you did.

His social life blossomed again after reconnecting with his old friends. However, he still refused to hire a nanny, too fearful to leave Hyerin to a stranger’s care, resulting in constantly having to come up with excuses when his parents aren’t able to babysit. He won’t deny that he often fabricated these lies purely because staying in with his daughter and watching Tangled now outweighs any appeal of noisy nightclubs.

Jisung remained his salvation whenever he wanted to spend the night at your place, with Chan slowly but surely running out of reasons as to why you can’t go to his apartment for a change. He hasn’t had the heart or the courage to tell you the entire truth yet, only owning up to his lie about his job after you understandably asked him to listen to his new music and he was put on the spot.

Ever since you walked back into his life, he finds himself weaving a web of little white lies that slowly chip away at his heart.

He’s at a small gathering for his friend’s birthday, listening to Minho all but eulogize his fiancee. They have been a couple since university, Chan playing the wingman and encouraging his friend to finally do something about his crush (mostly because he couldn’t handle any more of Minho’s whining before going to sleep). Despite what everyone around them surmised, they beat all the odds and statistics and stayed together even after university. Chan would be happier about that if he hadn’t bet money on them breaking up before graduation. He wonders if Hongjoong will ask for his twenty bucks now that they’re friends again. 

“No, really, settling down with someone is so good,” Minho says after another shot of Soju, a silly smile etched onto his lips. “I thought I would hate it, y’know? Thought slapping such a significant title on our relationship would wear it down, but it’s the complete opposite. Ever since she proposed, it’s like we’re two love-struck nineteen-year-olds again.”

Chan smiles, saying they should drink to that purely because he hopes the sensation of alcohol burning his throat will numb his overwhelming jealousy. After congratulating Minho for the umpteenth time, he finds himself listening to yet another story about his relationship.

And he’s happy for Minho, just as much as he’s happy for Wonwoo for getting married last year. He couldn’t express the overwhelming joy he felt upon discovering these people, who once meant so much to him, had successfully navigated their way through life. But envy rears its ugly head every time he listens to one of their stories, because Chan’s direction in life seems to be a winding road. He’s a father, and his love for Hyerin is immeasurable, but he’s still actively lying about this side of him simply because he feels as if maybe he made the right choices in life at the worst possible time.

As he’s walking out of Hongjoong’s apartment with you later that night, he wraps an arm around your waist, a smile spreading across his face when you nestle closer to him. You two discuss Wonwoo’s marriage, with you talking about how beautiful the ceremony was, but ultimately scowling at the mere thought of getting married. Chan feels the corner of his heart crack at your words, but he laughs it off.

“Do you think he wants kids?” he wonders aloud.

He expects you to laugh at his sudden curiosity. He doesn’t expect you to dig at the fissure in his heart with your words, causing it to shatter completely.

“Gosh, it’d be so weird to see.” You cringe, snuggling deeper into his arms as a chilly breeze brushes against you two. “I like kids, but I’d never have them myself. Feel like it’d kinda ruin my life.”

Chan feels his grip on your waist loosen.

“Having kids doesn’t ruin your life,” he reasons. “You’re given the chance to care for something so precious, so important to this world…” he trails off, shaking his head and taking a step away from you. It feels as if exasperation has filled his entire being. “You look into their eyes and see yourself, and it’s— the love you feel when you first see them is so pure and earth-shattering that you can’t think of anything but how to make that tiny being only experience the good in the world. It doesn’t ruin your life.”

You eye him with confusion, cocking your head to the side and huffing out a laugh. “You talk like you know what that’s like. If you ever have kids one day, then you’ll know—”

“But I do know,” he’s yelling before he can stop himself, his footsteps coming to a halt. “I know because I have that. I have that and it’s the most precious thing in my life and yet I’ve been taking it for granted. And for what?”

He scoffs bitterly, his gaze fixing on your features; your flushed cheeks and slightly smudged lipstick, the way your puzzled eyes gleam under the moonlight. He shakes his head. 

“For childish illusions. The illusion that I could go back in time if I pretended hard enough, the illusion that this romanticized idea I have of my early twenties was superior to the life I have now,” Chan lets out a heavy breath, averting his gaze to the pavement. “The illusion that I could ever have you.”

“So it’s my fault you chose to lie about being a dad?” You blurt out.

He doesn’t lift his head. He can’t, the burden of guilt and shame weighing too heavily on his shoulders for him to face you.

“It’s my fault. You were simply the catalyst.”

“What do you even mean?”

“I mean I’ve always felt this way,” he exasperates, finally lifting his head but keeping his gaze anywhere but on you. He’s a coward. “I’ve always felt like maybe I was too young to be a dad, too immature to fully understand the consequences of the choices I made. I don’t regret my daughter, but I certainly regret the timing, and this haunts me every day. Meeting you again just made these feelings worse because you represent everything about my past that I no longer have.”

You remain quiet for a beat, but it feels like an eternity as Chan is forced to endure the deafening ring of your silence.

When you finally speak, your voice is unsteady. “You know, that’s why I always figured it was for the best that you left.”

“What?” Chan turns his gaze toward your face at last, your words stomping on his scattered heart one last time. He expects anger, but sorrow has taken over your expression, one so heavy he doesn’t recall a single moment in the years he’s known you where he’s seen you like this.

“You were always like this, Chan. You might think you were a different person back then, but you said it yourself,” you shrug with a sullen chuckle. “It’s only an illusion.”

He hums, nodding his head as it dawns on him. “You were never gonna be mine, were you? No matter what I did. I lied to you because I thought you would never want someone like who I am today. But I guess that was all in vain, ‘cause I’ve always been like this.”

“You always talked about getting married, settling down, having kids.” As you run a hand through your hair, an exasperated sigh falls from your lips. “You went along with our bullshit, but even back then, you were always like the dad of our group. This has always been you, Chan, but that’s not a bad thing. Don’t think you need to change or lie about who you are ‘cause you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met, but…”

He scoffs. “But?”

“But we’re too different. We’ve always been. We’re great together in every way but the way you want us to be — the way I would love for us to be as well,” you simply say, offering him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“And would it kill you if we tried? ‘Cause this unfulfilled hope has been killing me since I first fell in love with you.”

“What’s her name?” You simply ask, avoiding his question altogether. Chan furrows his brows. “Your daughter, what’s her name?”

He shifts on his feet. “Hyerin.”

“I hope she knows how lucky she is to have you as a dad.”

Chan shakes his head. “I’m far from the perfect father.”

“Good,” you state matter-of-factly. “Perfect wouldn’t be you.”

You fall into a much lighter silence, although it’s still far from comfortable. A swarm of questions fills Chan’s mind, but his words fade into silence and die on his lips.

He knows everything is over when you suck in a sharp breath, muttering, “I can’t be what you need. When love becomes too serious, I feel trapped and run away. You know what that’s like,” you trail off. “I know we loved each other back then, and I know I still love you now, but I think it’s my turn to walk away. I’m sorry, Chan.”

And just like that, he’s left to watch your figure slowly grow smaller and smaller as you fade into the dimly lit street. You don’t reprimand him for lying or question if he also loves you still. You don’t explain why you can’t make an effort, probably because you’re unsure of the answer yourself. It turns out you both remained unchanged.

And after all this time, it’s only then that Chan realizes you were always just as lost as he was.

Chan didn’t allow himself to think much about you since he watched you walk away that night. He missed you often, as he had done for so long before your last encounter, but he had long grown numb to that feeling.

In the two years he was apart from you for the second time, he learned that life isn’t black or white. He could be a father while also being his own person; a son, a friend, a boyfriend. He learned that prioritizing Hyerin didn’t mean neglecting himself, as that would negatively impact her as well. She couldn’t only know happiness if her father was always dripping with sadness.

He learned he doesn’t have to choose between who he is now and who he was at twenty years old; they were both him, with certain moments bringing out glimpses of one or the other.

Hyerin started elementary school and is blossoming into a caring little girl, no longer needing Chan to tie her pigtails in the morning or remind her to brush her teeth before bed. Although she still demands that they maintain their nightly routine of lying together until she falls asleep to the sound of his voice singing her favorite song.

During his first parent-teacher conference — after walking into the classroom fifteen minutes late — he’s stunned to see you sitting across from him yet again, a pencil holding up your ponytail the same way it did that night at the restaurant. He couldn’t help the smile that spread on his lips.

You were Hyerin’s teacher. He recalled picking her up after her first day of school and listening to her gush over the art teacher who was so pretty and nice, and talking about how she wanted to be like her when she grows up.

It felt as if you were destined to find each other every time one of you chose to walk away.

Your friendship picked up again slowly this time — no rushing into bed together and no rushing into long overdue serious conversations. They had already been avoided for years, anyway, they could wait a bit longer. This is exactly what you needed; patience. Chan had never had the patience to wait for you, while you never had the patience to understand your own feelings.

It’s been ten months now, and he’s yet again sitting before you. The teachers and parents converse around you both as you sit in silence. When you think no one is watching, you exchange glances, struggling to suppress the silly smiles that insist on spreading across your faces.

As people leave the room one by one after the meeting, Chan approaches you.

“You’re Bang Hyerin’s father, correct?” You speak with a grin.

“Correct.”

“She’s an amazing kid,” you tell him.

He smiles, shifting his gaze toward his feet before his eyes find yours again as you speak.

“We could grab a coffee this weekend.”

This time, there are further implications hidden in your request. You’re not asking as a friend, like you’ve been doing these past months. Some things are heavy with you now, and this is something he’s only recently come to find. He’s also come to find that he loves that change.

So he answers, “Sure. Tomorrow at three?”

“Then I’m your date for tomorrow,” you say with a giggle. “See you there, cutie.”

And Chan lets out a hearty laugh at that, which earns him a scolding look from the other teachers in the room.

He isn’t sure what will come of this. Maybe you two are better off as friends and all it will take is a couple of months to figure that out. Maybe time has changed you both more than he can understand, and you will finally be able to try something real after all these years of unfulfilled hopes and childish illusions.

Either way, Chan knows he won’t let go of you this time.

He wants you to be his, in any sense of the word.

♡ taglist: @bloom-ings, @linocz, @farahia, @mirbokk, @jisunglyricist, @jazziwritesthings, @seungseung-minmin, @yourcvndx, @hynjinnnnnnnie @vlctorriaa @yongbokkiesworld

[heechwe]

lost in wonderland | 𝐩𝐬𝐡

୨୧ pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader ୨୧ word count: 12k ୨୧ genre: smut, semi-angst, fluff ୨୧ tags: mentions of drug use, fake dating au, rockstar!sunghoon, popstar!reader, enemies to lovers au, jerk to down bad sunghoon, pet names (baby, doll, love, etc.), dirty talk, nipple play, oral (f receiving), belly bulging, spanking, unprotected sex, creampie ୨୧ synopsis: Park Sunghoon, one half of popular rock band Into Eden, is on thin ice with his management and the general public. What does his manager Jay decide to do? Set him up with the leader of rising pop girl group PrismHeart. And while it starts as two stubborn people living in a lie, growing feelings cannot hold anything but the truth. ➸ This one's dedicated to my lovely betas: Ley @pars-ley), Ally @lovetaroandtaemin, Kiki @wonwovy, & Lola @monamipencil)! I'm so grateful to y’all and the love you’ve given this story; I hope everyone else loves it too 🤍 Also the ending song and inspiration for the title is from Boys Like Girls's song "Lost in Wonderland"!

“PARK SUNGHOON: ANOTHER HEARTBREAK UNDER HIS BELT?”

“IS HEESEUNG TIRED OF HIS BANDMATE’S GAMES? IS ‘INTO EDEN’ IN TROUBLE OF DISBANDING?”

“DID SUNGHOON RUIN ANOTHER GIRL GROUP, AND HIS EX’S CAR?”

Sunghoon laughs at the headlines plastered across his manager’s desk. The gossip rags are the only vibrant thing in the office, the monochrome black and white color scheme creating a strict atmosphere that suffocates the rock star to no end. Who knew such bullshit could provide such humor? 

The sound dies on Sunghoon’s tongue when he sees Jay’s displeasure pervade the older man’s entire face. His arms are crossed, and Sunghoon can see the veins in Jay’s neck tighten.

“You think this is funny?” Jay asks, his voice even-keeled, but his body language anything but.

“No, Mr. Park.”

“Hoon.” Jay says his talent’s name with admonishment. He sits back down in his chair across from Sunghoon, the large desk separating them. “You know I hate when you call me that.”

“What should I call you, Mr. Park? Bro? Dude? J-Man?”

Jay can’t help the chuckle on his lips, but he shuts it down to go back to the discussion at hand. “Simply put, the label’s pissed. All that we should see two months before your tour is good press, not this shit. And you know Yeji is going to do more than just comment in a couple of tabloids.”

Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “She has nothing to say, besides the fact that it ended mutually.”

“You call making out with Lia ‘ending mutually’?”

Sunghoon raises his hands in defense, a smirk on his lips. “Don’t know what you were told, but that happened after we broke up.”

“Okay, that’s it.” Jay takes the multitude of tabloids and throws them in the trash next to his desk. “The label is going to chop my balls off if I don’t fix the problems you created.”

Sunghoon, in his mind, isn’t a problem child, per se. He simply pales in comparison to his golden boy best friend and musical partner, Lee Heeseung. It isn’t his fault that Heeseung is squeaky clean. The only crazy thing the guy has ever done was dye his hair red for their recent cover shoot. 

Sure, Heeseung has been committed to one person for years, long before the two men ever became a name in the public eye. The guy never partakes in recreational activities, choosing to spend his free time with his girlfriend or in video game chat rooms rather than in nightclubs like his counterpart. And he’s always been a media darling, giving signed photos to fans and providing the paparazzi with his undivided attention without complaint.

 Sunghoon likes to live without restrictions or red tape. If he has to be judged for that, constantly not measuring up to the pedestal his best friend lives on, so be it.

“It’s time for Plan B,” Jay says, breaking Sunghoon from his thoughts.

After Sunghoon’s brows furrow in confusion, Jay turns on the TV stationed behind his desk. The news video on display shows the members of PrismHeart, the label’s rising girl group, attending the AMAs with bright smiles and matching sparkly ensembles.

“This is Plan B?” Sunghoon asks, releasing a breathless laugh.

“No.” Jay points to you in the center of the LED screen. Your hair billows in the wind as your face shines with the same quality of the cameras capturing your essence on the red carpet.

Sunghoon is taken aback by you without hearing you speak a single word, and he suspects something devious brewing behind his manager’s eyes when he says, “She is.”

The nightclub is packed with D-list celebrities and upcoming starlets, ready to post to their respective social media accounts. With the right touch, the news will work its way to the trending page without fail.

Thankfully, Jay, Sunghoon’s manager, knows how to set the scene for a piece of tabloid fodder. It’s part of his job to make sure that, for better or worse, Sunghoon gets his time in the spotlight.

As for you, all you’re expected to do is mingle with your new “boyfriend,” look pretty in your little black dress, and set the trap. 

You asked your own manager, Momo, if you could bring one of the girls along to break the ice and make the “meet cute” look more believable, and both she and Jay agreed.

So here you are, sitting across from Yujin with a strawberry martini in one hand and your cellphone in the other, waiting for the signal.

“He is pretty cute. You can’t deny that.” Yujin scrolls through Sunghoon’s Instagram feed, multiple gym pics and rehearsal photos lining the grid of his main profile.

When Momo produced Jay’s offer to her, she marketed it to you as the perfect way for PrismHeart to skyrocket from simmering stardom into true mega-fame. All it took was a handful of white lies and scheduled meetups. No harm, no foul, right?

Like a devoted group leader, hands in your lap and a demure smile on your face, you said yes. You would do anything for your team and the girls who were your second family at this point. Not disclosing the truth was an easy thing to do, and nobody’s feelings would be sacrificed in the process.

It would also be a welcome distraction from the destruction of your last relationship. The back and forth with Jake proved to be too much on both your work and personal lives, 7 months of happiness leading to a slow and bitter end.

Maybe a cute boy with no attachments and some light flirting could be a nice way to bounce back into the game. Then, when a real relationship would be possible for you again, you’d be ready.

You nod and take another sip of your drink, the alcohol leaving a burning aftertaste in your throat. “He is,” you agree. “He’s terrible at time management, though, clearly.”

Yujin rolls her eyes and continues scrolling. “Take off your micromanaging hat tonight, babe. Have fun. Kiss your new fake beau.”

“Say it louder,” you chide, lips on the rim of your glass again. The drink was taking the edge off of your nerves, but you still couldn’t shake the desire to make sure things went perfectly.

For both work and personal reasons, you need this to go off without a hitch.

A second later, your phone buzzes on the top of the bar. Sunghoon’s face lights up your screen, along with his message.

[Received at 10:46 PM]: Walking in with Jungwon. U?

You internally roll your eyes at the cryptic text. Jake was so good at making his messages personable, and although you could put a dagger in him for breaking your heart, the least you can do is recognize that was one of his better qualities.

You just hope Sunghoon is better in person than he is on the page. Or phone, so to speak.

[Sent at 10:48]: By the bar with Yujin.

Sunghoon saunters through the club’s double doors, the notorious half of Into Eden smiling ear to ear with his friend Jungwon in tow. Your ex Jake and Jungwon hung in similar circles due to their statuses as popular actors, but Jungwon was always nice when you ran into him.

He greets you with a smile but stops short when he sees your best friend, his cheeks turning a red hue. “Sorry, you’re just even more beautiful in person.”

As Yujin stutters over her next words, sharing a similar blush with the man in front of her, Sunghoon saunters over to your side and grins. As you look closer at him, you can discern the pink around his irises and the flimsy edges of his smile.

He’s high. So much rides on his cooperation on this plan and he’s fucking high?

“Park Sunghoon, pleased to meet you.” He gives your hand a sloppy kiss when your fingers link together in a handshake, and you retract immediately. Sunghoon pays no mind to your distaste, immediately ordering a beer and downing it the second it slides across the bar.

“Do you think you should be mixing alcohol with…whatever’s in your system?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Sunghoon winks at you and scoots closer on his barstool to you, tracing the skin of your thighs with his eyes. “I think this is the part where we dance?”

You scoff and down what’s left of your martini. You flag the bartender down for another, incredulous but trying to mask your anger with another drink. “Maybe we should get to know each other first?”

“What’s there to know? Jay gave me all the cliffnotes this morning. And we can just learn as we go, you know?”

A part of you wants to run into this without a roadmap, but it’s not in your nature. And it would be a lot easier to let yourself relax if you knew you were walking into this plan with a person as serious as you are about it.

But no, you get a stoned rockstar as your new “boyfriend” instead.

The bartender hands you your second martini, and you hop off the barstool with it in your hand. You take a light sip before you motion to the dance floor. “Let’s go.”

You have a tight grasp on the stem of your glass as Sunghoon takes your free hand to walk towards the dance floor. You notice Yujin and Jungwon dancing in a far corner together, the two of them hitting it off incredibly well.

Your hips sway to the song, your body trying to follow the music that’s thumping loudly through the speakers. It’s a remix you don’t recognize, but you enjoy it nonetheless. You smile as the pulse of the song thrums through your veins, your nerves at their lowest since arriving at the club.

What you don’t expect is for Sunghoon’s hands to settle on your hips, pulling you closer to fall into rhythm together. He moves well considering his prowess lies in rock rather than pop.

“You’re a pretty good dancer for a bassist,” you tease.

“I have a lot of talents,” he remarks back, the club lights gleaming across his face in purple and pink strobes.

He looks better in person than in all the interviews and tabloids you read prior to meeting him tonight. In your efforts to gain intel for the meetup, you couldn’t deny how well he cleaned up, even when he acted poorly.

The slosh of your drink makes you stop dancing for a second, and you laugh. “Probably shouldn’t have brought this on the–”

Sunghoon captures your lips in a searing kiss. The taste of ale lingers on your tongue the longer both of your mouths are linked. He is a good kisser, no doubt, but where does he get off assuming you wanted him to? All you had to show for tonight so far was some small conversation. Is that his typical green light to dive straight into making out? 

You immediately push him off, the contents of your martini glass spilling on him in the process. “What the hell?” Sunghoon asks, touching his jacket and feeling the leather soaked in sugary liquor.

You’re stunned at how brash yet nonchalant he is about what he just did, caring more for his clothes than your personal space that he just invaded. 

“You’re such a bastard,” you whisper loud enough for only Sunghoon to hear, his eyes immediately widening at your words. You walk away from him stunned and drop the glass on the counter where you were initially sitting. Not wanting to take Yujin away from her success of a night, you run outside to a handful of cameras flashing and your failure coating your skin.

Late into the next morning, you sip a hefty cup of tea for breakfast as you scroll through your latest mentions. The socials are blowing up from your recent outing with Yujin, Jungwon, and Sunghoon. You half expected to wake up to the ending of your career, but to your relief, the event was nothing short of a success.

Despite your embarrassment on the drive home and sadness before bed last night, your followers and many of Into Eden’s fans seem to have taken the bait. Some took shots of you exiting the nightclub, Sunghoon following shortly behind with a smile on his face. They also edited short clips of the two of you on the dance floor. Incredibly, none of them caught your mishap with your martini on video.

Better yet, they found the prospect of you and Sunghoon not just exciting but fitting somehow.

@edenenthusiast: hope she can whip him back into shape, miss the old hoon.

@sunghoonsluv71: sad he’s off the market but they’re actually cute together??? 

@prismshearts_09: she looks so happy!! suck it @jaeyun_sim.

In the next second, your phone blows up from a mention on Sunghoon’s most recent story. Your handle is hidden in a far corner of the black screen but the words plastered across the screen say everything they need to.

“Love at first spill? 🍸😏”

All of your band members and Momo light up your group chat with their excitement. In the chaos of the chat, you thumb-up a text from Yujin about Jungwon giving her his number.

Then, a single text pops up from Sunghoon that makes your glee transform into anxiety.

[Received at 11:52 AM]: Lunch on me? :/

You feel a part of your chest flutter. There’s a hope that maybe in the light of day you’ll get a chance to see the real Sunghoon. No drugs, no cameras, no need to impress. Maybe if he’s away from the attention, he’ll realize you deserve an apology for his actions.

[Sent at 11:56 AM]: Lunch and dinner or get lost.

You see the quick succession of bubbles following your text, his response hot on the heels of your last message that he reacts to with a laughing emoji.

[Received at 11:58] I think I can handle that.

You sit across from Sunghoon on the balcony of his apartment, two BLTs cooked to perfection on the patio table in front of you. He kept to his word, laying a spread of food out for you in exchange for your time.

You quirk an eyebrow. “Did you make these yourself?” You ask.

Sunghoon shakes his head, bashful. “Jay helped me. Not only is he a great manager, but he’s actually an amazing cook.”

You nod and smile, grabbing a bite as Sunghoon’s blush and your quiet chewing fills the silence.

“I wanted to say that yesterday got out of hand, and I shouldn’t have gotten wasted before meeting you. It was unprofessional, and I apologize.”

 You tap your fingers on the wicker table, your gut warning you to be cautious. “Did Jay tell you to say that?”

Sunghoon stutters on whatever words he planned to say next and quickly runs a hand through his hair. “I mean it, what difference does it make? I really am sorry, okay?”

You roll your eyes. “So you’re apologizing using someone else’s script? That’s supposed to make me believe you?”

Sunghoon scoffs and presses his palms to the table. “You’re fucking impossible, you know that?”

“I’m impossible because you got loaded and decided to stick your tongue down my throat? Oh, and I bet the next words out of your mouth were going to be how stubborn I am because I expected you to actually want to make up for how shit you acted last night.”

“Wow. Are you just mad because you didn’t expect to like me kissing you that much?” Sunghoon says his question with a pestering but sultry tone, the words completely rhetorical.

You huff and make your exit from the table. “Fuck this, I should never have come.”

Before you can walk away from the balcony, Sunghoon takes your wrist in his hand. His eyes express his frustration, his mouth in a grim line. “Don't leave, please. Can we just pretend that the last twelve hours never happened? Start from scratch. We both know we need each other here.”

You take a deep breath and cross your arms, walking back to your side of the table with a stone expression. “I think it’s a good idea to create some rules for…this arrangement.”

Sunghoon stares you down, still irritated but agreeable. “I’m all ears.”

“First and foremost,” you start, “whenever we’re scheduled to meet, no drugs. Do it in your spare time.”

Sunghoon nods. “That’s fair.”

“Second, no PDA unless there’s people around that need to notice it. And we have to agree on it before either one of us initiates anything.”

“What,” Sunghoon laughs, “like a secret bat signal?”

“Sure Batman,” you jest. Does he have to joke every time he decides to speak? Against your better judgment, a small piece of you finds it endearing.

He ponders the thought and then taps two fingers to the side of his neck. “How’s that?”

“Fine,” you agree. “Do you have any other rules you think we should add?”

The word “we” slips so easily from your tongue. In spite of the way he stirs up every ounce of frustration inside of you, already you see him on the same team as you. That has to be a good sign.

He rubs his index finger and thumb under his chin, half teasing but half reflecting on what he could add.

“Only one more thing,” Sunghoon says. “When we don’t have plans to spend time together, what we do in our private time is our business.”

You raise your hands. “Not a problem for me.”

Sunghoon reaches his hand across the table. “Deal?”

What the outcome of your arrangement will be besides the expected results remains up in the air. Whether it will reap what you want is really anyone’s guess. But if it means you do your duties as a good bandmate, you will take whatever comes at you.

You grasp his fingers in yours, shaking them gingerly. “Deal.”

Into Eden’s most popular song “Salvation” plays on the stereo speakers in the photography studio of Vogue magazine’s headquarters. The two men on set act incredibly comfortable, Heeseung’s arm wrapped around Sunghoon’s shoulder. The older musician’s red hair is stark against the chosen clothing for the shoot, but he makes it work.

He always does, Sunghoon thinks with a repressed sigh. His hair is slicked back in contrast to Heeseung’s messy mop of wind-blown tresses, creating the contrast between the two that highlights the shoot’s concept. TWO SOULS COLLIDE: THE LEADING MUSICIANS OF NEW AGE ROCK.

Sunghoon stays still for the next shot of him and Heeseung, but he can’t help himself from following you with his eyes when you enter the studio with a bag of breakfast treats and a to-go tray of coffees.

He did not expect to see you show up to his photoshoot, and Jay didn’t give him any warning for the event on his schedule being one you would share space with. He’s not against it though. In the sea of gray suits and media lackeys, you’re a breath of fresh air. You have already taken his attention away from the mundane nature of the task he’s assigned to complete today.

He can’t deny that Jay’s plan has already made shifts to his image in the public eye. It’s only been a week of public paparazzi candids and social media mentions shared between his and your accounts, and fans are eating it up.

And, though he might never say it out loud, something about your presence levels him in a way Jay’s and Heeseung’s doesn’t. He quantifies it to you also understanding the pressures of the music industry, the feeling of someone outside of his circle who can relate to him foreign but welcome. Your relationship may be manufactured, but he has to look at the positives it’s already created in his life.

Jay runs over to you with a bright smile. “You’re an angel, thank you.”

You grin and take a breakfast sandwich from the bag to give to Sunghoon’s manager. “Least I could do for a member of my boyfriend’s camp.”

Jay winks over the rim of his coffee cup and goes back to the photographer’s side, overseeing the shots with a bit of sausage sticking out of his mouth.

You give Sunghoon a slight wave and stay a few steps away from the large lights capturing the shadows and highlights on the men’s faces.

You haven’t met Heeseung up to this point, so interacting with Sunghoon’s bandmate will add a new dimension to your “relationship.”

In contrast with Sunghoon, Heeseung exudes seriousness in every movement. You’re unsure if it’s because of his maturity or dedication to everything he does, similar to yourself, but it shows in the way the men stand next to each other. Where Sunghoon is fluid like water, transforming into whatever he needs to be, Heeseung is stoic and certain of himself, solid like a stone.

You wonder how such different people managed to be friends and bandmates. Then again, you’re in a group with four other girls, and your personalities are anything but similar.

“Alright, I think it’s time for individual shots. Mr. Park, we’ll do yours first!”

Heeseung runs to his chair in front of the vanity. It’s set up in a corner of the room for retouching his and Sunghoon’s hair and makeup. He beckons you over with a polite smile, and you oblige the silent request.

“Sorry I haven’t been able to greet you since you came in. You know how it is,” Heeseung’s lips turn up at the corners as his makeup artist dabs at his forehead with a clean powder puff. “I’m Lee Heeseung.”

You respond with your name and shake his hand, your nerves spiking. You expected Heeseung to be both attractive and polite, but it’s another level in person compared to his media appearances.

“Have you always been interested in music?” You ask.

Heeseung nods, still smiling. “Since I was old enough to hold a guitar. Both of us, actually. I don’t know if Hoon told you, but he was the one that started the band.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “No, he didn’t say anything at all. He doesn’t really talk about his work. Neither of us do.”

Heeseung laughs. “Yeah. He’s a closed book a lot of the time. But he’s got a great soul, he just doesn’t let a lot of people see it.”

You look down at your shoes, smiling. “I’d offer you a bagel, but I think the team would kill me if I let you mess up your makeup.”

Heeseung releases another chuckle. “Save it for Hoon, then. Make it a little lunch date.” When the photographer’s assistant calls for Heeseung, he winks at you and leaps off of the chair.

Sunghoon finds you in the next second, smiling warmly before taking the bag of food from your hands. “Please tell me there's an everything bagel in here.”

You nod. “With extra cream cheese.”

He beckons you to the free armchairs on the opposite side of the makeshift vanities. You sit down across from him and find your croissant in the bag, ready to eat it whole at this point.

“You could’ve eaten before I finished. You didn’t have to wait for me.”

You shrug and bite into your food. “Force of habit. I always make sure the girls eat before I do.”

He nods and takes a chunk out of his own bagel. “Like a good leader. I knew Jay liked you for a reason.”

You scoff, practically choking on the egg and cheese in the croissant. “Says the guy who started this whole thing. You didn’t tell me you were the one who made Into Eden.”

Sunghoon shrugs, his mood shifting. “It never came up. Besides, Heeseung took the proverbial role of leader a long time ago, anyway.”

You shake your head, picking at your food. “I bet everyone would give you more of a lead if you proved you could handle the responsibility.”

 Sunghoon is taken aback, there’s no doubt about that. When has he not been serious and responsible about his commitment to the band, save for the past year?

Sure, he hasn’t made great decisions recently, especially with his new…habit, simply put. But he’s never stopped caring, no matter how the tabloids turned on him or Heeseung overshadowed him when he began to fall short.

Maybe he needs to put some good will back in, even if he feels justified for being jaded at this point in his career.

Wanting to turn the tide of the conversation, Sunghoon spots a random guitar in the studio and grabs it eagerly. He sits back down with a newfound interest, plucking the strings to ensure it’s in tune.

You laugh and stuff the crumb-filled wrapper in the bag. “Avoiding the subject, I see.”

“Hey,” Sunghoon defends himself. “When I see a guitar, it’s only natural to play it.” He strums a few chords, satisfied. “Have any requests?”

You lift your shoulders, intrigued.

Sunghoon begins playing the opening strings of Oasis’s “Champagne Supernova.” It’s a bittersweet song, one with a beautiful instrumental but somber lyrics. Seems fitting for the man playing it somehow.

He begins to sing the first lines, the fried timbre of his vocals lulling you into a state of relaxation. By the introduction of the first chorus, you’re singing along with him, matching his tone with your saccharine harmonies. 

It makes the crowd around you pause to look on for a moment, mesmerized at two stars seeming to shine at the same second. They must resign it to fate, two talents coming together in music and love, unaware of the reality of your situation.

Or maybe, they see the shades of something blossoming that you and Sunghoon have yet to recognize yourselves.

You flip through the newest issue of Vogue, excited to read Sunghoon’s part of the interview. It takes a handful of turns before you make it to the spread, the interview intertwined with shots of Heeseung and Sunghoon clad in V-necks and leather jeans. Their outfits coincide with the grunge aesthetic. You flip through the discussion about their newest album, “Under the Sun,” until one specific segment catches your eye.

VOGUE: So, it’s safe to assume this new album is about dedication, or the commitment, to one’s desires. It shows in your new single off this album, “All For You,” as you said Heeseung, but how do you feel about it Sunghoon?

PSH: I agree with Hee a hundred percent. Sometimes you don’t realize how devoted you are to something or someone until you’re caught in the middle of it. And sometimes that can be beautiful and intoxicating, a reason to go on that keeps you alive in so many ways.

VOGUE: I sense something or someone on your mind besides the album.

PSH: You could say that.

You left hours before the boys began their interview. It could’ve been a million things on his mind when the writer made note of his reaction, but you know the online forums and fandoms must be exploding over the snippet.

“Whatcha reading?” Ningning asks. She walks into your kitchen, looking for a cup to fill with ice water. She may live a few apartments down, but she never fails to use her status as the youngest to barge in whenever she wants.

You show her the front cover when she turns her head back in your direction. “His new article just came out.”

“Any mentions of his new love affair?” She wiggles her eyebrows and you threaten to throw the magazine at her head.

“Drop it already, Ning! It’s not real anyway.”

“Come on. The guy is cute, you’re cute, have some fun with it!”

“I would if he didn’t have so many walls up.”

“Like you don’t?” Ningning tests the waters, the air suddenly thick with tension. “You’re always so serious. You know we love you, but you never let yourself loosen up.”

You sigh and drop the magazine on the counter. “There’s a lot of responsibilities on the line. I can’t just shuck them whenever I want.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to worry every second about them, or about us. Let go sometimes,  babe.”

Before you can respond, your doorbell rings. You’re both surprised, not expecting anyone to show up today, but you answer the door anyway. 

Sunghoon stands before the threshold with a bag of takeout and a shy smile. His eyes are not bloodshot, his outfit looks purposefully put together, and his posture tells you he’s on a mission. “Figured since you brought food last time, I oughta return the favor.”

Ningning saunters up behind you with a smirk, arms still crossed. “Speak of the devil.”

“Easy, that’s not me,” he jokes. “Probably more of an associate.”

Ningning laughs and takes the cue to exit the apartment. “Have fun, you two, but not too much fun!”

You press your hand to the back of your neck, the heat on your cheeks rising at an alarming rate. “Didn’t know we were supposed to meet today.”

“We weren’t,” he admits.

A corner of your mouth quirks up. “I thought whatever we did in our private time was our business. You’re using the space in your schedule to hang out with me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Sunghoon bops you on the nose with his index finger and drops the bag of takeout on the counter. “I didn’t know what you’d like so I got a little bit of everything. Wontons, crab rangoons, egg rolls…I guess I kinda went overboard, didn’t I?”

You shake your head, the other part of your mouth turning up until your face cracks into a full-blown smile. The uncertainty on his face, the wind-swept hairdo covering a part of his eyes, the rapid motions of his hands taking the containers of food out of the bag.

In any other circumstance, you would consider this an awkward but real first date. And because your heart is not functioning in tandem with your head, you feel the flutters in your stomach all the same. “I’ll eat whatever you brought.”

The sun sets into the clouds surrounding the apartment complexes near yours, the high-rise bathed in orange and yellow hues from the day coming to a close. Your stomach is still overwhelmingly full from the food Sunghoon brought over, but you’re in a comfortable space as you both sit on your couch together watching another episode of New Girl.

“Can I ask you something?”

Sunghoon turns to you, his smile not meeting his eyes. “‘S a free country. But I get to ask you one also. Quid pro quo and all that.”

You ponder how to word your next sentence, not wanting to cross an unspoken boundary. “Why did you start using drugs?”

He sighs, rubbing the palms of his hands on his jeans. “Honestly, I didn’t know the reason until I stopped taking them a few weeks ago…when we started this thing. It helped to take the edge off of things, off of me always worrying about how I was measuring up to Hee. And then they just helped with everything else, until they didn’t.”

Your heart aches at his answer, the explanation one you did not expect to be so in-depth. Like most starlets and singers at your age, it just seemed to be around and available to take whenever you wanted. Not that you or any of the girls in PrismHeart partook, but it was still there.

You didn’t realize that his proclivity started from a place of genuine need for something else. Anything else, if it meant he could escape.

 “My turn,” Sunghoon says, turning his full attention to you on the couch. “Why do you never let yourself relax?”

His question and Ningning’s words haunt the deep recesses of your brain in an instant, the unspoken fears inside of you coming to a head as you try to create an answer. “Being able to sing professionally has been something I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. I guess somewhere deep inside I’m worried if I don’t take it seriously, I’ll lose it forever.”

Sunghoon ruminates on your answer before he traces the outline of your hand with his fingers, the touch setting off sparks on your skin. “We’re more alike than I thought.”

You laugh and throw the pillow under your back at him. “What? It’s not like I’m a robot or something.”

He chuckles and stands up from the couch. “Okay, well, either way, we need to liven the mood again.” Sunghoon scrolls through a playlist on his phone and finds a song that immediately makes his face lighten up. “Perfect.”

He connects his phone to your Bluetooth speakers, the guitar riff of The Darkness’s “I Believe In A Thing Called Love” cutting through the silence from moments before.

“What the hell-“

“Stop thinking for five minutes and dance with me or so help me God.” His eyebrows quirk up in an unspoken challenge, and before you can stop yourself and use your logical brain to think first and then decide, you’re up off of your feet with your best cockney accent to match the lead singer’s tone.

You may be off key and breathless, and Sunghoon may look ridiculous as he riffs on an air-guitar, but it’s the first night in years where you’ve truly felt free. No obligations or restrictions are there to stop you from doing what you please.

That night when you go to sleep, you save the ridiculous song to your Apple Music account and think about Sunghoon’s smile before shutting your eyes.

The flash of cameras is nothing new, especially on a red carpet. What adds a unique dynamic to the situation is Sunghoon standing by. He watches you pose for the cameras, the press doting over you for a shot of your outfit and presence at Into Eden’s album launch party.

His eyes on you burn brighter than the lights strung across the space. You blush to yourself and keep smiling for the multitudes of paparazzi. The next minute, Sunghoon puts a hand on the small of your back gently to lead you in the direction of the club a dozen feet or so away.

“Sunghoon, one picture! Just one!”

You turn your eyes to him and press two fingers to your neck, feigning it off as nervousness in front of the public. Sunghoon smirks and pulls you into his chest, letting the vultures beg for more as he holds you close.

He puts a hand up to say goodbye and walks away with you, palms intertwined. Even as you enter the club, seeing Heeseung and his girlfriend Ryujin waiting for you both, Sunghoon doesn’t let go.

“Do you want a drink?” Sunghoon asks, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

“No thank you.”

“Who are you and what have you done to Sunghoon?” Ryujin asks, mystified at his newfound etiquette.

“He’s still around, Ryu. Just trying to be on his best behavior for once.” Sunghoon ruffles her hair before walking away to greet Jay at the bar riddled with executives.

She huffs and fixes the flyaways Sunghoon caused, but smiles at you when she’s done. “Whatever you’re doing to him, keep it up. I haven’t seen him this way in forever.”

Clearly Ryujin’s not aware of the circumstances of yours and Sunghoon’s relationship, but something has changed in him both in and out of the public eye. Many posts and headlines showcased your numerous outings and discreet meetups in the weeks you’ve spent together. However, there were more moments shared between you that the public had no insight on.

Nights in the recording studio, rehearsals for PrismHeart that turned into goofing off between the both of you, and rides on his motorcycle that almost made your head spin.

It’s hard to tell now where the truth stops and the lies begin, and vice versa. How can you tell yourself the smiles that he gives you aren’t genuine? How do you respond to Ryujin without feeling like your answers are coming from the depths of your heart?

“Babe, there’s that director! Let’s go say hi!” Ryujin runs over to the eponymous man with her hand tightly wrapped around Heeseung’s. He smiles apologetically before being stolen away.

You wait for Sunghoon to come back, but not before you witness Yujin and Jungwon linked arm in arm, followed by the last two people you expected to show up tonight.

Jake’s hair is newly dyed, the ash blond of his hair striking under the lights of the club. He doesn’t notice you, only shakes hands with Jungwon and continues on his path to the bar. His date and Sunghoon’s ex Yeji has her body wrapped tightly around his, even as they walk through the crowds of people.

It’s been months since you last saw him, and in spite of your desire to stay and show your pride for Sunghoon and his newest album, you want nothing more than to run out of the club and never come back. Your heartbeat quickens, the thumps of it rattling your chest with no guarantees it’ll calm down.

Like a magnet, Sunghoon is by your side immediately and looking into your eyes with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Jake’s here. Yeji’s with him.”

Sunghoon scans the crowd and lands on the two at the bar. Jake catches the younger man’s eyes and lifts his drink in congratulations, a smug smirk on his face.

Before he can walk over to the idiot’s spot, you hold onto his arm tightly to stop him. “He’s not worth it, Hoon. Trust me.”

Sunghoon knew enough of your history with the C-list actor from your own admissions and your friend’s anecdotes to want to kick the guy’s teeth in. Jake didn’t just make it harder for you to make your relationship a priority in your life, but he made every issue between the two of you your fault somehow.

And as far as Sunghoon could tell, no-one could be more devoted to the things that mattered to them than you.

“Why the fuck would he show up here?” Sunghoon asks nobody in particular, still fuming at the man’s audacity and his effect on your wellbeing. “The least I can do is show him the door.”

“No, please.” You grip onto the lapels of Sunghoon’s suit jacket, emphasizing your need to have him close. If he leaves you, you might fall apart. “Dance with me?”

Sunghoon’s anger transforms, lightly scoffing at your request with a soft smile to follow. “I don’t think this song is good to dance to, love.”

The term of endearment makes your knees weak, the word on his lips making your fingers tremble against the fabric of his jacket. Yes, the remix of one of Into Eden’s new songs “No Doubt” is more suited for a mosh pit than a couple wanting to dance, but you don’t care. “Dance with me anyway.”

You lead him to the center of the club. Both your worlds look on as you hold him close and try to match the rhythm of the remix. It’s a pointless endeavor, the beat changing right when you think you’ve mastered it. Your attempts to follow make Sunghoon smile. “If it helps, I’m not a big fan of this version of the song. Glad it’s just a B side track.”

You roll your eyes and grin. You rest your head on his chest, deciding to sway softly instead of thinking about the music pumping or the strangers’ passing glances.

“I think we’re breaking rule number two, love,” Sunghoon whispers into the crown of your head.

You move to stare up at him, running two fingers to the side of his neck exposed over the collar of his shirt. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

In the haze of blinding lights and blank faces, Sunghoon’s is the only one that matters as he bends down and presses your lips to his.

In contrast to the first kiss you ever shared, this one is not entwined with alcohol or unwelcome shock. It’s ingrained with weeks worth of tension and words that you could not read before, the lines between your agreement now crystal clear. 

You gladly accept his mouth on yours, your body on fire when his tongue touches the roof of your mouth. His hands slip down to the curve of your hips, squeezing the skin through the confines of your clothes.

The sounds of shuttering cameras and surprised voices intercut with the music are of no priority to you. All that matters is that this kiss never ends. That the feelings you’ve been harboring never have to be concealed again.

Sunghoon walks into Jay’s office with a heavy heart, unsure how to present the situation he will unfold to his manager. He’s been ducking your calls and texts, unsure how to go about his next moves before discussing his predicament with the person he trusts the most in this world, save for Heeseung.

“I could kiss you!” Jay says when he sees Sunghoon walk in, pointing at him with pure glee.

“Please don’t,” Sunghoon responds.

 “Streams of ‘All for You’ hit an all-time peak last night, the projected numbers are predicting this record to be your best selling one since the first album, and you’re a golden boy in the press again!” Relief washes over Jay’s face, the success of his plan evident in the easy posture of his body. “Not gonna say I’m a god, but I'm definitely a genius.”

Sunghoon claps his hands together, giving his manager the praise he deserves. “That’s great, Jay. Really.”

“You should be happy, man! We’re on the straight and narrow again. Now I just have to come up with some sweet and easy way to end the whole thing and we’re good to go.”

Sunghoon wants to interject, but Jay continues on with his thoughts, letting them run free out loud. “It should be pretty easy. Just gotta find another event to have you guys attend and then we’ll pull the plug—“

“Jay, I can’t.” Sunghoon blurts out the three words that have been on his mind since he walked into the label’s building. His heart rests in his throat as he holds nothing back. “I like her. Really.”

Jay stops walking around the room and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He blows the hair in front of his face, puzzled. “Well, that’s a pickle.”

“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” Sunghoon admits, because it’s the truth. He never intended on actually finding you endearing, funny, attractive, all the positive adjectives he can come up with in his mind. “And then the album party happened…and I just can’t.”

Jay sits down at his desk, his face becoming a mask of professionalism. “You know that’s not possible, Sunghoon. I mean, think about it. She has her band, you have yours. It would be a disaster trying to keep it up. The only reason Hee and Ryu are still together is because she isn’t involved in any of this shit.”

Sunghoon shakes his head, vaguely listening to his manager’s words but not giving them weight. “You don’t know her like I do.”

Jay shrugs. “You may be right. But you could barely handle a relationship, real or fake, when this started. Do you think a real one is manageable right now?”

Sunghoon leans back into the armchair, some of his manager’s words hitting too close to home to deny. Would he truly be able to keep a true relationship with you alive when he was always under public pressure and eventual scrutiny?

Sunghoon walks out of the office with more questions than answers, more unsure than he was before.

You sit in your bed, undecided on whether you should try to text Sunghoon again or not. The downpour outside reminds you of the onslaught of emotions pooling in your gut, a mixture of hurt and anxiety weighing heavy on your heart.

He kisses you because you both wanted him to and then he decides to leave you without a single word for days? What kind of sense does that make?

Yujin and Ningning want to cut his heart out with a rusty knife, but you assure them you’re as confused as he probably is, unsure where to go from this point forward.

If only he could give you some signal he’s still alive, you would feel more at ease.

A knock at your door makes you run to answer it, expecting Ningning to show up with Sour Patch Kids and the newest film on your To Be Watched list. “Ning, you better have ‘Bend It Like Beckham’ in your hand or you’re not coming in!”

You open the door to Sunghoon soaked through from the rain. “Sorry I came empty handed.” Sunghoon trails his eyes down your body, smirking at the Hello Kitty pattern of your cotton shirt and shorts. “Nice outfit.”

You shake your head, incredulous that he’s at your door without any word to warn you. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you,” he says honestly. He walks through the door and makes you back into the hallway wall. His wet body traps you against him and the walkway. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

He chuckles, swiping his wet hair off his face. “I know, I’m an idiot.”

“And a jerk.”

“And a jerk,” he parrots, eyes full of sincerity. “But I want to be better for you. I want to be worthy of being yours.”

The confession makes your body buckle. The breath that was still in your lungs escapes in one gust from your lips. How can he think he isn’t worth it after all the vulnerability he’s shown you? “You already are, Hoon.”

He places his hands on either side of your face tenderly, his mouth inching closer. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You mirror his expression, covering his hands with your own. “I might have been told that once or twice.”

His lips collide with yours, the action soft but the emotions charged behind the kiss heavy. Where that kiss in the nightclub was chaste compared to this one, you can only imagine how the rest of the night will play out.

Sunghoon discards his jacket onto the floor, your hands automatically sliding across his damp shoulder blades. Your touch makes him shudder, a moan escaping his throat. “You’re so warm.”

You smirk. “My bed’s warmer.”

The tangle of clothes and tongues leads to your position in his lap on your bed, the comforter discarded somewhere in the rush to get him to sit down and hold you closer.

Your body writhes against his, his pants the only thing left that he’s wearing. He holds you tighter against him, groaning against your lips. “Fuck, are you trying to get me to come already?”

You blush and kiss his neck. “Wasn’t my intention, but I don’t mind.”

Sunghoon chuckles. He flips you onto your back on the mattress, taking your bra off to reveal your breasts. Your nipples perk up once the air hits your skin, and Sunghoon can’t fight the groan that escapes his lips. “You’re fucking beautiful. I could stare at your tits all day.”

Most compliments make you feel like the person giving them is obligated to, not because it’s true. But when you hear such explicit thoughts leave Sunghoon’s mouth, you believe every word he says.

He covers your body with his own, taking one nipple into his mouth as he kneads the neglected breast with one hand. Expertly, he uses his other hand to slide into your underwear, finding your clit in record time.

He swirls his index and middle finger around the bud, using your essence that has already pooled in your panties as lubricant.

You mewl, grasping Sunghoon’s hair in your fingers for purchase on something, anything.  “Fuck, that feels good.”

Sunghoon releases your nipple with a pop, his mouth trailing up the valley of your breasts to stop at your lips. “I’m not done yet, darling.”

Suddenly, he has both hands pulling your underwear down your legs, leaving the fabric dangling on the curve of your ankle. He wastes no time settling his face at the apex of your thighs.

He kisses your clit, making your body buck into his face at the quick act. By the time his tongue is inside of you, prodding deliciously at your walls, you’re practically at the brink of an orgasm.

“You like that?” Sunghoon asks, his voice wicked against your pussy, the vibrations of his mouth reverberating against your skin. “Like how I stretch you open, love?”

You nod vigorously. “Yes, Hoon, you know I do.”

He licks a long stripe up your center, from your perineum to the hood of your clit. “I have to be inside you right now, darling. But I promise, I’ll make you come on my tongue later.”

You clench down on nothing, eager to have his body conjoined with yours. He takes his jeans and boxers off in one motion, his cock long and thick. You want nothing more than to take him in your mouth, feel the taste of him on your lips, but you’re too excited for what’s to come when you look in his devilish eyes.

He settles on top of you once again, certain he’s prepped you enough for him to enter you. He looks into your eyes for confirmation, and you kiss his lips to emphasize your eagerness.

He slips inside without issue, his girth stretching you more than his tongue did. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, a curse flying from your mouth when he fills you completely.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, his voice anchored to the skin of your neck. He can practically see the outline of himself on your lower belly protruding through the skin. “Feel all of me.”

His hips push himself in and out of you, his tempo slow and torturous. The rational part of you thinks he’s only doing this for your comfort, but you know him better than most deductions of logic.

 Sunghoon knows you want him to go faster from the feeling of your nails digging into his back and your moans in the shell of his ear. But because he loves to tease, he’ll drag this out for as long as he can.

Until he hears you beg for more, that is. And you don’t mind groveling for what you want.

“Hoonie,” you plead, trying hard to meet his hips with your own for more force. “Please fuck me harder.”

Sunghoon kisses your forehead before saying, “Flip over for me, love. All fours.”

You do as he commands. Once you’re in an acceptable position, he slams himself inside of you.

The tempo barely compares to the previous one, giving you no time to do anything but relish in the pistoning of his hips as they make contact with yours. He smacks your ass for good measure, a moan escaping from your lips as he rubs the reddening skin.

“You wanted this,” He reminds you, smacking your other cheek harder as he drills himself in and out of you without any sense of stopping. “Wanted me to ruin you like a good little doll.”

“Yes, yes, please don’t stop,” you beg, stuffing your face into your pillow.

“None of that, my love.” He takes your hair into a makeshift ponytail to raise your head from the bed. “Want everyone to hear how good you feel, how well you’re being fucked. And I want them to know how beautiful you sound when you come.”

You’re limp by the time your orgasm rushes through you, your body wrecked to no end as you’re bathed in ecstasy.

“Holy shit,” you mewl, still feeling the aftershocks.

Sunghoon continues on with his relentless attention, his speed not letting up. He moves you against him and vice versa as he pleases, seeing the white coating of your essence on his cock as it disappears inside of you.

“Fuck, baby, where do you want me to come?” He asks, unsure how much longer he can hold it in.

“Inside of me, please.”

Don’t have to tell him twice.

A groan rips from Sunghoon’s throat as he releases inside of you, knowing his entire load is painting you white. If only he could see it, see how much of him is a part of you now.

He runs his hands up and down your body when you both come down from your highs. He kisses the reddened skin of your backside as he drags a washcloth between your legs, making sure not to overstimulate you in the process of cleaning you up.

You stare at each other, both in lingering rapture as well as disbelief. He hums a song into your ear as your eyelids flutter closed, the gravel in his voice the perfect lullaby.

You wake up the next morning to Sunghoon playing the chorus of “Wonderland,” PrismHeart’s first hit on the Top 100. You grin to yourself, holding the comforter close to your chest. “Trying to record that music video was such a pain.”

Sunghoon turns and smiles at your awoken form, putting the guitar against your side table. He takes you into his arms, kissing the top of your forehead. “How so?”

“They wanted us to do this themed shoot. White rabbits, decks of cards, me dressed as Alice. But every time the director tried filming the segment where we all went down the rabbit hole, it just kept going wrong.” You laugh and run your fingers across Sunghoon’s chest.

He chuckles and kisses your shoulder. “They didn’t think to try a different concept out?”

You shook your head. “We all agreed on it. Besides, the story is actually one of the inspirations for the songs. I read a lot of Lewis Carroll growing up, but I always loved ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ the most.”

 Sunghoon runs his lips across your neck, his hand tracing circles into your waist. “A beautiful girl lost in her fantasies. Sounds nice,” he whispers, his breath creating delicious waves of heat across your skin.

It still doesn’t feel real, having him so close and naked against you in your bed. It could be a dream, one action of your subconscious playing on your deepest desires. And if that were true, you wish you would never come out of it, too happy for words to express.

When Sunghoon slips under the covers and between your legs once again, you wonder if the faraway place that held your dreams could hold a space for Sunghoon too.

It only takes one weekend for your happiness to come crashing down. Whatever you and Sunghoon were building is destroyed, all in the span of seventy-two hours.

Sunghoon is helping you cook a plethora of pancakes when your front door opens in a slam. Yujin and Jungwon bust through with worried expressions.

“You guys haven’t seen it, have you?” Yujin asks, frown lines etched on the sides of her mouth. She hands you her phone, and you and Sunghoon look over the article headline on the screen.

“‘INTO EDEN’ & ‘HEARTPRISM’ CAUGHT IN DATING SCHEME? IS IT REAL OR JUST FOR SHOW? EXCLUSIVE INSIDER TELLS ALL!”

Sunghoon pulls out his phone to call Jay, stalking into your bedroom. The conversation immediately bursts into a screaming match, the sounds of Sunghoon’s anger apparent.

“I swear to God, Jay, if you don’t find out whoever leaked this shit, I’m gonna have your head on a plate right next to theirs.”

Yujin and Jungwon grow quiet. With the news shared, your friend hugs you and walks out the door with Jungwon in tow. 

Sunghoon throws his phone onto your bed and walks back over to you, clearly worn out from the information he told Jay and the facts that were given to him by his manager.

You give him a close-lipped smile and envelop him into a hug. Sunghoon strokes your hair as you promise him, “It can be fixed, Hoon, and it will.”

A few days and one interview later prove that in spite of your hopes, not all things are fixable. 

Jay sets up a quick interview with Buzzfeed under the guise of discussing the new album. Everyone knows the sole reason for its existence is to quell the rumors of your false romance. It started that way, yes, but that doesn’t mean you or Sunghoon have to divulge that information to the public.

Heeseung and Sunghoon discuss the inspiration for their songs and the creative process behind the album. And when the questions come up regarding the rumors, Sunghoon plays them off with a smile.

“I’m not desperate enough to need to fake a relationship with anyone! How stupid would I have to be to do that?”

The interviewer quirks an eyebrow. “Are you saying your girlfriend was desperate to date you?”

“All I’m saying is that she pursued me that night in the club, and I was more than happy to see where it would go. And as they say, the rest is history.”

Heeseung looks at Sunghoon with wild eyes, his face practically screaming: That’s the best answer you could come up with?

When Sunghoon comes to your door that night to explain himself and how his words got twisted after the fact, you open the door only to throw the jacket he left in your apartment in his face.

“Desperate,” you seethe. “That’s the word you thought best described me, huh? So I guess I’m also stupid enough to want to date you, too?”

“No, I didn’t say that! I didn’t say any of those things!”

“So the interviewer was lying? Just another person or thing out to get you, right Sunghoon? When will you take responsibility for once and own up to the shit you said about us, about me?”

The girls huddle behind you as the tears stream down your face. “Just leave me alone, Sunghoon. Get away from me, use this as the out you wanted since day one.”

You slam the door in his face, not bothering to address the fist that slams into your door or Sunghoon’s pleas for the two of you to work this out.

His heart shatters from the force of his mess, a mess that not another soul can be blamed for but him.

Weeks roll by into painful silence, not a single exchange shared. You blocked him on all social media in hopes to avoid taglines of your name in relation to Sunghoon, but it’s of no use. The time comes where the girls have to keep your phone away in hopes you’ll stop searching online for comments related to the Buzzfeed article. “Babe, it’s not gonna do you any good,” Yujin sighs, powering off the device.

You nod, resigning yourself to the fact that whatever relationship you had is over, and there was no way to prevent it. You could not control or change Sunghoon anymore than he could change himself, and unfortunately, he was still in the process of doing so and shattered your heart in the quest to be a better man.

Sunghoon, on the other hand, tries everything to repair what he’s destroyed. He pleads with Jay to make contact through Momo, but his hands are tied. “She doesn’t want to talk to you, man. If I keep pestering Momo she’s going to have my ass, and not in a fun way. I’m sorry.”

The first few weeks of the tour comes and goes in a haze, Into Eden beginning their string of tour dates up and down the eastern coast of America. The only time Sunghoon is coherent enough to remember anything is in the mornings before he falls into another night of misery. He doesn’t go back to his usual routine of drugs and booze, keeping his promise religiously. Instead, he goes on in a blur, playing his instrument and performing his parts of the songs without a hitch.

He may not be happy, but at least he’s doing something he‘s always been meant to do.

One afternoon of rehearsals, Sunghoon decides to use his break time on the roof to his advantage. The sounds of the city, its car horns and speeding pedestrians, keep him sane for once in a long time. 

Of course, Heeseung has to ruin the solitude with his presence. “Sunwoo said I’d find you up here.”

“Sunwoo needs to learn to shut his mouth and focus on sound mixing,” Sunghoon grumbles, strumming the electric guitar in his lap and avoiding Heeseung’s gaze.

Heeseung sighs and sits next to his best friend. Both of their legs dangle over the edge of the building as they take in the bird’s eye view of New York City. “If you want to fix things, you just have to tell her how you feel.”

“Thanks, Yoda. Where would I be without you?”

Heeseung laughs at the young man’s ridiculous attitude, Sunghoon’s stubbornness unbroken since they became friends. “Just because you may not like my advice doesn’t mean I won’t give it to you.”

“What nuggets of wisdom could Mr. Perfect give me that I haven’t heard a thousand times over?”

“Is that what you think of me?” Heeseung runs a hand over his face, mystified at Sunghoon’s words. “I don’t know where or when you got this notion in your head that my life is perfect, but it’s complete bullshit.”

“Look at you and look at me, Hee. Everyone has said it for years. How much more talented you are, how much better you handle the spotlight compared to me, the list goes on and on.”

Heeseung closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Ryujin and I almost broke up last year.”

Sunghoon looks at his best friend, stunned. “Fuck, really?”

His best friend nods. “The last album’s release…I was never home. Ryujin kept getting on my case about us not spending time together, and we took a break for a few weeks. Once I realized how dumb it was for us to be fighting in the first place, things went back to normal. Well, normal and one relationship counselor later.” Heeseung sighs. “Jay kept it quiet from everyone, including you.”

“You could’ve told me,” Sunghoon says, guilty he had no clue.

“I know. But everyone has their secrets, just like you.” Heeseung emits another breath from the depths of his lungs. “I’m glad you know now, though.”

Sunghoon nods. The reality of what he’s done, coupled with the fact he’s spent so long misunderstanding one of the only people to love him so earnestly, hits him hard. Against his will, a few tears escape his eyes. “I really fucked up, Hee.”

Heeseung takes Sunghoon by the shoulder and makes Sunghoon look him in the eyes. “Then fix it. And let me help you.”

Sunghoon smiles, his first real smile in weeks. “How?”

Heeseung smirks. “I may not be as good at making plans as Jay, but I have a few ideas.”

The arena is alive with the sounds of the audience chanting and the instrumental intro to “All for You” exploding from the main stage and stadium speakers. Sunghoon tries to brush off his sudden nerves, the gravity of what he’s about to do shaking him to the core. It could go terribly wrong or do nothing to fix his problems, but he has to try, right?

Heeseung puts his hand on Sunghoon’s back, his bandmate providing the reassurance and stable ground he needs. “You got this, Hoon.”

The two men step on stage, the crowd screaming an octave higher when they take their instruments off their stands. Sunghoon raises a hand, motioning for the band to go quiet and the audience to silence their cheers.

“As you know, a few months ago I met a person that really matters to me. I want her and all of you to know that she still does. And if she’s listening somewhere tonight, she should know that this is for her.” 

Sunghoon begins playing the first chords of the song he’s written, nobody but Heeseung and the band aware of this change in the setlist. “This isn’t off of our new album, but I hope you all like it. It’s called ‘Lost in Wonderland.’”

Sunghoon begins the song on his guitar, Heeseung following behind him with backing vocals and a bass. The audience sways to the song, enraptured by the lyrics and melodies of the two musicians. Sunghoon pours his heart into the chorus, hoping by some luck that you’ll be able to hear this if nothing else.

“Maybe I’ll see you in Brooklyn, maybe I’ll see you in France. As long as the waves keep on rolling in. Things don’t always go the way they’re planned.

“Maybe I’ll see you in Jersey, maybe next year in Japan. Sometimes it’s so hard to find a friend, you’re the only one that just might understand.

“Lost in wonderland…”

By the time the final chorus rings out, the notes of Sunghoon’s guitar flying through the air gracefully, Sunghoon feels a million times lighter. All he can hope for now is that his plea will reach you amidst the sea of screaming fans.

Sunghoon runs off the stage as soon as the band finishes playing their last song, unable to hold his composure any longer. What stops him short from running to the green room is your face riddled with tears.

Sunghoon is unsure what to do next. Hold you in his arms and not let go, the last time he saw you being too long for him to accept as reality? Or confess what he said on stage was only a fragment of what he holds in his heart?

You beat him to the punch, your words coming out practically on top of each other. “Momo booked me a red eye to get here in time. She said Heeseung told her something had happened to you before the concert and—“

“I love you,” Sunghoon interrupts, the three words and eight letters no longer able to be kept inside of him.

You smile, eyes puffy but shining. Before you can ask him if what he just said is true, he repeats it until the words go stale, but they don’t. “I love you,” he says, “and I’m so sorry I made you think I didn’t.”

He runs to you immediately and kisses you with all the energy he has left in his body. The feeling of your mouth on his and your hands gripping tight onto his shirt fixes the part of him that broke the second you told him to get lost.

He knows he’ll never let you go again, never take you for granted for another second, and always remind you how much of you is home to him now.

When you part, you ask him, “Did you really write that song for me?”

Sunghoon smirks. “Every single line.”

You nod, running your thumb across his chin. “I love you, too.”

The resounding sound of the bustling audience leaving the venue and the crew packing up fills the background as you kiss Sunghoon again, making up for the time you lost, and preparing for all the times to come.

1 YEAR LATER

PrismHeart’s new album cover is plastered across the press wall. The red carpet is dyed neon pink to accentuate the colors of the title, “Love Language.” It’s a fitting name for the project in your opinion, many of the songs directly inspired by your personal life.

Yujin fusses with Jungwon’s suit once they’re away from the press wall, their matching ensembles making you smile. They’ve been together for as long as you and Sunghoon have at this point. Sharing your songs and thoughts for the newest record has been easy thanks to a fellow member being stupidly in love like you.

Sunghoon steps onto the carpet for his round of paparazzi photos. His suit and jewelry are completely black except for the shirt he picked out that coordinates with your dress. It may be too pink for his taste, but he’d do anything to make you happy, and he knows how to stay on theme for a special occasion.

You add on a few brownie points in your mind for how incredible he looks, the suit emphasizing the contours of his body that you know too well by now. 

When Sunghoon’s done with his pap walk, he has to hold himself back from running to you and kissing you hard on the mouth. His composure hangs by a thread through seeing the top of your chest accentuated by the sweetheart neckline of your bubblegum pink dress.

He holds you close and kisses you on the cheek, a halfway point between what he should do and what he wants to do to you, the audience around them be damned.

The audience in question goes crazy when his lips linger on your cheek, the candid shot perfect for the slew of tabloids that will come out tomorrow.

“You look fucking incredible, just so you know,” Sunghoon whispers in your ear.

You smack him on the chest softly, beaming. “Language, Hoon!”

“Hey, forgive me. Words of affirmation and all, y’know. My love language.” He winks, and you chuckle into his chest.

“You and your dad jokes. You’re lucky I love you.”

“I am,” he confesses, taking a free lock of hair between his fingers. “Very lucky.”

Before you can tell him you feel the same, you hear the sound of your name on an interviewer’s lips. You walk hand in hand with Sunghoon to greet her before she begins her parade of commentary, both of you all smiles as you discuss your latest single.

The show must go on, the multitude of cameras and questions second nature by now. But with Sunghoon’s hand in yours and your heart completely his, you know that none of the fame will compare to the happiness that his love has brought to your life.

@yvnempire @sjylouvre @mini-mews @jayparked @heesuncore @yoursjaeyun @sungbeams @jenoslutie @loserlvrss @pars-ley @lovetaroandtaemin @wonwovy @monamipencil

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊

@kvanity-main @sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @sayxonet @violetanet @svthub @whipped-kpop-creators

[fulloflambing]

࣪ . ִֶָ๋ KINICH: ❝ HEAVEN CAN WAIT. ❞

pairing: kinich x afab!reader (uses she/her) synopsis: during the invasion of the abyss, the bond between you and kinich is put to the test when you're both lost in the chaos searching for eachother, as he fulfills his sacred duty as one of the heroes of Natlan. warnings: spoilers of the 5.1 archon quests! lots of bodily injury + descriptions of gore, the war ingame is described in a darker way here, cursing, many mentions of death. wordcount: 5.4k cho’s notes: PLS SRSLY LISTEN TO THE INJURY WARNING!! i might be a little dramatic but theres an injury here that made me geek when i was writing it idk. this is basically 5.4k words of me pretending to understand the mechanics of the ode of resurrection 😭 i was inspired to write this after playing the 5.1 aq! hope u guys enjoy this, happy reads <3

taglist: @sillywinnertidalwave

Today marked the exact moment the people of Natlan realized that the abyss weren’t just these noisy hilichurls you see camping in the meadows or the occasional mages you’d encounter in the caves; The Abyss was a ruthless cult of monsters with their uniform goal of bringing humanity to its demise.

‘It was never supposed to get this bad.’ was the only thought racing through Kinich's mind as he swung from cliffs to trees as fast as he could, the muscles in his arms feeling like they could rip apart if he swung one more time, his head slightly burning with exhaustion and heart racing with overwhelming pressure.

People were getting massacred on the ground underneath him, as numerous warriors and guards pushed themselves beyond their limit to fend off the neverending wave of rifthounds and hilichurls coming from the illuminating pylons—and he couldn’t do anything about it. Not when everyone and everything needed his aid, all at once.

But Kinich had someone to come home to, and it was you.

The last moment of peace the both of you had together was just earlier today; Sipping coffee and eating fruit together, discussing light subjects to try and distract each other from the rising attacks of the abyss, totally oblivious to the fact that Natlan would be dragged into war by them hours later. 

He felt like it was just a minute ago when you sat in front of him, and glowed under the sunlight, slicing apples intricately as your lips spilled words. ‘How could this happen?’ he thought.

The image of you smiling, your face full of faith pulsed in his mind, making his stomach twist when his eyes landed on the village of the Scions of the Canopy; it was on the brink of ruin.

Caravans and carts were being ripped open with the goods spilling onto the ground only to be squashed, children getting dragged by desperate parents, greedy businessmen clawing at their money hoping it would save them, and the scattered limp bodies of innocent natlanese. The sky loomed over everyone’s heads in an eerie color, only amplifying the hopelessness he rarely felt in his chest. The scent of blood and burning ash filled his nostrils the second he violently landed onto the oversized canopy, mildly hurting his ankles in the process.

“Y/n? Y/n!” He called out among the frenzy, his eyes darting to every face he could spot. He got on his heel and started running— desperate that you wouldn’t appear as one of the bodies that were left to rot on the ground. 

He raced to your house, and tried to push the door open with no luck. He had no time to care for it, and just slashed through it with his bulky claymore and bursted into the room, his eyebrows knitted together, pupils dilated, cold sweat on his nape. His eyes don’t spot you in your usual leisure spot of your common room, making his heart drop. He checked all other rooms, and finally opened your bedroom:

You weren’t there.

You weren’t anywhere.

His heart hurt with every beat, and he desperately clawed at his chest trying to get back his calm composure he was always known for. But what for?

“Just give it up, that peasant probably turned into abyss food long before you even got here. Stop wasting your time, my time!” Ajaw suddenly hissed out, his words filling kinich’s mind with poison.

Imaginations of your body growing limp and cold, face turning blue, and blood oozing out from some part of your body as rifthounds dug through your flesh flashed through his head. And he tried to stop it. But with the spinning of his head and the lifelessness of your house that was once so full with your laughter, it just kept getting worse.

He stood with a lowered head, his hand gripping his claymore so tight his knuckles turned white. He fought back tears as his mind danced like a kaleidoscope. To him, there would be no use in saving Natlan, if you weren’t in the picture.

He was supposed to not let his will in defeating the abyss sway at all, you wouldn’t want that. No one would want that. He doesn’t either. But now faced with the odds that you might not be able to experience a Natlan that is finally free from centuries of prejudice, after you’ve been by his side telling him to have faith that the day will come, and the dreams you want to accomplish when everything is finally okay— It seemed unfair. SO unfair.

He whispers to himself, or rather to anything who was willing to listen, with a shaky voice: “If only one wish of mine can be granted for my whole lifetime, please.. Keep her safe. That’s all I ask.”

🎕 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The clashing of weapons against the shelled skin of the abyss monsters zipped through the air, as you swiftly dodged the claws of a relentless rifthound; you’ve been doing this for hours now.

You were helping your tribe, the Scions of the Canopy, strengthen its defenses before the outbreak until you were called by a messenger to help strengthen defenses of an adventurer’s base southeast of the village as it was being easily overwhelmed by the enemies. As the head of preparing defenses from the village, you happily obliged.

But now you were almost hours into battle, with your body aching in all different spots, as you tried your best to continue evading the insistent attacks of numerous monsters. You couldn’t find the energy to swing your sword with maximum strength anymore, so all you could muster up was to dodge them.

“Fuck! Will you ever quit!?” you yell, before pushing yourself beyond your limits again, attacking with frustration. You slashed through the tough skin of the rifthound with your dendro-infused blade, making it dissipate into purple smoke with a screeching growl before fading into the air.

You had a second for a breather and  took a deep breath, which you regretted immediately. “ugh!” you cried, falling to your knees, grabbing your side. You recall the moment you heard something snap when a hilichurl swung its wooden baton at your side when you were busy confronting a different monster. You broke your rib, and it was now piercing your lung.

You stared into the dirt, forehead collecting sweat. You took your hand off of your side, seeing blood paint your palm a deep scarlet. You touched your forehead, and brought your hand back to your eyes— You were bleeding. everywhere.

Your eyes sting with tears, the reality of the situation slowly setting into your head— The chances of you leaving this battlefield alive was slim. Your teeth press against your bottom lip tightly, the pain being incomparable to the injuries you’ve sustained. 

‘I’m sorry kinich.’ echoed in your mind. Kinich had been training you recently, for you to be ready in case of an invasion and he wasn’t there to protect you. But here you are, head-first onto the ground, realizing you’ll probably die in the next few minutes.

‘I’m sorry kinich.. I’m not built for this.’ you whimpered, tears slowly trickling down your face. You felt so heavy with hopelessness, you felt like you could start sinking into the solid dirt beneath your body.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. You were only supposed to continue helping people fend off the abyss for a few more days, until the Pyro Archon solved the crisis. And after she did, you would’ve explored places outside of Natlan with Kinich. Sumeru was the first region you both agreed to visit; It was always a dream that you shared together to travel all of Teyvat one day. Hell, you even had a hunch he’d propose to you somewhere down the line of your voyage. 

So why are you kneeling on the floor, bleeding from every possible corner of your body, accepting your demise as your comrades slowly thin in number?

‘How long do I have to keep this up? I feel like if I swing my sword one more time, my arms will come flying off. I can’t do it anymore. This is something only strong people can do. Strong people like kinich. I can’t. I just can’t. I ca-’

Woosh!, Your ears picked up the sound and you jumped to your feet, barely escaping the blade of an enormous mitachurl that almost claimed your head. 

You tumbled lightly onto the ground, before you hold your sword up again with both your hands, your limbs trembling hopelessly in the gaze of the towering monster over you with demonic horns. You almost drop your blade and just let it kill you right then and there. 

But kinich appeared in your thoughts.

The mitachurl was standing the way the dummy kinich built for you was. Kinich’s voice instructing you rippled in your thoughts: “swing your sword down to the left, diagonal to the body. Then, slice up to the right, also diagonally. For the final blow, strike straight down the crown of its head, taking force from your shoulders. ”

You listen to kinich on repeat a few times, drawing imaginary lines on the body of the scowling mitachurl that stomped closer to you. You gulped the lump in your throat, before you did exactly what kinich taught you.

You twist your body with your edge in the air, taking a (painful) deep breath before swinging your blade to the left in a declining path. The mitachurl stumbles back at your sudden strike making an mmgh! sound, breaking down some of its armor. You quickly slice back up in the opposite direction before it could react any further. Your shoulder burned with every twist, but you had to keep going.

As it stumbled one more time, You bring your weapon above your head, and ignite it with dendro, causing a deep green aura to emit from your person. You meet eyes with the monster; It looked horrified. You stood there ready to take its life, appearing like a monster yourself with the blood that dripped down your head, your eyes seething with revenge.

You spare no more time before completely slicing straight down its head with maximum precision. A loud growl slowly faded with the noise, just as its body did, turning into a dark smoke. 

“If my life is going to end with this battle, then please grant my final wish—” You whispered, looking at your blood-stained hands, hoping the heavenly principles could hear your wish among the deafening sound of war:

“—Please.. Keep kinich safe for me.”

🎕 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The people seeking refuge in a temporary hideout turn their heads at the noise of their beloved heroes walking into the space. ‘Baraka’ Xilonen, ‘Umoja’ Mualani, ‘Uwezo’ Iansan, ‘Bidii’ Ororon, and ‘Vuka’ Chasca. There was only one more hero missing.. ‘Malipo’ Kinich.

Kinich had just rounded up civilians he saved from the village, and brought them there for safety. His gaze met with his friends, before he carefully placed a baby he was protecting into the arms of its mother— The baby had your eyes, which gravitated him into holding it just a little longer. He walked over to them with heavy steps, still trying to keep his composure despite the pain weaving his insides; just like them. 

“It’s the final phase of mavuika’s plan. We have to get back to the stadium, and help her with the Ode of Resurrection.” Xilonen says. “Can you do it?” 

It’s not like he had any other choice so he just nodded, not being able to muster up the strength to talk.

“Kinich.. Did something happen?” Mualani asked, taking notice of his silence as she placed her hand on his shoulder in support. It was clear she was just as broken down as he was, covered in bruises and scratches. But she continued to stay strong and pulled an empathetic look for him, trying to get his lowered eyes to meet hers.

“I.. couldn’t find y/n.” Kinich barely mumbled, the dread he felt earlier coming back to him, feeling like it only got worse verbalizing it. His eyes stuck to the ground, refusing to peel away.

The five heroes suddenly feel the air grow thick, a gasp leaving Iansan and Mualani's lips. This reaction only made the feeling worse, his fingertips digging into his palm. ‘Why does it have to turn out like this? I don’t fucking get it. It’s unfair. Not fair. Not fair to me, to her.’

The five struggled to find words to say, but ajaw quickly filled the space, spitting out: “Fear not lowly humans! For when Kinich finally slips in this final fight and accidentally ends up kicking the bucket, I, the almighty dragonlord, k’uhul ajaw! Will reign over this world once more! And the abyss will no longer be the biggest threat Natlan has faced!” The 8-bit monster laughed proudly with its jagged voice.

Kinich suddenly snapped at the puny dragon: “Zip it ajaw. Let’s go.” before stepping out of the hideout. The heroes gave each other glances, before silently following after him. They weren’t scared of kinich releasing ajaw, they knew kinich would never do that to them. But it was him they were worried about.

Kinich never handled loss well. It often resulted in.. Accidents. Towards himself.

🎕 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You continued to fight your way to survival, the dendro vision hanging by your hip flashing every few seconds. You shifted your focus to destroy nearby pylons. Your hands had bruised, and slowly became callused and firm. The amount of blood loss you’ve endured has slowly started affecting you too, as your actions started getting sloppier, following your sight getting hazy from time to time.

‘Ching!’ You sliced through the last mitachurl around— atleast, last one before another one spawns—and fell to your battered knees. You sat there, gasping, your body begging for air. 

“Y/n!” a fellow comrade called out, rushing to your side. You can hear him mumbling something to you, but it’s incoherent. You looked at your dirty, bloodied hands, ‘what an ugly sight.’  

“Just.. keep pushing on y/n.” his words sound muffled to you and almost accompanied with sand; he’s losing hope too. 

Without warning, a bright beam of light suddenly shot up into the air, emerging from somewhere in the distance.

‘Huh?’ You look up.

The ray of light exploded into a star, making you wince at the glare. The explosion was so grand, you felt the earth tremble all around you, and even felt a slight radiance of heat reach your skin, even when it was suspended so close to the stars.

The warriors and monsters’ brawl comes to a pause, all beings turning their heads to the magic unfolding above their heads.

You look back up once more. It’s the Pyro Archon.

“In the name of the Pyro Archon, Haborym,” the transcendent voice sends chills down your spine.

“I declare the Night Warden Wars underway—”

“—The Ode of Resurrection will guard all life, until the war is over!”

🎕 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Kinich might’ve lost his mind.

With the Ode of Resurrection, there was nothing in his way to contain the blood rushing through his veins anymore, the flame pumping his drive. There was no limit to the blood he could pour, no limit to the bones he could snap, no limit to the wounds he could take; There was no more life that kept him from death, and no death to threaten him to life. 

He shot himself through the trees and cliffs and plunged into the ground, slashing right into an abyssal pylon, immediately shattering it into pieces. The abyss that caught sight of his unhinged eyes,  became the last thing they saw. He swung his blade relentlessly, calculated with maximum precision embedded into every strike. Every blow he landed would end a life point-blank, not wasting a single movement. No monster could keep up with the speed of his assault, their death delivered to them in a blur.

A hilichurl had taken an open opportunity to stab him right through the heart from behind. He felt the flame inside him flicker for a second.

‘Again.’

He ripped the double sided polearm right out of his chest, before skewering the same hilichurl right through its chest with the same weapon. A cryo mage quickly sent icicles to penetrate through his limbs and vital organs. He felt the coldness pierce into his insides, feeling the flame inside him flicker for a second time.

‘Again.’

He swiftly turned around, and spun his claymore right into the mage, beheading it in the process. The mage had evaporated to its death, as his claymore spun right back into his palm, snug as a glove. A hilichurl decided to charge into his tall figure and stab him with a dagger, puncturing his abdomen. His flame flickered for the third time.

‘Again.’

He sliced down on the hilichurl, making it dissipate into the air with a groan. He pulled out the dagger from his body and carelessly threw it onto the ground. Noticing the area was clear, he flung himself back into the air, swinging himself through the thick trees and long branches. They would momentarily graze his skin, cutting and wounding him but it was nothing to him, not anymore.

His void eyes scanned through the rocky terrain underneath his feet, searching for your figure. ‘You have to be here. Somewhere. Anywhere.’ His thoughts of you distracted him from an incoming tree, before flying straight into its tree branch, his body getting skewered in the process. He let out a loud cry of agony— “aaghh!”—, hearing static ringing in his ears. His bewildered eyes landed at exactly where he got impaled before feeling his head go fuzzy, his eyes slowly losing light, and his body going limp. He feels his flame flickering once more.

‘Again.’

Life is shot right back into him as he braced himself again, taking a deep breath, and pulling himself off of the tree branch. His injury immediately punished him, making him wince. He took one last look at the tree branch covered in his gore before swinging himself again. He looked at the gaping hole in his abdominal cavity slowly patch and fill itself again, and for a moment he’s completely mesmerized by the power of the ode of resurrection. 

In his mind, he punished himself for not being by your side, for not protecting you. And his mode of punishment would be feeling your misery over and over again. The sensation of burning pain ending up to his death just to wake up again completely alive again all in a split second was intoxicating. He was preserving life, as he toyed with his own. 

In his mind, he would rather die a million deaths than find out he’d be alive without you around.

“Listen to me bastard! I’m starting to appreciate this new thing you got going on, you know, like actually following your master, me, Almighty dragonlord, K’uhul Ajaw! and using your vision for something exhilarating like ending lives. But I HATE! how i’m getting excited to take your body everytime you go floppy, but you just wake back up! It’s so ANNOYING!! So just keep it up until the fire-head woman turns the ode of what-ever-you-call-it off, and you stay dead. Alright!?”

🎕 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Mavuika looked longingly onto her people fighting for their nation underneath her feet, as she levitated in the dark sky. It was a surreal simulation to her; It was her that was the catalyst for their dreams and hopes. It left a deep impression of justice, duty and pressure on her. 

Mavuika took a deep breath, before feeling a surging power slither all throughout her body.

‘This has to end, now.’

She collected all the dreams her people have relayed to her, the hopes for a future guided with justice and equality, their ancestors and their prayers for Natlan, the lives of her beloved followers who had been sacrificed and martyred, into her fist and made it into her strength. 

Her hair ignited into its flamed form, as she shot out all the might and glory of Natlan into a beam of radiance, targeting the abyssal body that was the sole cause of terror over her nation. 

The Celestial body forms a temporary glowing shield to stand its ground, until it doesn’t.

It slowly starts shattering like thin glass, making her attack on it only more powerful. Her thrash breaks through until it exploded into a dark fume, her light piercing right through it and into the distant sky. The sky carries the sound of the thundering explosion, shaking nature all around.

The black cloud slowly starts fading, revealing the eradication of the Abyss.

The black sky lifts off of Natlan, revealing the blue once more. You choked out the blood that’s been pouring in your mouth for the longest time as you finally finish off the last creature in sight. The Abyss had been eliminated by the Pyro Archon, and no more would spawn. Dulled and scratched swords, torn bows, and unfortunate martyrs polluted the grassy field around. The noise of battle could still be heard somewhere distant but not around you anymore. 

You spat and coughed out blood onto your palm, your other hand clawing and digging into your chest trying to calm your rampaging heartbeat. You heard your remaining comrades cry and yell out of grief and solace. The words they yelled were incoherent, only being able to hear ringing. 

But you could almost make out what they're saying, somewhere along the lines of: ‘It’s over.’

🎕 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Kinich’s eyelids slowly peel open, feeling the heat of the sun greet his eyes immediately making him wince. He sits up and tries to gain back his senses, letting out a sore groan.

Ajaw perches up at the sound, and starts roaring in his ear: “You were supposed to be dead! I was so thrilled to finally take over your cold body, finally thinking of the horrors I'd run to this land, just to find our contract not working! Just bite the dust already you useless asparagus! Curse the archons!”

“Wh-what happened?” Kinich croaked, his throat stinging him in the process. Completely ignoring ajaw’s tantrum, he looks at the nature around him; There were dismantled weapons, a few dead bodies scattered meters apart, and an awful lot of silence. 

“The fire-head woman destroyed the abyss in the sky, and the magical thing happening to your body that stopped you from dying stopped, and you just crashed into the mountain side and passed out onto the ground. Your head should’ve caved in! Fucking imbecile!” 

Kinich stares at the state of his body; It was a disaster. His jacket was torn with all sorts of holes, his arms full of scars and dried blood and smeared dirt, his gloved hands having numerous rips and tears. All of his digits were present, but a huge scar trailed over the joints of his thumb. ‘So I lost a finger huh?’ he guessed to himself. He looks at his headband dangling around his neck, and feels his face with his hand. He felt a few scars and winces at a cut he had, realizing he had a gaping wound that was actively bleeding out.

Body intact, clothes and weapon secured, with his heart beating in his chest cavity.

But something was still missing. Something was out of place.

He feels his heart drop to the ground, mumbling: “Y/n.”

He hurriedly turns around and tries to run on his feet, a sharp pain kicking into his legs making him fall back onto the soil. He curls into a ball, suddenly feeling all his muscles tormenting his body at once. He groans in pain, feeling parts of his body ache and burn under his skin.

“Yes! Perish!” Ajaw shrieks, making kinich swat at him. He takes a cramped breath— almost like the capacity of his lungs had shrunk— before digging his hands into the sharp blades of grass, dragging his body through the earth.

Each pull of his body made him wish he wasn’t human, pain electrocuting each living cell in his body. Grunts slipped through his teeth, as he tried not to notice the torture he had been enduring for what has felt like forever. He despised the pain he could feel as he crawled not because it hurt him, but because it was proof he was alive and could use his senses. That would remind him that you might not be, only making the weight of his chest heavier.

Red from his wound dripped down his head and slipped onto his lip, making him spit it out bitterly. 

The silvery of blood was inferior to the bitterness in his mouth if he felt your body without its heart beating against his own. Ajaw slowly follows him in the air a meter away, and is almost horrified. Ajaw that day, saw humanity in its most desperate state.

🎕 ‧₊˚ ⋅

“Let me go!” You yelled, trying to break free from the arms of the other scions of the canopy. They had tried convincing you to go to the village and get your injuries treated, but they mentioned kinich was missing. You heard glass shattering in your ears, almost reality to your eyes breaking just the same. You escaped their captive and tried to find kinich, but they had caught up to you easily.

“You don’t understand! You might die out of blood loss before you even find him!” Said one of the nurses, gripping your wrist tightly. “I have to try!” You snapped, shoving and kicking at the men trying to get a holding of your legs.

“And what if kinich is dead y/n!?” A man retorted, making you freeze in your spot. Words got stuck in your throat, as your eyes blurred for a second. “Kinich would never.. be..” you feel your tongue stiffen, your knees slowly sinking back onto the grass. The men among the helpers quietly argue behind you, scolding each other with ‘don’t say that!’ as your thoughts slowly dim your spirit.

‘Kinich? Dead?’ the thought of kinich dying seemed so far and impossible to you. It was always kinich who seemed to prevent harm from going your way, and knew how to deal with injuries or how to get out of risky situations. But not even the strongest warriors of Natan's ancient tales survived against the toughest attacks of the abyss. You feel like vomiting, the imagination of kinich mangled body suddenly tormenting your thoughts. ‘I still have to try’, you interrupted yourself, reminiscing the oath you took between the both of you to never abandon his side, dead or alive.

You quickly try to pounce off of them, but they're quicker into getting ahold of you again. You try your hardest to tear through their grasp, feeling your skin ache as they tighten their hand around you.

“Please! Just let me try!” you cry out, almost freeing yourself. They object in volumes, a series of ‘No!’s and ‘You need to rest!’ leaving their mouths. You almost feel helpless, but the group of five freeze all together, out of nowhere.

Their eyes are wide, dilated. Their mouths agape, skin draining of color.

You turn your eyes the same direction as theirs, and a sudden chill waves all throughout your body.

It’s kinich.

🎕 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Kinich locks eyes with you, his breath hitching. Almost terrified you’ll disappear in front of his eyes, he doesn’t waste another second and sprints towards you on his feet, ignoring the sharp pain afflicted to his ligaments. The tribespeople quickly free you from their clutches, stepping back as your aching bodies collided into an embrace.

Everyone else disappears from his world as he takes you into his dirtied arms. His body melt into yours, leaving no space for the opportunity of separation between both of you ever again. He feels you trembling underneath his touch making him hold you tighter. “I’m home.” He whispers into your ear, feeling a weight lift off of his shoulders, like bulky armor sliding off of his battered frame— He had died a hundred times to tell you those words.

He can hear you; you're crying into his shoulder, salty tears reviving the scent of the dried blood on his clothes. All he can do is hold you, and take refuge back into your arms after leaving them for what seemed like an eternity. His heart is communicating with yours, beating back and forth at each other. “I was looking for you.” You mumbled against his skin, lips quivering. Your voice is hesitant, as you pull away and look into his tired dark-golden eyes.

“You never lost me in the first place.” He whispers, planting a delicate kiss to your cheek, placing your nimble hand on the left side of his chest to feel evidence of his return. His arms felt lighter, his bones seemed to unbreak, and his wounds were no longer burning. His eyes slowly stickled with tears, burying his face into your hair to let out his shy tears before you had the chance to notice.

His body grew vulnerable under your touch as your tears slowly undid the knot of grief residing in his chest. He almost feels himself shrink back to when he was a lonely child as your mere presence invited the fragile parts of him to be loved again.

His soul yearns for moment like this, where your love is presented raw; It was never about just the beauty. He thawed under your touch even when his clothes and body was drab and scarred. It was never about just the mora, his wallet was no longer weighing in his pocket and he knew that he didn't have to worry about it. It was never about just the distance, it didn't matter if he had to crawl from mondstadt, he still would've tried to come home even if he knew he would die along the way. and it was never about the festivity. he didn't need a festival to celebrate in a way of holding you like he is now. It was always about the bond between both of you and how much joy his heart is beating out just because he can count the beats of yours.

To him, his soul is bound with yours. No matter how far his heroship takes him, he’ll always return to you. For him, that was enough of a reason to come crawling home. 

Kinich escaped heaven a hundred times to come home to you. For you, he would’ve gladly left a hundred times more.

🎕 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You relish his embrace with tears sticking your lashes together when your mind slowly floats you away to a distant memory, one you feel like you should have forgotten by now.

It was so long ago.. 7 years ago or so?

It happened somewhere.. Here?

With someone.. Kinich.

You were younger teenagers with kinich that time. You had tripped down a short rocky fall while traversing grassy terrain with kinich. A wince squeaks through your gritted teeth, as he poured water onto the gash you scored on your stumbling. “I’ve always told you to stay sharp when we go out on a walk, but you never listen.” He grumbles, wiping off the dirt that trailed down your calf. “..And everytime you trip, it’s always me who has to clean you up, bandage you, and carry you home.”  He treated your wound as you sat on a rock, awkwardly playing with your fingertips.

You can tell he was just worried about you, you always managed to injure yourself when he took his eyes off of you. He was already pressured on finding a way home, but you just had to go get your knee busted. “Sorry.” you mumble, heat rising to your skin out of embarrassment. “If you really were sorry, you would actually look before you land your feet.” he said bitterly, undoing his bandana, and wrapping it around your knee tightly. As he tightened the knot, he said: “You know I won't always be around to protect you right?” 

“Yeah..” you shuffle your feet around. “But I-i swear I looked before I stepped okay! But the dip was.. was hiding under all the grass.” You attempt to defend yourself, looking at him with guilt written all over your face.

“Can you just promise me you’ll make heaven wait when I'm not around?” He sighs, before helping you get back on your feet, his arm snaking around your waist, as he scooped your shoulder over his shoulder. “Only if you promise too!” you scoff. He rolls his eyes, “As if I'll ever die before you. Seriously, one day I might just be running a commission and bump into you just bleeding to death from your knee.” you grimace under the thought. “Don’t say such horrible things!”

“Then promise me.” “..I promise.”