#i’m writing this and then blocking it from my brain

[shixcherie]

Gut Feelings Got Me Here (pt.1) | Song Mingi ☆

◂◂ Part one of Little Miss Strategist series ▸▸

~ ~ call me chérie ☆

Navigation | Kinktober List | Little Miss Strategist series (coming soon...)

☆ Day 28 : Impact Play

��� [ Synopsis ] : As a princess, you were not accustomed to hearing “NO” from anyone in the kingdom. That changed when you had your first encounter with Mingi, the royal sculptor, whose silent, mysterious, and dark personality drew you in like a curious kitten. Will curiosity kill this kitten, or will a love so powerful emerge from all the painfully pleasurable and torturous intimacy that even death itself would step aside?

☆Word Count : 11.6k (yup, i went fucking overboard..sry ;P) ☆Genre : Smut with alot of plot, Angst, Royal Au, Historical Au. ☆Pairing : Royal Sculptor! Mingi x Youngest Princess! F.Reader

☆☆☆ WARNINGS : mdni!, Historical setting, Pure Smut(18+), some royal-ish plot, impact play, Reader is masochist while Mingi is sadistic, pain play, angsty atmosphere, knife usage (mild), mentions of blood, Mingi is holding a secret , bondage, use of bondage gear, oral (ffem recieving), Mingi is tough nut to crack, reader is a menace but quite intelligent (when the situation demands), praise, pet names ( darling, little princess, honey) mentions of traumatic past, deadly royal punishments, self submission, pain play, nipple play, something secret plans are being carried out against the royal family.

NOTE : Yes… I’m going to continue and complete Kinktober, even though we���re way past the 31st. I really want to finish this challenge and not leave it incomplete, so I hope ma chéries will enjoy this royal love between a princess and the royal sculptor.

p.s: I was gonna post this on 15th nov but then my brain went "no no no...add more stuff!" so i-uhh well..fucking did that and now its kinda super duper long.

↬ Also, turning this into a mini series cuz I cannot for the sake of my freaking life write a plot heavy one shot..so hope you will become a part of this mini series. Enjoy ma chéries.

The grand hall glowed under the soft light of lanterns wrapped in red and gold silk, casting a warm, golden hue across the room. Ornate wooden screens, carved with intricate dragons and phoenixes lined the walls, while tall pillars adorned with lotus flowers and mythical creatures stretched up toward the ceiling. The faint scent of sandalwood and jasmine lingered in the air, carried by the smoke of incense burning in bronze holders.

Members of the court gathered quietly, their rich robes were a sea of deep greens, dark blues, and royal reds, each shimmering with golden and silver embroidery.

All eyes were fixed on the man in the center of the room, the royal sculptor, Song Mingi. The fifth-generation sculptor of the Song lineage knelt on a woven mat, working carefully on a block of marble. With each tap of his chisel, he carved a likeness of your mother, the Empress. His movements were slow and deliberate, his focus entirely on the task at hand.

Seated near the front, you tried to maintain a composed expression, though your patience was starting to wear thin. Art could be beautiful, yes, but this endless tapping and chiseling ? It felt tedious, even unnecessary. You had far more interest in the kingdom’s politics and the strategies behind running the empire. The court’s art was all well and good, but it wasn’t what you spent your time studying.

You glanced at your father, the Emperor, dressed in indigo royal robe embroidered with golden dragons. His expression was one of complete absorption, as if he had no other thought in the world.

“What an exquisite talent,” he murmured, his deep voice carrying through the hall.

Beside him, your eldest brother, Chan, nodded thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on Mingi. “Indeed, Father. Each stroke reveals more than just an image. It’s as if he’s capturing mother’s essence.”

Your mother, the Empress, wore a faint smile, her hair pinned with golden lotus-shaped pins that shimmered in the warm light. Her expression softened as she gazed upon the developing sculpture. “To see beyond the stone… It takes more than just talent,” she remarked. “It’s rare to find an artist who can capture not just a face, but the spirit within.”

Another tap of the chisel. You fought the urge to sigh. It’s just a statue, you thought. Why does it need all this reverence or this much silence?

The Emperor leaned forward, his voice both commanding and gentle. “Mingi,” he called, drawing the sculptor’s attention. “You capture the likeness with great skill. But tell me, what is it that inspires you ?”

There was a slight pause before Mingi looked up from his work, meeting the Emperor’s gaze. His expression was unreadable, the lines of his face set in a stoic mask. His deep voice was low, but steady. “Your Majesty,” he replied, “the Empress’s strength and loyalty to the kingdom… these are what guide my hand. Only by capturing the heart behind the face can the sculpture come to life.”

Another long pause, and Mingi returned to his chisel, not showing the slightest sign of being affected by the royal presence. You had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. Strength, loyalty, heart… How dramatic, you thought, tapping your fingers restlessly against the chair.

If I had that much time on my hands, I could come up with something more exciting to focus on, like the political affairs in the council.

Your father’s voice cut through the stillness again, his tone suddenly darker, though you paid little attention to the words. “Mingi,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, “you have until the end of the month to finish. I trust you understand the importance of the deadline.”

You didn’t hear the slight tightening of Mingi’s jaw, nor did you notice the brief flicker in his gaze. You were far too absorbed in your own thoughts, eyes glazing over as you glanced around the room, your patience stretching thin.

Another chisel tap. Another pause. You sighed, tapping your fingers lightly against the armrest of your chair.

How much longer could this go on ?

Mingi’s voice, calm and composed, replied in a steady rhythm, “Yes, Your Majesty. I understand.”

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier with the exchange, a subtle shift that you couldn't quite place, but you remained too disinterested to care.

Your gaze wandered over the court members, the lavish tapestries, and the flickering lanterns, anything to distract you from the monotony of this sculpting demonstration. Your mother, beside you, seemed content enough, her gaze soft as she watched the work take shape. Your father, too, was absorbed, his eyes locked on the sculptor.

Why can’t they just see it for what it is ? you thought. A statue. A simple statue. What’s all the fuss about ?

You shifted in your seat, supressing a yawn as you leaned back. The tension in the room was palpable, but it had no effect on you. Whatever hidden meaning there was in your father’s words didn’t matter,not when the only thing you could focus on was the mind-numbing repetition of Mingi’s chisel.

The Emperor’s next words were softer, quieter, and you almost didn’t hear them. “Make sure you do not fail,” he said, his gaze lingering on Mingi, the weight of the statement settling into the silence.

Mingi responded with another brief, “I will not fail.”

The room returned to its tense stillness, but you were still lost in your own boredom, oblivious to the gravity of the exchange. It was a moment that would have been heavy with meaning for anyone paying attention, but to you, it was just another moment in an endless sea of dull ones.

Chan noticed, a quiet chuckle slipping from him. Leaning toward you, he whispered, “Finding this all a bit dull, little sister?”

You shot him a wry smile, grateful for the distraction. “Is it that obvious ? I mean, I don’t see how you and Father find all this so thrilling.”

Chan raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “Art is more than just entertainment. Discipline, focus… there’s beauty in it.”

You tried to look thoughtful but knew you probably just looked bored. “Maybe. But why does he have to be so serious ? It’s just a statue.”

Your mother’s soft voice caught you off guard. “One day, my dear, you may find that focus and patience are beautiful in their own right. There is a quiet power in restraint.”

You gave her a polite nod, but inside, you couldn’t help but disagree. Your gaze returned to Mingi, who was still working with that infuriatingly stoic expression, seemingly oblivious to the admiration around him. It was as though he existed on another plane, one where he didn’t feel the need to acknowledge anyone watching him. He was as much a part of the stone as he was its sculptor. Hard, unmoved, and silent.

You slumped back in your seat, determined to endure this as best you could. But for all your efforts to ignore him, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of curiosity.

Who was this man, this royal sculptor, who could stand so unmoved before the royal family ?

As soon as the sculpting session concluded, you leapt from your seat, eager for a more exciting ways to spend your time. A group of maids hurried after you, struggling to keep up as you moved from room to room, as each maid follow behind you. They whispered gentle protests as you made your rounds, but they knew better than to try stopping you. Even when they did, you always managed to slip past them with a playful grin on your face which was both charming and unstoppable.

Being the youngest of the three royal children, you were treated with an abundance of care, and no request that left your lips was ever refused. As the Emperor’s darling little princess, you were never burdened with any royal duties. You were your mother’s most precious child, especially since you had been born premature and required constant attention from the very beginning. This made your parents cherish you even more.

Though all this love and attention spoiled you, it also motivated to gain knowledge in various fields. Growing up, you observed your eldest brothers, Chan and Minho, as they became powerful figures. Chan, the Crown Prince, was groomed to rule, while Minho served as the Kingdom’s general, leading the army at the northern borders of your vast kingdom.

As their baby sister, you were showered with love and affection, and they never hesitated to help you with your studies.

Breezing from one room to room, nothing seemed to peak your interest until you reached the royal kitchen, where two of your favorite chefs , Wooyoung and Yunho were engrossed in preparing the dessert for the royal banquet.

The smell of sweet pastries and savory stews filled the air while Yunho and Wooyoung were absorbed in their work, carefully arranging fruit tarts and custard buns on silver trays. As you tiptoed up behind them, your maids tried to hold you back, whispering, “Princess, please, the chefs are busy preparing for the banquet…”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” you said brightly, startling Wooyoung so much that he almost sent the whipped cream flying.

“Princess!” he gasped, clutching his chest. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that!”

“Oh, Wooyoung, you’re too jumpy,” you laughed, sneaking a finger into a bowl of honeyed custard. “And who could resist all these treats ?”

Yunho gave you a playful glare. “And there goes the custard,” he said, clicking his tongue. “You’ll spoil your appetite before dinner, princess.”

“Not if I keep it a secret from everyone,” you replied slyly, reaching for a spoonful of candied fruit.

With mock horror, Wooyoung moved to block the tray of ingredients. “No, no, no! You’ve already sabotaged half our desserts!”

You leaned in close, smirking. “Not my fault, its just that my favorite chefs make the best deserts in the world that I can’t contain myself.”

Yunho chuckled and shook his head. “Remind me never to let you in here while we’re working.” He tried to shoo you out, but you swiped one last piece of fruit, grinning triumphantly as you left the kitchen, their playful grumbles reaching your ears as you walked to the banquet with your maids trailing behind as they sighed at your antics.

The royal banquet in evening was a grand success, with the chefs’ culinary creations earning well-deserved praise. You swarmed through the crowd, exchanging warm greetings with friends and royal guests from neighboring kingdoms. All the while, you felt Chan’s watchful gaze on you, ensuring you wouldn't try any mischief in the midst of the gathering.

As you savored the delicious food, your eyes landed on Mingi, the royal sculptor who was standing a corner, but he was not alone. He was deep in conversation with an elderly man who looked to be a high-ranking official. The discomfort on Mingi’s face was unmistakable, and there was a hint of fear in his eyes as he listened to the older man. His hands fidgeted nervously, confirming your suspicions.

What is wrong with him ? Who is that official ? Why does he look so scared ?

Your thoughts were interrupted and your feet lifted off the ground, when your second brother, Minho, swooped you up into his arms. You gasped, playfully swatting at his shoulder.

“Brother!” you gasped, squirming in his grip. “When did you get back ? And put me down, would you ? What kind of behavior is this ?”

Minho only laughed, ignoring your protests as he carried you effortlessly through the crowd. “What, no warm welcome for your favorite brother ?”

“You’re the general, for heaven’s sake!” you huffed, still trying to wriggle free.

But your attempts were futile as Minho simply laughed and carried you through the crowd, drawing amused glances from nearby guests who were well-accustomed to his playful antics. He winked at you before delivering you directly to your mother, where the two of you were swept into the flow of conversation with family and friends.

The concerning thoughts about Mingi faded to the back of your mind as night settled around you.

—

The next day you embarked on another one of your side quest. On your way you passed Mingi’s sculpting chamber, he was carefully chipping and giving a shape to yet another statue. His face as usual was stoic, giving away no emotion as he engrossed in his work.

As you were about to leave for the training grounds, a small scar on his hand caught your eye, it was definitely from working on the sculptor. Suddenly his scared face from the yesterday’s banquet flashed infront of your face as you slip into deep thoughts.

Why be soo serious and engrossed in a work of this sort where you don’t even have time to take care of yourself ? You thought before making your way to the training grounds.

Carefully skipping the Apothecary in the way, where the royal doctor Yeosang, who also happens to be your master who taught you medicine was busy working with some herbs. Quietly, you slipped out to the training grounds, where San and Jongho, your brother Minho’s right-hand men, were practicing their sword skills.

Their movements sharp and focused, their wooden practice swords clacking as they clashed. As you approached,your maids came running to you, whispering, “Princess, it’s dangerous…” You thought you had sneakily escaped their watchful eyes.

“Go easy on him, Jongho! He’s not used to winning!” you cheered from the sidelines.

San’s face twisted in a mixture of shock and slight annoyance as he looked over his shoulder. “Princess! Are you here to distract us or give encouragement?”

“Oh, I’m here to keep things interesting,” you replied, grinning.

Jongho chuckled and gestured for you to join. “How about you, Princess ? Want to show us your swordsmanship ?”

You raised your hands, laughing. “I wouldn’t want to kingdom in your safe hands”

You clapped your hands, watching as the two resumed their practice, but you couldn’t help tossing out little comments to keep them on their toes. “Jongho, don’t let San get the better of you! And San, maybe try not falling for the same move twice?”

San sighed in mock defeat. “I’d be doing so much better if I didn’t have a certain royal running commentary,” he muttered, though the glint in his eyes said he didn’t mind one bit.

As they resumed their sparring, the faint smile did not leave their lips despite their best efforts to focus. The maids behind you exchanged worried looks, but they knew better than to interrupt. They could only sigh as you moved on to go back to your chambers in order to do your daily studies.

On the way to your chambers, you noticed the royal apothecary doors were open, and with Yeosang nowhere in sight, you welcomed yourself inside despite your maids’ protests urging you to go back to your room.

After about thirty minutes, you emerged from the apothecary, casually wiping your hands clean. Just then, you heard a familiar voice behind you.

“Princess,” Yeosang’s calm yet stern tone stopped you in your tracks. You turned, attempting an innocent smile as he raised an eyebrow at you. “And where were you today instead of attending our teaching session ?”

“Oh… umm… I was just studying in the library,” you replied, attempting to sound convincing. “Librarian Seonghwa gave me a few books about political alliances and strategies… so…” You tried to keep a straight face, concealing the fact that you had actually been at the training grounds with San and Jongho.

Your maid sighed behind you, which caught Yeosang’s attention, but he let it go this time.

Yeosang’s gaze narrowed as he looked at the apothecary, then back at you. “And what exactly were you doing inside the apothecary?”

“Oh… well, I was just… um… looking for some rare herbs…umm.. for tea! Yes, I wanted to surprise my mother with a new blend,” you replied, hoping it sounded convincing.

Yeosang’s expression softened slightly. “Alright. That’s good. But try not to skip the class again,” he said, his tone both kind and unwavering.

With a sheepish nod, you promised to be there next time before making a quick escape.

Meanwhile, far from the apothecary, Mingi sat in his sculpting chamber. A small jar of ointment had arrived, sealed with the royal doctor’s distinctive stamp. Attached was a short note, instructing him on how to apply it to reduce scarring.

Mingi turned the jar in his hands, his brow furrowing as he wondered who could have sent it, especially with such precise instructions. Deciding not to question the gesture, he applied the ointment to his scarred hand, feeling a faint relief as the cool medicine soothed his skin. Setting the jar aside, he resumed his work, his usual stoic focus slowly returning.

—

Next morning, the palace courtyard bustled with the lively early morning activity, sunlight filtering through the trees and casting long shadows on the stone path. You were just moments away from the library for your morning session with Seonghwa, the royal librarian and your master who taught you royal etiquettes, when a familiar voice cut through the air.

You stopped in your tracks and turned to see a frowning Minister Hongjoong and your brother Minho who was lounging in a chair with a smug grin on his face. A finished chess game board rested between them.

“Well, if it isn’t our little strategist,” Hongjoong greeted, his tone light but laced with frustration. His brow was furrowed in a mix of annoyance and amusement, clearly because Minho had bested him again.

You greeted them both, and Hongjoong glanced at the chessboard between them, shaking his head. “That’s eight matches, and eight losses. I’m beginning to think your brother is impossible to beat.”

Minho smirked, leaning back in his chair with a confident grin. “Impossible ? Not at all, Minister. Maybe you just need someone who won’t make it so difficult for you.” He glanced at you with a teasing gleam in his eye. “My sister, perhaps ?”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Your sister ? Do you really think she'd be an easier challenge?"

Minho laughed softly, clearly enjoying the banter. “I’m pretty sure she’ll be just as much of a handful as me, but who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky."

Hongjoong’s eyes sparkled with challenge as he turned to you. “Oooooh ? Is that so ? Well then, Princess, how about a match?”

“I’m so sorry, Minister Hongjoong, but I have to be in the library. Master Seonghwa will be very angry if I skip the lesson,” you tried to excuse yourself.

But Hongjoong pressed, “I’ll speak with Seonghwa, don’t worry, Princess Y/n. Defeat me, and I’ll grant you three wishes of your choosing.”

“Three wishes ?” you repeated, lifting an eyebrow as you exchanged a glance with Minho, whose smirk widened at the challenge.

Minho chuckled softly, thoroughly entertained. “Oh, don’t worry, Minister. It’ll be over in minutes. Today your luck seems extra bad with chess.”

Hongjoong’s pride flared at Minho’s words, and his smile sharpened. “Perhaps you are too confident in your sister’s abilities. I won’t make it easy.”

Minho leaned in, his voice thick with playful mockery. “Don’t go easy on her, Hongjoong. It’ll make it all the more fun when she beats you.”

The gauntlet was thrown, and there was no turning back now. You took a steady breath and nodded, accepting the challenge.

“Alright, three wishes if I win,” you agreed as your pulse quickened. The game began with the pieces set on the board.

As the game unfolded, Hongjoong’s moves were calculated, each one sharp and deliberate, his gaze never wavering. You matched his intensity, your mind working at its full speed, weighing every possibility.

But as you considered your next move, something caught your attention.

Across the courtyard, Mingi stood in quiet conversation with the same high-ranking official you had seen at the banquet. His posture was tense, his usually stoic expression strained, and the exchange between them seemed uneasy like something was off. Mingi’s hands fidgeted, and the official leaned in close, his words low and firm. Mingi’s eyes flicked away, his jaw clenched before he nodded reluctantly.

Your heart skipped a beat. Why does he look so unsettled ? The uneasy feeling you’d dismissed at the banquet two nights ago resurfaced, gnawing at you as you watched him, unaware of Minho’s watchful gaze on you, as your eyes lingered on the royal sculptor.

“Princess ?” Hongjoong’s voice cut through, drawing you back to the game. His brow was furrowed, waiting for your move.

You focused back on the board, shaking off the unease that had distracted you, and locked into the game again. The moves began to fall into place, and soon Hongjoong’s defenses started to crack. His confidence wavered as the pieces shifted in your favor.

It was clear that Hongjoong had no chance of winning now. His gaze hardened while Minho chuckled beside you. With swift precision, you moved your bishop into place, trapping his king in the corner, making it impossible for him to escape.

“Checkmate,” you said softly, meeting the Minister’s gaze, victory twinkling in your eyes.

Hongjoong stared at the board, disbelief flashing across his face. Minho burst into laughter, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, completely unfazed.

“See, Minister ? I told you it’d be over in minutes,” he teased, his grin wide. “Looks like my little sister knows a thing or two after all.” He reached over to gently ruffle your hair as he admired your game.

Hongjoong managed a faint chuckle, though the blow to his pride was clear. “Well played, Princess. I seem to have underestimated you,” he said.

Minho didn’t miss a beat. “Better luck next time, Hongjoong,” he teased. “Perhaps you should find a gentler opponent next time.”

Hongjoong gave a rueful smile. “I’ll remember that, General.” he muttered. “And as promised, Princess, three wishes are yours to command. Use them wisely.”

As Hongjoong walked away, Minho leaned in with a grin, his voice low but amused. “Impressive work,” he murmured. “Just don’t ask for anything too easy. Okay?”

You smiled slyly in return. “I’ll make of that.”

But as Hongjoong disappeared into the distance, your gaze drifted back to where Mingi had stood. The unease that had been creeping up on you during the game returned, stronger now. There was something more to his conversation with the official, something you didn’t fully understand.

What was going on? And why did Mingi seem so unsettled? More importantly, why am I so concerned about him anyways ?

In the evening, after finishing your studies and wrapping up the day's tasks, you decided to take a stroll through the garden. The evening sky had begun to change, painted with soft oranges and purples as you savored the peacefulness that came with the beautiful sunset, with no maids trailing behind you. It was just you and the cool evening breeze, uninterrupted.

As you wandered, your gaze fell upon Mingi’s sculpting chamber, tucked away in a quiet corner of the palace. You had often wondered what went on behind its stone walls, curious about the man who worked in such isolation. Mingi rarely spoke to anyone, kept to himself, and seemed detached from the world around him.

You’d seen him pass by occasionally, his usually calm expression betraying nothing of the thoughts that lay beneath.

What was it that made him so distant ?

You had heard nothing concrete, but sometimes, when you caught him in a rare moment of vulnerability, there was an almost visible tension around him. It was as if there was a weight on his shoulders, as if something inevitable that he couldn’t escape was waiting for him. He was always buried in his work, meticulously carving away at his sculptures for the royal family and higher-ups.

But tonight, something felt different. A strange impulse stirred within you to check up on him, to see how he was doing. You knew he had been working tirelessly for days, never leaving the chamber except to eat or sleep, and you couldn’t help but wonder if the toll was starting to show.

Was his hand okay ? Has he eaten yet ? Why am I even concerned about him ? He never interested me in the first place, nor is sculpting any of my passions, so… why am I concerning myself with such trivial matters ? You brushed the thoughts off, thinking it was your doctor instincts kicking in.

With a steady breath, you approached the chamber door and pushed it open.

The air in Mingi’s workshop was thick with the scent of freshly carved stone and the faint scent of sweat from hours of labor. The light was dim, casting long shadows that stretched across the cold floor, making the room feel both alive and suffocating at the same time.

He stood at his workbench, eyes focused on the figure he was sculpting, the chisel in his hand moving with the kind of precision that only comes from years of practice.

But as always, he was alone.

You watched him for a moment, standing quietly in the doorway. There was something about him. Something so mysterious, withdrawn, that made you wonder why he kept so much to himself. The rumors swirled, of course, but none gave you a concrete reason for his strange demeanor.

You couldn’t stand it anymore.

And your curiosity got the better of you.

“Are you always this quiet ?” you asked, your voice breaking the silence as you stepped into the room. You didn’t wait for an invitation as there was something about him that made you want to push, to question, even if it irritated him.

Mingi didn’t flinch. His chisel paused mid-stroke, but his eyes didn’t shift toward you. The only acknowledgment was the briefest tightening of his jaw, a hint of irritation that quickly disappeared.

“I don’t need company nor do I like talking.” he said flatly, not looking up. His voice was deep and rough, the words blunt, as though he had said them a thousand times before. There was a coldness in them that sent a chill through you, but it only piqued your curiosity more.

“But why ? You’re always alone. Always working.” You moved closer, your voice soft but insistent. “Why do you keep to yourself like this ?”

There was a flicker in his eyes before he turned to face you fully. His gaze locked onto yours, dark and intense. The room seemed to shrink, the weight of his stare pressing down on you, almost suffocating.

“Because it’s none of your business,” he said, his voice sharp, as though he’d spoken those words many times to keep others at bay.

You weren’t satisfied. Something in you itched to know more, to unravel the mystery behind his detached behavior. “I don’t buy that,” you said, your voice rising ever so slightly. “Everyone has a reason. What’s yours ? Why do you act like this ?”

“I just hate people.” Another one of his dry and sassy replies.

“How’s your hand ?” you asked, a slight concern in your tone as as your eyes flickered to his hand.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” he replied slightly taken about by how you know about it but soon his voice went flat again. He rubbed the scared spot which seemed fine now but nervousness was evident in his body language as you mentioned his hands.

You caught it, the way his hand had trembled ever so slightly. His composure slipped, just for a moment, and that was enough to make you press harder.

“You don’t look fine,” you said, stepping closer, eyes narrowing at the sight of the cloth wrapped around his hand, a different spot from the scar though. “What’s going on with your hands, Mingi ?”

His jaw clenched tightly at your question, and for a split second, the room seemed to hold its breath. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words, and then he stepped closer, blocking your view of his hand entirely.

“Please leave, Princess.” he warned, his voice low, dangerous.

But you didn’t listen. You stepped forward, your curiosity ignoring the obvious warning. “You’ve been hiding it, haven’t you? Your hands, what’s wrong with them ? I am studying medicine, maybe I can help.”

His eyes darkened, the usual calm of his demeanor replaced with a cold, calculating glare as his tone went a notch up. “I told you to leave. No one can help. So let me do my work.”

Hmm…what does he mean by “No one can help” ?

His words hit like a slap, but you didn’t back down. Instead, you watched as the muscles in his neck tightened, his posture stiffening. You couldn’t quite place it, but something was eating at him, something far deeper than just the isolation he had wrapped around himself.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on ? Maybe I can help, you know I can talk to my father if someone is bothering you.” you said, your voice steady now, defying the uneasy feeling that crept through you as you refered to the higher up you had seen him with in the mroning.

The tension in the room grew unbearable, and with a sudden, violent motion, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you into him. His grip was so tight it nearly crushed you as you both stood chest to chest, pressing as your heart skipped a beat. His eyes were wild now, filled with a fury you hadn’t expected.

“You should’ve left when I told you,” he growled, his voice low, deep, and raspy. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Your breath caught in your throat at the heat of his anger, but you weren’t afraid. No, something darker stirred within you, something drawn to the rawness in his eyes, the power in his grip. It was a strange, almost magnetic force, something you hadn’t felt before.

You barely had time to register the position you both were in when something cold touched your skin, a knife against your throat, the cold steel barely grazing your skin.

“Don’t test me, Princess,” Mingi said, his voice almost a whisper, but it sent a shiver down your spine. “I won’t hesitate.”

The shock of the moment hit you harder than you expected as you stood there frozen, eyes locked onto his, the world around you fading, and it wasn’t just fear that kept you in place,it was something else.

Something thrilling. A craving, maybe. To be handled like this, with power, with rawness….with anger which was a stark contrast to how you were oh so gently taken care of by everyone around you.

“You’re playing with fire,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you stared at the knife. “Do it. I’m not afraid.”You challenged him wanting to see how far he is going to go.

But for a long, tense moment, Mingi didn’t move. His gaze never left yours, the silence in the room suffocating.

Giving him a smirk, you moved your neck slightly as the knife gave a small slit on your neck and blood spurted out, nothing dangerous enough to kill you but enough to make Mingi pull the knife away as his eyes widened at the crazy act you just pulled, his grip loosening on your wrist though the soft and concerning flicker of emotion that was in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed by you but he soon composed himself into the stoic and cold god he is.

“Leave,” he said, his voice cold again as he recovered from slight shock you just gave him.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t argue. You turned and walked out of the workshop, your heart racing in your chest, your mind swirling with the intensity of the moment. You had pushed him too far, and yet, you hadn’t felt more alive than you did right now. You fingers ran on your neck smearing the blood off. If your maids or anyone else see it, chaos would unfold which you not hoping to cause.

Walking towards your chambers, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Mingi’s silence than you had realized, a secret you were fully sure he was hiding the after witnessing the softness in his eyes, even for a brief moment, it was enough to pull you into his dark world.

What was he hiding ? Is anyone bothering him ? And why did the knife on my throat make my heart race… with thrill ? Did I like it, his anger, his rawness…why am I suddenly admiring such negative traits ?

—

After that night in Mingi’s chamber, you found yourself avoiding him. It wasn’t intentional, but your feelings were too tangled to face him. His dark aura, intense and commanding, had a magnetic pull. The way he handled you, in such raw and unflinching way was a stark contrast to the gentleness you were used to, leaving an impression you couldn’t shake.

Yeosang and Seonghwa tightened your schedule, leaving no room for wandering thoughts. Still, you noticed Mingi’s absence.

When you asked, Minister Hongjoong mentioned he’d gone home for urgent family matters. The news left an unexpected ache in your chest, but you pushed it aside, telling yourself it didn’t matter.

Yet, no matter how busy you kept yourself, thoughts of Mingi lingered. His raw presence had stirred something deep within you, something real but unsettling. It made you question everything you knew about your desires, even though you didn’t fully understand why.

So, you buried your feelings and focused on your studies, too afraid to confront them.

After a long day full of tasks, you found yourself in the library, hoping to find some peace among the books. Going near Mingi’s sculpting chamber would only make you think about him, and you weren’t ready for that yet. As you wandered through the shelves, trying to distract yourself, Hongjoong appeared, his footsteps soft but noticeable. He greeted you warmly, but his sharp eyes quickly caught the sadness in your expression.

"Is something troubling you Princess ?" he asked, his voice was gentle.

You hesitated, unsure of how much to share. Your thoughts were tangled, and you weren’t sure if it was wise to speak about what had been bothering you. You hadn’t fully understood it yourself, let alone said it aloud. Finally, you spoke carefully, leaving out the incident with the knife, unsure how to explain the confusion inside your head.

"It’s... Mingi," you said softly. "There’s something about him, the way he keeps his distance, his coldness... It’s not just how he acts. It feels like there’s more to it. I can’t shake the feeling that something happened to him, and I’m curious. What’s his story ?"

Hongjoong paused, thinking before speaking. "Mingi’s... been through a lot," he said carefully. "His family’s past is not something people talk about. But it’s shaped him. It’s a heavy burden he doesn’t show."

You nodded, trying to take it in. Hongjoong’s gaze softened, but he didn’t say more. You understood—he wasn’t going to share everything, at least not yet. Some things were better left unsaid until the right time.

Then, Seonghwa entered quietly, sensing the mood. He smiled softly, his eyes full of understanding as he spoke. "I see you’ve been thinking about Mingi a lot," he said. "What’s got you so curious ? You’ve never seemed interested before."

You faltered, not sure how to explain. Why had you suddenly been so affected by him ? You didn’t even understand it yourself. The more you thought about Mingi, the more unsettled you felt.

"I... don’t know," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just feel like there’s something beneath all that coldness. Something that makes sense, but I can’t figure it out. I... I just want to understand him better. Just out of curiosity. You know how I am with that, Master Seonghwa.”

As you spoke, you felt a strange warmth in your chest, something you couldn’t quite place. You didn’t want to admit it, but a part of you was becoming more drawn to him, even though you weren’t sure why.

Was it pity ? Curiosity ? Or something deeper you weren’t ready to face ?

Seonghwa simply nodded as he was fully aware of how engrossed you become when you get curious about something but his gaze stayed on you, full of quiet understanding, and Hongjoong didn’t press further.

For now, they accepted your answer.

But as the conversation ended, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Mingi wasn’t just a distant figure anymore. He had somehow crept under your skin, leaving you more curious and maybe more invested than you wanted to admit.

—

Next morning, after breakfast, you went to find your brother, Minho, who was busy sorting through a stack of papers in the royal study. He glanced up when you entered, his brow furrowing slightly. Even before you spoke, you could tell he wasn’t going to like what you were about to ask.

“Minho,” you started, trying to sound casual, “I was hoping I could get your permission to visit Mingi’s sculpting chamber today.”

He looked up fully, his expression wary. “Mingi?” he repeated, his tone skeptical. “What for?”

You hesitated briefly, then gave your prepared excuse. “There’s a figurine Mother received from Mingi’s father. It’s cracked, and it’s very delicate. I was hoping he could repair it. His skills are unmatched—I don’t think anyone else could do it properly.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You’re asking to go alone, to Mingi, of all people?” His tone was light, but there was something sharp underneath it.

You smiled, trying to appear unfazed. “Yes, it’s nothing to worry about. I just need to handle this. I’ll be careful.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, his eyes scanning your face. “Fine. But if anything happens—”

“I’ll be fine,” you said quickly. “Besides, you’re in charge of the kingdom right now with Chan and Father away. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

Minho paused, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he nodded reluctantly. “Alright, I’ll allow it. But be careful. Mingi is... unpredictable.” His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t push the issue.

With his reluctant permission, you left the room, a knot of anticipation tightening in your stomach.

__

The royal carriage rolled to a stop in front of Mingi's home, its wheels grinding against the gravel with a soft crunch. You stepped out, feeling the weight of your decision pressing down on you. The air around you was still, and the quiet seemed too loud, almost deafening in its silence.

"Wait here for me at the corner of the road," you told the carriage driver, your voice was more serious than usual. "It might take a while."

The driver nodded, his face unreadable, and the carriage slowly rolled away, leaving you standing infront of of Mingi's property. You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts, and made your way towards the door.

The door creaked open, revealing Mingi, his tall, broad frame filling the doorway. His dark eyes locked on you, their gaze sharp and assessing, but he said nothing at first. Behind him, the room was a befitting image of organisational chaos with sculpting tools scattered across a workbench, shards of marble dusted over the floor, and half-finished sculptures looming in various stages of creation.

“You came about the figurine,” Mingi said at last, his deep voice steady and calm.

Before visiting, you had sent him a letter, letting him know of your arrival. You waited for a few hours, expecting a refusal, but no reply ever came. That silence was all the answer you needed, and so you set out for his home.

“Yes,” you replied, holding out the small sculpture. It was a fragile piece, an intricate bird with its wings outstretched. “It’s my mother’s favorite. She would be heartbroken if it couldn’t be restored.”

Mingi stepped aside to let you in, his expression softening just slightly as he took the figurine from your hands. He turned it over carefully, his long fingers brushing along the cracked base and the damaged wing.

“It can be fixed,” he murmured, setting it down on the workbench. “The damage isn’t beyond repair, but it’ll take precision.”

You watched as he began gathering tools, his movements were methodical while his focus was intense. For the first time, he wasn’t keeping you at arm’s length. His quiet acknowledgment of your presence, of your request felt like a crack in the wall he had carefully built around himself.

“You’re truly gifted,” you said, your voice was barely above a whisper.

Mingi paused for a second, his fingers hovering over the delicate tools. “It’s not a gift,” he replied, his tone was thoughtful and gentle. “Just years of practice. Anyone could do it.”

“I doubt that,” you countered softly, catching a flicker of something in his expression — pride, perhaps, or even gratitude.

The moment was short-lived though.

Mingi’s shoulders tensed as his gaze snapped to the window. Following his line of sight, you spotted a figure striding toward the house with purpose. The official.The same one you had seen Mingi with in the banquet and during your chess match with Minister Hongjoong.

Mingi cursed under his breath, turning back to you with urgency in his eyes. “Hide. Now.”

“What ? Why ?”

“No time for questions.” His tone left no room for argument as he grabbed your arm and pulled you toward a door at the far end of the room. He opened it quickly, shoving you inside before shutting it firmly behind you.

You stumbled slightly, steadying yourself on the wall, and froze as you looked around.

The room was dimly lit, shadows flickering over walls lined with tools. Whips hung neatly alongside polished canes, their leather and wood gleaming faintly. Paddles of various shapes rested in perfect order, while chains with cuffs dangled from iron hooks. A dark wooden cross stood against one wall, its straps and buckles leaving no doubt about its use. Nearby, a leather bench with worn restraints sat waiting. The air was thick with the scent of leather, and the space exuded power and intimacy, every detail carefully curated for impact. A shiver ran down your spine as you took it all in.

Is this what he is really into ? Your cheeks flustered at the thought of those stuff used upon you by him. You shook your head as the sound of raised voices outside the door pulled you back.

“Mingi,” the official’s sharp tone cut through the air, “you’ve had more than enough time to reconsider.”

“I’ve already told you,” Mingi growled, his voice low and hard, “I won’t do it.”

“You’re being reckless,” the official shot back, his words cold and deliberate. “This isn’t just about you. Do you really think you can defy the royal court without consequences?”

“I won’t harm them!” Mingi’s voice rose, frustration and anger breaking through. “Whatever you’re planning, leave me out of it.”

“You don’t get it,” the official said, his tone dark. “Your creations aren’t just art—they’re tools. Tools that can change the balance of power. Think carefully, Mingi. The clock is ticking, and this choice is yours.”

A loud crash broke the tense silence as something heavy hit the floor.

“Get out,” Mingi snarled. “Now.”

“Very well,” the official said, his tone icy. “But don’t think your refusal absolves you. You’ll regret this defiance.”

The door slammed, and the sound of retreating footsteps echoed down the path.

Inside the room, your heart raced as you tried to make sense of what you had overheard. The tension outside had disappeared, replaced by an eerie silence. Slowly, you reached for the door, ready to face whatever awaited on the other side.

You didn’t have to open it. The door swung open abruptly, and Mingi stood there, his tall frame blocking the light behind him. He slammed the door shut after stepping in, the sound reverberating through the room. His chest rose and fell as if he’d just run a great distance, and his hand gripped the door handle tightly, knuckles white.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His eyes swept across the room, and then it hit him as he realized where he’d pushed you in his rush to hide you.

His face twisted, half-apology, half-irritation. “You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, the sharp edge of anger not fully gone from his voice.

Your eyes wandered over the assortment of tools neatly arranged on the walls, your cheeks flushing with heat.

“This… this is where you work?” you stammered, though it was clear the room held more than just the tools of his craft.

Mingi didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he brushed past you, grabbing a whip from the wall. The action was quick, and a slash went across his body, startling you. He maintained a safe distance from you as another lash traveled across his skin, pushing the delicate figurines in the room as the whip met them.

Was he punishing himself with the whip...why ?

“I’ll send the figurine back so you can leave now, Princess Y/n,” he muttered, his tone cold. He turned to face you, his eyes blazing with frustration. “I’ve had enough people meddling in my life today.”

His words stung, but you stood your ground. “I couldn’t just leave… not after hearing what he said,” you replied, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. “What’s really going on, Mingi? What does he want from you?”

Mingi let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and mirthless. He lashed the whip against a nearby wooden block, the crack echoing through the room. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said bitterly, his back still turned to you. “None of you royal types ever do. You think I’m just your sculptor, a tool for your games.”

His words hit harder than the whip’s crack, but you refused to let them shake you. “That’s not true,” you said firmly. “I’m here because I care, Mingi. I overheard enough to know that whatever that official is plotting is dangerous. You don’t have to face this alone.”

Mingi turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as if searching for something in your expression. “Care ?” he scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh. Care doesn’t mean anything when you’re part of the system that’s made me this way.”

Your throat tightened, but you refused to look away. “You’re right. I don’t understand everything,” you admitted, taking a cautious step closer. “But I want to. If there’s even the slightest chance I can help, I’ll take it. Let me prove I’m not like him.”

Mingi stayed silent for a while, trying to say something but holding back. Only his grip on the whip tightened, and you took that as a chance to press on further.

“Instead of breaking those delicate figures and hurting yourself…” you paused, gently placing his hand, which held the whip, onto your shoulder. “Use it on me. Let my unbreaking resolve be the proof to you that I am here to help and not take advantage of you.” You took a deep breath, trying to make sense of the words that had just left your mouth. You were literally asking him to use you.

Why had you offered yourself? You had no idea.

One thing was clear in your mind: you wanted to help him, and maybe… a small part of your heart wanted to experience the rush again—the same feeling you’d had that night when Mingi had a knife at your throat.

But this scavenger hunt was going to be more painful. A hell of a lot more painful.

Mingi’s hand tensed, his grip on the whip faltering as his eyes locked onto yours. His anger, once fiery, flickered with confusion. "You don’t know what you’re saying," he muttered, his voice rough and shaky. "This isn’t something you can just offer. It’s not a game."

"I know it’s not," you replied firmly, heart pounding as you met his gaze. "I heard what that man said. Whatever this is, I can see it’s tearing you apart. If I can help—"

"Help?" he interrupted, a dry, bitter laugh escaping him. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. "You think letting me take it out on you will help? It won’t fix anything. You don’t understand the weight of this, Y/N."

"Then help me understand," you said, stepping closer, refusing to back down. "You’re not just hurting yourself—you’re drowning. If you can’t trust me yet, fine. But don’t shut me out."

His fingers tightened around the whip, his jaw clenched as he fought the turmoil inside. The battle in his eyes was clear—anger, pride, and something softer, more vulnerable, that he was trying to bury.

He studied you for a long moment, searching your face. "You don’t know what you’re asking," he said, voice strained, the whip falling limp in his hand.

"Then show me," you whispered, voice trembling but determined. "Let me carry some of this with you."

Mingi exhaled sharply, his hand running through his hair. "You’ll regret this," he muttered, but his grip on the whip tightened, as if he’d already made his decision. "This isn’t something you can just endure."

"I’m not here to prove a point," you said, steady despite the storm inside you. "I’m here because I believe you’re worth helping, no matter what."

He opened his mouth to argue but stopped. Instead, he walked to the wall, setting down the whip and picking up a leather strap. He turned it over in his hands, his shoulders stiff with hesitation. "This is different," he warned. "You’ll stop if it’s too much. Tell me if you can’t take it."

"I will," you nodded, meeting his gaze.

He motioned for you to step forward. "Place your hands on the table. And remember... you can always say no."

The first strike hit your back, sharp and stinging. A gasp escaped your lips as the pain jolted through you, but it wasn’t unbearable. It was different, almost… inviting. Your grip tightened on the table, but you didn’t move. The sting was real, but there was something else, a rush that followed it, spreading heat through your body.

Mingi stopped, watching you with eyes that seemed to search for something. “Still willing?” he asked, his voice softer now, like the anger inside him was starting to fade.

You met his gaze and nodded. “I’m still here.”

He swallowed, conflicted. He raised the strap again, this time hitting harder. The pain cut deeper, but with it came a strange warmth that spread across your skin. The sting lingered, but instead of pulling away, you leaned into it. You could feel your body reacting, the mix of pain and heat building something inside you that you couldn’t ignore.

With each strike, Mingi’s face softened. The anger was slowly replaced with something else—something that made the pain feel like a release, both for him and for you. Every blow became more than just pain; it became a way to let go, to release tension in a way that felt almost necessary.

The strikes kept coming, steady and rhythmic. The sharp sting gave way to a deeper warmth that filled your back, spreading through your body. Each blow was a wave, washing over you, making the pain and pleasure mix in a way that left you breathless.

Your breaths became uneven, not from pain but from the pull of the pleasure that followed it. You were no longer just feeling the sting; you were feeling something deeper, something that made you crave the next strike. Mingi was no longer just focused on releasing his own anger; he was reading you, feeling you, paying attention to how your body responded.

After one particularly intense blow, his hand brushed your shoulder, lingering for a moment. “You’re shaking,” he said quietly, his voice soft.

“Not from fear,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the trembling inside. The pain was still there, but it didn’t matter. It was nothing compared to the warmth that spread through your body.

Finally, the strikes slowed, then stopped. The flogger slipped from his hands as he stepped closer. His touch hovered over your back for a moment before settling there, gentle and warm, a stark contrast to the heat still flooding your skin.

You closed your eyes and let yourself feel that softness, letting the pleasure linger in your body even as the pain began to fade.

"Why would you do this?" he asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper. His fingers traced over the marks he’d left on your skin, his touch soft, almost apologetic. "Why let me hurt you ?"

"Because you needed it," you answered, standing up to face him. "And maybe... maybe I needed it too. To show you that you’re not alone, even if you think you are."

For a moment, his jaw tightened, and you saw the struggle in his eyes, like he was ready to pull away again. But instead, he stepped closer, gently cupping your face. His thumb brushed your cheek as he looked at you, as if searching for something he wasn’t sure he could find.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, like he didn’t want to let go. The kiss that followed was slow, soft, a very short kiss but full of emotions. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His voice was quiet as he said, "You’re maddening. You make me want to trust again, even when I don’t feel like I deserve it."

You smiled softly, your hands over his. "Then trust me. One step at a time."

In that moment, you could feel his walls starting to break down, just a little.

The air between you was heavy with tension, each heartbeat feeling like time slowed. Something inside him was changing. Maybe he was starting to trust again after all these years of being alone. Maybe it was care or....love.

His fingers shook slightly as they touched your bruises, slow and careful, like he wasn’t sure you’d pull away. But you didn’t. When his fingers grazed the welts on your skin, you didn’t flinch. It wasn’t the pain you felt—it was something deeper, something real. His touch was gentle, and it made you feel like maybe everything was going to be okay.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, like the words were difficult to say but necessary all the same.

You swallowed, your body humming from the aftermath of what had just happened. It wasn’t pain anymore, it was something else. You couldn’t find the words, but your body knew what it was, a quiet yearning, a need to be close, to lean into the warmth of his touch. His hands moved slowly, tracing the scars along your back, each movement light but filled with purpose.

"Does it hurt ?" he asked quietly, his voice full of concern. There was no judgment in his words, only care.

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head. "It’s... it’s different. It’s not just pain. It’s…” You couldn’t quite explain, but somehow, in that moment, you didn’t need to.

His hands lowered, skimming over your sides, exploring with a kind of passion that made every nerve in your body come alive. Slowly, he began to undress you, his touch deliberate and slow, as if he was savoring each moment. He wasn’t in a hurry, wasn’t rushing to get to the end. His hands were soft, his movements careful, like he was afraid of breaking you.

When your gown finally slipped from your shoulders, his gaze dropped immediately to your back, to the marks still visible. The look in his eyes softened, and for a second, you wanted to hide, to cover the scars. But you didn’t. You let him see every part of you raw, vulnerable, but still here.

His hands moved to your arms, slowly trailing up, each touch deliberate, each movement meaningful. When his thumbs brushed over your collarbone, you gasped, feeling the tender sensation of his touch against your skin.

“Are you sure, darling?” he whispered, his voice low and filled with care. It wasn’t doubt, but a need to be sure, to make sure you were okay with what was happening.

You answered by, reaching for him and pulling him closer.

Words weren’t needed anymore as a silent permission to go ahead was exchanged between the both of you.

His lips met yours again, kiss started slow as he now with your approval was ready to savour every bit, every taste of your slowly. It wasn’t just passion, it was something deeper. A connection that couldn’t be put into words. His hands moved back to your back, feeling the rise of each scar, each mark. He touched you like you were something fragile, but also something he couldn’t help but want to hold.

As his lips trailed down your neck, you couldn’t help but gasp at the feel of his teeth grazing your skin. His breath was warm against you, his body pressing closer, the tension in the room thickening with every movement. His hands slid lower, gently caressing your body, every touch reminding you of his carefulness, his tenderness.

His hands slid under your waistband, pulling the fabric of your royal attire down with slow, deliberate movements, each tug filled with a quiet anticipation and care. It was a slow burn, building gradually, with no rush, no force.

When your clothes were finally gone, he stood before you, his eyes soft but heavy with a quiet hunger. His gaze moved over every inch of you, tracing the lines of your body with an intensity that left you breathless. There was no judgment, no shame in his eyes. Only reverence. Your naked form ignited a deep, smoldering passion within him, and he pulled you impossibly closer, until your bodies were tangled together, hearts racing in sync.

His lips found yours again, deeper this time, urgent, like he couldn’t hold back any longer. His hands roamed over your chest, fingers brushing against the soft curve of your breasts. He touched you with a mixture of gentleness and need, his palms warm against your skin as he cupped the fullness of your chest. His thumbs grazed over your nipples, a soft pressure that made you gasp, your body responding instinctively to his touch. His hands moved in slow circles, caressing, exploring, as if he was memorizing every part of you.

The sensation was overwhelming, a tender yet electrifying connection that made you feel both grounded and entirely lost in the moment.The warmth between you grew, but it wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, tender, an intimacy that seeped into your very bones.

His lips trailed down to the marks on your torso, each kiss placed with reverence, each one like a silent promise. You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation, your body responding to him in ways that left you breathless.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. It wasn’t possessive, but something deeper, more intimate. A declaration that felt like both a claim and an offering.

You replied, your voice steady but filled with warmth, “Mhmm...I’ll protect you, in every way possible. Always.”

The air felt alive between you, charged with something deep and unspoken. His hands slid down your sides, steadying you as he lifted you onto the edge of the workbench. The cool wood beneath you was a sharp contrast to the heat radiating between your bodies, and your breath hitched as his dark eyes locked with yours. They held something raw, something that made your pulse quicken with a mix of longing and love, as if you were the only thing that mattered.

Slowly, Mingi knelt before you, his hands firm on your thighs. The way you looked at him made his heart ache, as though you saw every part of him, the good and the broken, and still wanted more. His lips pressed soft, lingering kisses to your inner thighs, each touch sending a shiver through your body. He took his time, savoring the moment, letting the tension build until it was nearly unbearable.

His hands firmly gripped your thighs, pulling you open with the kind of deliberate care that sent a shiver up your spine. His eyes were locked on yours for a moment, dark and intense, before trailing down, his breath teasing your sensitive clit. It was almost unbearable, his warm exhale brushing against your slick heat, the tension coiling tightly inside you as he took his time, savoring every second of your vulnerability.

When his tongue finally flicked against your clit, your breath hitched sharply, a gasp spilling from your lips. The sensation was electric, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through you. He didn’t rush, he began with slow, teasing strokes, dragging his tongue over your most sensitive spot in lazy, deliberate circles. Each movement built on the last, the steady rhythm making your hips buck forward instinctively, craving more of his touch.

A low hum rumbled from his chest as he tightened his grip on your thighs, holding you firmly in place. The vibration of his voice against your clit made you moan, your head falling back as the tension in your core tightened further. He alternated between swirling his tongue around your clit and sucking it gently into his mouth, his pace maddeningly slow yet so precise it left you trembling. You tried to pull away for a moment, the sensation almost too much, but he wouldn’t let you.

Your thighs trembling as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. And just as you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, his mouth shifted, his tongue dipping lower, plunging deep into your core with a deliberate stroke that made your whole body jolt.

A broken cry tore from your throat as he fucked you with his tongue, slow and deep, each thrust of it drawing you closer to the breaking point. His nose brushed against your clit with every movement, adding another layer of stimulation that sent your nerves into overdrive.

Your body twisted under his touch, every nerve on fire, every gasp and moan spilling from your lips raw and unrestrained. He worked you with relentless precision, dragging you to the edge of release again and again, only to pull back just enough to let the tension simmer, teasing you mercilessly.

Each time you begged for more, your voice shaky and desperate, he only smirked against you, his tongue plunging back into your core, twisting and curling as if he were determined to make you fall apart completely.

Your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard as your thighs clamped around his head. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core and sending you spiraling. Your breath came in ragged gasps as the intensity built beyond what you thought you could handle, your body trembling violently as he pushed you closer to the brink.

But he didn’t stop there. His tongue moved faster now, his lips latching onto your clit once more, sucking harder in a way that made your vision blur. The overstimulation was dizzying, every touch too much and not enough all at once. You were utterly at his mercy, your body completely his to command.

When your release finally came, it was devastating. A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm tore through you like a tidal wave, leaving you shaking and gasping for air. Your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t stop, his tongue and lips coaxing every last drop from you until tears pricked at your eyes from the sheer intensity.This was the first time someone has touched and handled your body this way.

“Breathe,little princess.” he murmured against you, his voice rough, and it took you a moment to realize you were still trembling, your body barely able to handle the aftershocks. He slowed his movements, soothing you with soft kisses against your clit and inner thighs, grounding you as you came back down from the high.

Weakly, you reached for him, pulling his hands to yours. You kissed his knuckles softly, your lips brushing over the roughness of his skin as your chest heaved. It was a quiet, desperate act, a thank-you and a plea all at once.

Mingi sat up slowly, his eyes locking with yours as he gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. The look in his eyes was intense, filled with a quiet sadness that made your chest tighten. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but heavy with emotion.

“I need to tell you something.”

His words, raw and hesitant, pulled you out of the lingering haze of warmth, dragging you into a harsh reality.

You met his gaze, worry flickering in your eyes. “What is it?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening like the words hurt too much to say. But he forced them out anyway, his voice cracking slightly. “When this is done... the royal family—they’re going to take my hands.”

It felt like the air was knocked out of you. His confession hit you like a blow, the weight of it settling heavily in your chest. You stared at him, trying to process what he had just said, your heart racing in disbelief.

“Your... hands?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He nodded, his gaze falling to where your hands rested on his, your fingers entwined as if trying to hold onto something that was slipping away. “They said it’s the price I have to pay. Once I finish the sculpture of the empress and meet the emperor’s deadline... my hands will be cut off.”

Your heart ached for him, for the burden he carried. The weight of the looming deadline, knowing that the very thing he was creating—the sculpture of your mother—would lead to his punishment. His reward? The loss of his hands. Why did your kingdom have such a rule? And on top of that, there were officials within your own kingdom using his art to harm the royal family. Mingi, caught in the middle of a storm he couldn’t escape, made you pull him into your arms.

Tears welled in your eyes as the full weight of his words sank in. He was so calm, so resigned, yet beneath his stoic exterior, you could feel the raging storm. The man who had just held you with such care, worshipped you with tenderness, was willing to give up the very hands that had brought you to life only moments ago.

With everything you knew now, there was no going back. You were about to plunge into the heart of your kingdom’s darkest secrets, fully aware of the cost. But one thing was certain — you would either save him, or burn everything to the ground in the process.

And that is how our princess Y/n fell of the royal sculptor Song Mingi.

~ ~ Chérie ☆ signin’ off

DISCLAIMER: This is totally fictional and not a real depiction of the ATEEZ members. It's all just for fun only so please don’t take anything seriously and keep the mood light around here.

© ShixCherie.

[mochamvgz]

stay a while.n.ki

; your boyfriend breaks the news to you about him moving away after high school, leaving you devastated.

; nishimura riki x reader

; genre: angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, high school au

; warnings: implied break-up, crying, intrusive thoughts

; 0.6k words

; tags: @sobun1est @kbookshelf

“we're running out of time.”

it's as if time halts for a moment as you utter those words into existence. your voice was quiet but that obviously did nothing to soften the blow, for you feel riki freeze mid-action.

your eyes remain trained on your fingers as you fidget with them on your lap. you don't look up. you don't want to see whatever expression is painted on his face, you're too scared to.

“i'm right, aren't i? you've been dodging the question for weeks now.”

your voice comes out choked but you force your face to remain passive.

a defeated sigh rings out from beside you and you notice his shoulders slump in your peripheral vision.

the room is quiet for a moment. you can sense your boyfriend, soon to be your ex, trying to find the right words to say, mulling them over in his brain before saying them out loud. his hand reaches for yours but you pull away before you can even register what you're doing. his fingers collapse into a loose fist, as though even they were dejected, and his hand slowly retreats from your vision, almost begging you to change your mind.

“i’m sorry.”

“for what? keeping me waiting and letting me cry every night for the past week over the mere thought of losing you? us? that's not a big deal at all!”

“what? you-you've been... crying?”

riki is facing you now, his tone carries a noticeable undertone of surprise, but you still don't look up. your silence answers for you.

“at least tell me now, are you moving away or not?”

you ask after a beat, finally turning to face him. his lips purse as he avoids eye contact and you already know the answer. regardless, you wait for verbal confirmation.

part of your brain screams at you to back away, take back the question and lock him in a closet because you weren't ready to let go, not so soon.

“most probably, yes”

“you told me you would decide last month.”

another sigh, “fine. yes, I am going.”

the admission plunges you in a whirlwind of emotions. your ears are ringing now. memories flash in your mind of the unfulfilled promises you made to one another, the seemingly insignificant ones as well as the big ones. you're watching a movie in your head where the scenes are moving too quick to allow any space for comprehension.

“then why did you lie earlier?”

“i didn't want to talk about this right now, i didn't want to tell you…”

you can't deal with this right now, you need to clear your head.

your body works on autopilot as you stand up abruptly. his fingers clasp around your wrist almost reflexively, keeping you from walking away. you can't find the willpower to look at him.

he pulls you towards him and you fall on his lap.

“we've still got a couple of months…”

there's the faintest hint of hope in the sentence. maybe hope wasn't exactly the right word for it but for it but you were too lost in the moment to give a damn.

“i love you.”

riki tenderly whispers into your ear and that's all it takes for the floodgates to open. you curl in closer to him, clutching his t-shirt as your sobs break loose. he wastes no time wrapping his arms around your quivering frame.

“i love you too.”

he buries his face into the side of your neck and it's not long before you feel your collar dampen from his tears. he isn't ready to let go either.

both of you had known this moment would come one day, and dreaded its arrival, but none of you were prepared for heartache to come knocking on your door so soon.

; a/n: i wasn't planning on writing anything in 10th grade bc I had a massive case of writer's block but here i am! i tried writing in present tense for the first time, did you guys like it better? sorry, it's pretty short. my exams are around the corner so i probably won't be putting anything out again for a few months at least. hope you liked the fic!

© mochamvgz on tumblr | all rights reserved | do not plagiarise, repost, or translate

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico wakes up to gagging and a soft glow coming from the bathroom.

His first thought is, bizarrely, that Hazel’s home. But her bunk is still empty, and her shoes aren’t by the door, and she didn’t wake him when she came in. She always wakes him when she comes in, even if it’s four thirty in the damn morning, because nothing makes her cackle quite like Nico choking back curses and tweaking under her smothering pillow.

“Shit,” comes a small voice from the bathroom, followed by more retching. “Shitshitshit, no —”

Nico bolts for the door.

“Hi,” Will says, or tries to. His scarred knuckles clench with every gag, wrapped too tightly around the rim of porcelain to tremble like the rest of him.

Something about the wobbly smile he keeps trying to form in between gags. Something about the sweat that has drenched his t-shirt, something about the deep circles under his eyes, something about his spot in the bed completely cold, wrinkled.

Something is not adding up.

“You’re not sick,” Nico murmurs, pressing the back of his hand to Will’s forehead. Will mutters something about bliss, leaning into Nico’s hand; he smiles again, but it is strained, and at odds with the glassy look in his eyes. The sharp, rapid breaths.

“Just don’t — feel good.”

Every word is punctuated by a big, heaving gasp, like he’s trying to breathe through heavy cotton. On a hunch, Nico slides his hands down Will’s face, brushing the goosebumps on his neck, the irritated, pulsing tendons, and rest flat against his chest, over his heart.

His heart that is pounding, so quickly it is actually challenging to recognise as a beat rather than a buzz.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Nico says quietly.

Will shrugs. He gags again, but clamps his mouth shut before it goes anywhere, breathing deeply and carefully through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. His heart pounds faster, and the rapid movement of his chest grows shallow, but he manages to choke back his bile, swallow down whatever nausea is plaguing him.

“I’m — fine.” His laboured breathing is the loudest sound in the cabin. In the camp. “I’m handling it.”

Nico watches him. Watches him clench his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut and make a noise like he is being betrayed, like he is being sold for thirty silver by his own body, his own mind; watches him flex his muscles rigid and hold himself still like he can stop the nails and thorns from coming. He thinks of wide smiles and far away eyes and mental health pamphlets and cheerful slogans on infirmary walls.

“I think one of those things are true.”

“I don’t need —”

Whatever he doesn’t need is forgotten, because he is heaving again, only this time his body finds something to dredge up, even if that something is stomach acid and he cries as it burns its way up his throat, and in between heaving he wheezes, horrible whistling gasping noises, and his hair plasters to his forehead, and his body slumps into Nico’s hold and jerks away from him like rocky waves against a lakefront.

“How long have you been here?”

Will just shrugs again, and he cries, and he says “Leave, please,” and Nico wraps an arm tighter around his waist, and presses a kiss to his sweaty temple, lingering, holding, tasting salt from Will and from his tears both, and squeezing his eyes shut, and holding back the anger. Gritting his teeth and softening his hold, deliberately, resting his fingers delicately on the dip of Will’s hip, the raised pink of the stretch marks along his ribs.

“I hate it when you run from me,” he murmurs, and Will sobs again.

“I can’t breathe,” he says, and Nico squeezes and promises he can. “I’m dying. I’m dying, I’m gonna —”

“I’m here, Will.” He doesn’t say you’re not dying. He doesn’t say you’re fine, because this is the longest they’ve sat together in five days, because it is the the quiet middle of June, because yesterday Kayla spent half her shift screaming at Will to get out and ignoring him when he shouted back. Because the bandage around Will’s wrist has been worn to threads, because Lee’s hoodie has not been washed in weeks, because there is a newcomer named Michael and Will cannot even look at him. Because it has been bad. “I’m here.”

It is as much a reminder as it is a plea as it is a reprimand as it is a fruitless nothing, because when Nico struggles he gets angry, when Nico struggles he gets mean and biting and violent, but when Will struggles he wants the world to kill him. And for all that Nico is halfway to the grave he has clawed and chewed and fought his way to survival. And when Will scratches at the skin around his ears and screams into his hands and opens the chapped over scars on his lips his palms his fingers, Nico can only hold him, Nico can only gently pry his nails from his flesh and tell himself that one day they will get to the point where Nico wakes up. Where Will wakes him up, where he burrows into the place between his arms and his chest and hides in someone else for once. Where he trusts someone outside of himself enough to bare his back.

“I’m here,” he whispers again, and he presses his lips to Will’s hair and holds him as he sobs, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

[sunnfish]

[ID: A digital illustration of Sissel from Ghost Trick. He is shown from a lower angle, as if the viewer were looking up at him. He has a hand close to the viewer and clutching a glowing soul core. His other hand is in his pocket, and he has a serious expression on his face. The background is the clock that appears when you time travel in the game, consisting of a glowing red clock face and glowing red lines radiating from it on a black background. The art style mimics that of the game’s, with sharp black lines and shading. The color palette is mostly red, with some light blue radiating from the soul. The artist’s signature “sunnfish 2023” is written on his leg. /End ID]

Change your fate.

[milolunde]

We all know Timmy is Wanda’s mama’s boy but we need to keep in mind he’s still Cosmo’s kid too and that Cosmo would love him just as vehemently as Wanda

[the-bloody-sadist]

ONLY SIX OF YOU WILL SEE THIS IM SURE BUT I HAVE BEEN ABLE TO WRITE AGAIN TODAY AND I AM MAKING PROGRESS ON THAT SINNER EPILOGUE THATS BEEN THE HANGNAIL OF MY LIFE LATELY AND I CANNOT EXPRESS HOW MUCH IVE FELT LIKE I CANT WRITE ANYMORE BECAUSE MY FOCUS AND MOTIVATION HAS BEEN FUCKED UP (since my brain is too aware that writing doesn’t make me money and new followers, ART does, so I’m wasting time) BUT I DONT KNOW MAYBE I STILL GOT IT. QUESTION MARK.

THATS ALL. 🫡

JUST KNOW IM WRITING THAT SINNER THING.

On a quieter note, I really miss having commentary and compliments on my writing. It was a huge source of fulfillment and comfort to me. I still get a nice trickle of it over the months from new Sinner readers mostly, but I miss when I was posting Dancing With Death on here (even though I loathe looking at the absolute dogshit versions that are up on tumblr because the formatting for posts is INSANE and I can’t copy-paste from my word doc for updated edits….oh god the minx sex chapter is so bad…oh god…) to the point where I’m ALMOST. Almost. Thinking about taking it out of Patreon lockdown and posting all of the chapters I have here? Because I’m really stuck on it and I think that any sort of feedback/interest might be the shove I need to start working on it again.

That is, if it even gets interest 🙂‍↕️ which is the issue. Do I want to sacrifice the small chance I have at professionally publishing DWD by posting everything on here and dooming it to self-publishing? Or do I want to keep it in the basement on Patreon where nobody engages with it except my best bud (who’s the biggest fan I love him so much) and I’m not sure if I’m making the right story choices….?

TOUGH DECISIONS. I DONT USUALLY POST ABOUT RANDOM THOUGHTS BUT IVE HAD TO CUT OFF SO MANY PEOPLE AFTER THE ELECTION AND IM A BIT LONELY. YOU UNDERSTAND IM SURE.

OKAY GOODNIGHT SLEEP TIGHT MUAH SHOULD I SING YOU A LITTLE LULLABY?? NO???????? NO??? WHO THE FUCK SAID THAT?!?

[solazu1]

I’ve seen so much shitty ship content in the marble hornets fandom since I’ve joined that I’m starting to get sick of shipping as a whole, ngl. I’m staring hard at the main contenders here, Jaylex, Brim, and Jam. Brilex is another ship I see frequently fucked up a lot too, but yea whatever. I’m not condemning people who get it wrong because I’m not the goddamn messiah of characterization either but there’s gotta be a line to be drawn, right? like with all the absurd vaguely uncensored abused x abuser content associated with jaylex, the uncomfortable brim content where every instance of hoody fucking up Tim's life on **PURPOSE** is ignored for the sake of a cuddle or for the sake of sexualization, THE HEAVY OVER-SEXUALIZATION OF BRILEX, and the fully fleshed out personalities of Tim and Jay being washed away and sacrificed for mischaracterized, stereotypical, romantic interactions that really isn’t something the character would ever do but rather something the author wants them to act out. <- honestly the last bit can be applied to all other ships too! And it isn’t my only gripe with Jam specifically but I feel like my specific criticism on it deserves another post that will probably never come haha.

[reddamselette]

the way my stress about colleges and my future goes away whenever i write valgrace should be studied actually (i’m dying and on my deathbed i actually hate this so bad)

powering through it I GUESS

[avese23]

Gremlin hours and the creature inside wants to gaslight white people on the internet

[hobisexually]

I feel so, so old but also so, so young and it’s starting to freak me out

[gregmarriage]

the funnest thing about tomgreg is, yeah, in this series (the bomb), they’ve already hooked up in pt1 but now, in pt2, they’re dealing with trying not to. but it’s like, they really don’t need any excuse to be weird perverts with each other, imaoooooo

[themeganator5000]

May... May I see why you agree with Scooter being gay

Oh god. Yeah, I suppose so. I literally just typed up what would basically be my script if I ever did a youtube video essay rant about this topic (i will never do this, but someone definitely should).

Bear in mind, I literally wrote this like an hour ago in a hyperfixation-induced daze so my friend @hails-the-geek would have something silly to wake up to 😘 So, not exactly written for public consumption, but since you asked so nicely:

SO HERES HOW WE CAN FIX SCOOTER. Scooter the Muppet started out as a nepotistic lil whippersnapper who had little to no morals and only cared about meeting famous people and having a high-paying, low-effort job. Now that's all well and good and a Scooter we have all grown to love BUT ever since Disney has obtained ownership of the Muppets, they have become less of the struggling underdogs and more of a lesser-known classic. This already raises some problems with the overall tone of the characters, especially Scooter, because the only way he was able to get Kermit and the gang to bend to his every whim was to remind them that his very wealthy uncle owned the theatre and the ground it stood on. The fun of his character was that he was a gofer (essentially an intern) whose job it was to take orders from anyone for anything, but with his familial connection to a person in high power he could inversely force any one of the Muppets to take orders from HIM to get just about anything. Now, since the Muppets HAVE no theatre and are usually performing on a soundstage likely owned by the Disney company, Scooter has lost his influence and no longer has the ability to be the narcissist, sassy, two-timing brat he once was. He has been boiled down to his face value as an over-enthusiastic, dorky, wide-eyed fanboy who eagerly goes along with whatever he is told to do. This, of course, was present in the original iteration, but it was always known that if Scooter ever DISAGREED with what he was told to do, he could always find a way around it. Helpful until inconvenient. It is also worth noting that in the original Muppet Show, Scooter was intended to be a young boy around 14 years old, but in more recent adaptations he seems to have aged, being given adult love interests and being shown cage dancing in a nightclub. This brings me to my conclusion; how we can fix Scooter in this modern age and bring back some of that charm that made us adore him all those years ago. The answer is quite simple, really:

MAKE

SCOOTER

🏳️‍🌈 𝗚 𝗔 𝗬 🏳️‍🌈

Richard Hunt, the Muppeteer who portrayed Scooter and many other characters until his untimely death in 1992, was openly gay and a well-loved part of the original Muppet cast. So much so, that Jim Henson personally requested that he be the one to host the memorial service at his funeral, which he did. Richard Hunt said that he based Scooter's personality on his own when he first started working with the Muppets, enthusiastic, eager to please, and definitely trying too hard. While all those personality traits are decidedly still present in today's Scooter, the absence of one crucial piece is blatantly apparent.

𝘏𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺.

While never explicitly stated, Scooter's character can easily be interpreted as gay, exhibiting flamboyant characteristics, having a borderline obsession with Elton John, just kinda being twinkish and boy-toy-like in nature. Whatever the reasoning, there is no better candidate for Disney's First Gay Muppet than the trademark character of the original gay Muppeteer, Scooter. BUT! It is EXTREMELY important to note that there are two ways this could be played: either there are little to no changes in Scooter's personality and he just gets an off-screen boyfriend or something (lame) OR Scooter's personality shifts into a more goofy-sassy gay best friend type of deal where he hangs out with Miss Piggy a bit more and references more modern queer icons (like Beyoncé or something?? idk ask a gay man) and comments on the attractiveness of male guest stars whenever the opportunity arises. This was hinted to in the 2015 series ABC's "The Muppets", but they never fully committed to the bit. Calling Scooter a boy toy is one thing, but having him get caught making out with Walter in the storage closet is another. COMMIT TO THE FUCKING BIT, DISNEY. Let Scooter say "yasss, qween" and "slayyy" and lust over men's bodies I'm not asking for much. You have already denied me Bert & Ernie and Statler & Waldorf, but let me have Scooter. Let me have the one Muppet my ADHD-riddled lesbian ass choice to have a crush on at 14 years old. Let me live out my fantasy of seeing Scooter on a Muppet-themed float at a pride parade. Please Disney, think of the fucked-up adults. We deserve this, we've EARNED this. You've ruined every other part of my childhood with your dirty capitalism, you OWE me this 𝘖𝘕𝘌 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎. You will make Scooter gay. Scooter 𝗜𝗦 gay. Scooter has always 𝘉𝘌𝘌𝘕 gay. And there is absolutely 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 you can do about it.

Thank you for your time.

[urbanfiltered]

i cannot stop talking huh

[stygianheart]

Me, staring at my screen: Ok. Ok. This is easy. Inspiration always comes quick and easy to me. Finishing up this chapter will be a piece of cake.

Also me, twenty minutes later:

[fingertipsmp3]

4,300 words in one fucking sitting, lads. I am so back

[orestesimp]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 11

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: You overhear things you were not meant to hear. Or alternatively: The girls boys are fighting.

Content: mild angst, lots of eavesdropping on secrets.

Word Count: 6.9k words

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

The music box sits atop of the wooden counter. For a love song, it’s such a sad and melancholic melody. Made sadder by the off-key note that clangs jarringly five seconds in, after you've wound up the music box to watch the little deformed Anubis inside twirl. 

It's oddly mesmerising in a meditative sort of way, how it keeps spinning round and round with nowhere to go. 

Doing the same thing over and over again. 

Stuck.

Has Anubis always looked so unhappy?

Steven's hand brushes against your back, interrupting your musing, and you jump in your seat despite the gentleness of his touch. Looking up, you find him standing in front of you with a worried frown.

"You're going to be late for work, love," he says, "It’s nearly eight-forty."

"Shit." You’ve lost track of time, fiddling too long with the music box. 

You glance at the table where Steven has already stacked your plate. Two pieces of charred marmite toasts sit atop his emptier plate as he's walking over to the sink. A pang of guilt sits in your chest at the sight of it. 

Despite the effort Steven had gone through, getting up early and having it ready for you by the time you woke up, you've hardly even taken a bite of your breakfast. 

You rush forward, wanting to at least help him clean the plates, but Steven waves you off with a shake of his head.

"It's all right, love. You go ahead, don't want you to be late. I'll clear this up. Donna can't possibly get madder at me than she already is." 

There's a forced smile twisting his lips, and when you don't make any moves to go, Steven sets down the dishes in the sink and walks back over to you.

"Have a good day at work today," he says and tips his head, pressing his lips to your forehead. "I don't want you to worry about anything alright? Everything will sort itself out." 

It feels like deja vu when he says it, and for a second you worry, because the last time you heard this sentiment aimed at you, the man who said it disappeared without any physical trace. 

As if he can sense your apprehension, Steven continues, giving your hand a gentle nudge. "Go on, love. I'll pick you up after work, and we’ll order something nice for take out tonight." 

Despite your hesitance, you find yourself nodding as you head towards the front door. The sound of porcelain clinking together and kitchen clutter continues in the background as you click the door shut behind you. 

The hallway is dimly lit and gloomy as you make your way down to the lift. 

Once inside, it’s quiet except for the whirring of mechanical gears from above. It’s almost like being trapped in a music box of your own, except that Steven’s building isn’t fancy enough to have elevator music. There's nothing to distract you here. No twirling Anubis. No melodies. The only thing keeping you company is your own thoughts and memories. 

‘Marc, I mean it. I miss you.’ 

The memory of your own words seems to echo between your ears, and you cringe, shaking your head in an attempt to make it stop. You're restless, the cuticles of your nails itching to be picked as you try to push yesterday's telephone call from your mind. Trying to mute your own pleading voice from playing on an endless loop. 

‘I'm in love with you– ’ 

You’re desperate for a distraction, but the cramped lift offers no distraction. There are mirrors on both walls, and endless Xerox copies of your own reflection stare back at you, repeating off into infinity. There’s no place here to hide from yourself. 

‘–You don’t have to love me the same way. Just come back.’

Your hand comes to your left wrist, seeking something to fidget with to calm your nerves, but the familiar leather strap of your watch is missing. Your forearm is bare.  

Oh, for god's sake. Where have you gone and lost the bloody thing now?

As soon as you think it, you realise where it must be. Can see the watch in your mind's eye, sitting on the porcelain edge of the bathroom sink, right where you left it when you took it off to shower last night. You sigh, pressing the button of the lift back to the fifth floor. This time as the lift ascends the floor, you fix your gaze on the menacing bright red LED sign indicating the floor level, refusing to look into the mirrors on either side of you.

‘Please. I miss you.’

The lift door pings open, mercifully interrupting the replay, and you briskly retrace your steps. You’re so focused on retrieving the watch—and ignoring the unwelcome memories—that you barely register that Steven’s no longer in the kitchen. It’s not until you’re brought up short by the closed loo door that you realise it’s not going to be quite that simple. 

Looking down, you can see the light streaming under the door is cut by a shadow’s flickering movement inside. Steven’s gone to the loo. That’s all well and good—nothing out of the ordinary— except the fact that your watch, which you would very much like to wear to work, is in there with him. 

You sigh. 

You’re already going to be late as it is, but you can’t very well barge in on him in the loo, now can you? The poor man would have a heart attack.

You contemplate your options, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, and you have to resist the impulse to tap your feet like some grumpy old biddy. Trying for patience, you take a few steps back, dragging your eyes away from the bathroom to stare blindly off towards the empty kitchen corner. 

There’s not much to look at, just the morning sun streaming in the window to illuminate the pile of sauce-stained dishes waiting to be washed. Your eyes linger anyway. Your mind fills in the gap with an echo of Marc as you’re used to seeing him, standing at the sink or stove, his back to you, outlined in the soft early light. All that’s missing is his voice calling out a soft greeting.

And for a moment, you think you can hear him—his all-familiar American accent echoing from your memories. Better his than yours. Better the voice you've been missing like an amputated limb this entire time he’s been gone. 

“You need to stop.”

You jerk upright because that’s new. 

You’re no stranger to the flat, demanding tone, but you can’t trace the words back to any memory of what Marc has said to you before. 

That means it’s real.

You whip your head back in the direction of the loo where the voice is coming from. 

It’s muffled. The volume muted by the door, but you’d recognise that grumpy, impatient voice anywhere. Been replaying it enough in your mind, that you could pick the owner out of a blind lineup based on sound alone. And you can definitely identify it now in the quietness of Steven’s flat, where it’s just you and him. 

Marc. 

The room seems to narrow to a needle point, the colours blurring into each other until all you can see is the bathroom door. Excitement rushes to your head and everything feels fast and slow all at once. 

Marc is in there. 

Your legs threaten to buckle, and the wooden flooring underneath your feet seems to sink and warp into porous sand with each step forward. Then you’re standing there, in front of the loo, separated from him only by a few feet and the thin wood panelling of the accordion door, so ancient and flimsy-looking that a gust of wind could knock it down. 

You want to knock it down. You raise a shaky hand to hover just above the surface.

All you want is to grab the handle, fling it open and see Marc again. Not as you have these past months, through the lens of the memory—either your own wistful, wishful thinking or the echoes of him that have been haunting your daily life. 

You need the reality of him. To see him in the flesh and bone. Marvel at the ever-present scowl as he tips his head in irritation. That deep furrow between his brow when he’s consumed in some task. The rare half-smile that never fails to make you feel like you’ve won a rare prize at the carnival when you’ve manage to coax it out of him. 

But you can’t. 

Because you know how that will go. Even if Marc is in there, cornered in the loo, the moment he knows you're here and aware of him, he'll spirit himself away like he did last time.  

So you stay there, hand raised, feet frozen to the floor, staring down at the shifting shadow visible through the wide gap like it’s shadow puppet theatre, trying to discern the plot as you listen in. 

“This is how things are now. It’s better for both of you that I’m not around.” 

He sounds tired, weariness weighing down his words, and your throat aches. You don’t need X-ray vision to guess how Marc’s shoulders must be slumped, his hand rubbing over his face and jaw in frustration. 

The worst part is that you know Marc well enough to know that he truly believes what he is saying. Believes that his presence is a burden. That just by being here, he’s causing everyone trouble. 

He thinks he’s doing everyone a favour by not being around, and there’s nothing you or Steven can say that will make him believe otherwise. You know that. But it doesn’t mean you want to say it any less.

You want to break down the door, take him by those broad shoulders, and shake him until his head wobbles as you scream that he’s wrong. That he would be nothing but good for you. 

Because being around Marc makes you happy. Sitting next to him, watching him sip the “rubbish” coffee you’ve made him, makes your chest light up.  Seeing his puzzled expression when you make a pop culture reference he doesn’t know makes you smile.  And even though you’re not a morning person, he makes you look forward to waking up early because you know you get to spend those extra ten minutes with him. Marc makes you happy.

It goes quiet behind the door, and you can’t hear his voice anymore. Maybe Steven is arguing back. You hope so. You hope that Steven is rebutting Marc’s misguided beliefs the way you desperately want to. 

Maybe for once Marc is actually listening. 

"She doesn't know what she's asking for, Steven.” 

Maybe not, the stubborn bastard.

His voice is pained, and you tilt your forehead forward until it makes contact with the doorframe, hovering as close as you dare. It’s not like it makes any difference; not like he can sense you from behind the door—nor would you want him to, given the flight risk. But your heart hurts for him, and you just want to be closer to him in any way you can, despite the divider between you. 

“If I'm around it'll just mess everything up for–” He stops suddenly like maybe Steven has cut him off. Then there’s a grunt of protest, followed by, "Steven… That's not– Steven."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Steven!" This time he sounds almost angry, his voice is low and venomous. And whatever Steven says next must really strike a nerve, because Marc hisses, “Shut up, shut up! Shut UP!" the volume rising to a crescendo with his agitation.

It takes you by surprise, and you jump back, nearly tripping over your own feet in the process. Then you scramble back to the door, pressing as close as you dare. Worried that you’ve missed part of the conversation because you can’t hear Marc anymore. 

“Look, maybe if you just, like... chill the eff out for a second, we can talk things over, yeah?” 

That’s not Marc at all. 

Instead, it’s Steven's warm South-Londoner accent spilling through the door. They must have switched.

“You can't keep doing this. You know that right?” Steven demands. “What's your grand master plan here, mate? Hiding during the day and sneaking out like a burglar in the dead of night...? A bit cowardly, isn't it? You have to know that’s not gonna work long term."

If Marc was angry, then Steven sounds properly hacked off, his patience on the last string, worn so thin it’s a surprise it hasn’t already snapped. This is clearly not the first, or even second time, they’ve had this conversation. Apparently the fact that he's been talking to Marc is one of those things Steven "can't tell you right now." You wonder how many times they've had this same argument. From the sound of things, you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Steven has tried again and again without being able to even inch Marc to budge from his stubborn position.

"It's not the perfect life though, is it? Not when you’re being a right proper idiot about all this. She wants you here. I want you here, you great pillock!” Steven’s voice is loud and indignant, and you can hear a rattle in there that you’re pretty sure is Steven grabbing onto the sides of the mirror in a frustrated attempt to throttle Marc through it. “And you can stop trying to peddle ‘normal,’ all right? Nothing about this situation is normal, and I for one am perfectly okay with that!” 

You can always trust Steven to come through with the honest truth.

God, you love that man. 

You can’t help but smile as he quite loudly voices everything you’ve been dying to say to Marc in this moment. You agree with all of it, even the throttling. Because Steven’s so very right. Who needs ‘normal’ when you can have something better together? 

“Just–” Steven cuts himself off, and you hear the deep inhale as he takes a calming breath before he continues.

“Listen, Marc…” His voice is softer now, almost cajoling. Trying to negotiate and soothe. 

You lean up on your tiptoes and in closer to the door, until you’re practically pressed against it. In your eagerness, you forget about how flimsy the material is until it gives slightly under your weight, and you flinch back. Honestly, it’s probably a miracle the flimsy thing didn’t collapse altogether.  

“You’re not fooling anyone, all right? I can feel what you feel when you’re around her.”

You wait with bated breath for Steven to continue, selfishly hoping that he’ll spell it out further because you desperately want to know what exactly it is that Marc feels around you. For you. 

“When you wake up next to her, and–” his voice spills from the bathroom, the dry sarcasm unmistakable, “when you drink that bloody awful coffee.” 

Again with the sass about your coffee! 

You scowl at the door, any goodwill towards Steven’s efforts in this conversation quickly evaporating. Surely, your coffee can’t be as terrible as all that. It’s just beans and water! How much of a difference can the ratio make anyhow? 

“Or… Or the way you clutched onto that jacket for weeks after she wore it. Treated it like some bloody teddy bear, didn’t you?” 

His jacket? The one that gave you so much grief and guilt after the almost-kiss in front of the fishtank? And Marc had… what? Snuggled with it? Your mind boggles at the very idea, even as it warms your heart.

“‘Don’t?’” Steven challenges, obviously repeating something you can’t hear. “Don’t what, exactly, Marc? Don’t state the obvious?” He barrels on, apparently unwilling to give Marc time to reply, "I know how you feel about her. And I know what you think about when you spend those extra ten minutes in the shower." 

Extra… minutes? You frown to yourself. You don't understand. What could Steven possibly mean by ‘ten extra minutes’ in the– 

Oh. 

An invading image pushes to the forefront of your mind. Of Marc's stern and focused eyes closed in concentration. Wet curls plastered to his forehead. His fingers wrapped in a tight fist over his hard cock. It’s true that you’ve not ever seen Marc less than fully clothed, but you’ve seen Steven without a thread on his body, and your brain is more than happy to fill in the blanks.

Heat curls into your stomach and settles there. Your chest feels tight, as though the thought of Marc in the shower is squeezing the breath out of you. Your vivid imagination clings onto the image, no matter how hard you try to think of something else. Your brain is too enamoured with it and refuses to let it go. 

All you see as you close your eyes are his perfect cheekbones flushed a rosy crimson as he shudders in pleasure. 

"Well if you don't want me to tell her, you’d best stop playing hide and seek then," Steven continues, clearly exasperated, "You’re being ridiculous, you bloody plonker."

Despite the fact that he's still technically whispering, he's so agitated that he might as well be shouting and the volume would be comparable. Steven never could keep a lid on his emotions. You can just picture the animated expression on his face. 

“She wants you too, you know.”  It’s quieter, comes after a second or two pause, as if Steven’s deliberately tamping down how loud he was.

More silence follows. 

You wait for several torturously slow seconds, but there’s still nothing from behind the door. Is it because Marc has been replying to Steven, you wonder. And if he has, what has he been saying? Is he angry? Brushing Steven off? Or is it like it was on the phone last night—silent because he’s not replying back at all.

Why is that somehow the worst scenario? 

You don’t hear anything else. Perhaps this is how it’s going to end today as well. Another stalemate. Stuck in a loop, like Gus II’s endless pilgrimage back and forth across the tank, forever spinning in this box that you have gotten yourselves into, with no way out. 

How long can the three of you keep doing this for? 

“Did you know… she had a sex dream about us?" Steven says. 

A cold shock grips the entirety of your spine, and you jolt like someone threw a bucket of ice water over your head. 

"That’s right, about both of us, together—said she couldn't choose." 

Oh god. God! What on earth is Steven saying? Has he lost his fucking marbles? He can’t tell Marc that! 

Embarrassment burns with a fury in your cheeks. You bite down on your tongue, trying to keep yourself still, fighting every nerve in your body that wants to ram down the door. 

“Actually, I quite think you do need to be hearing this, mate. If you would just–” Steven breaks off, then tries again, raising his voice like he’s trying to talk over and overpower someone else in volume. 

“If you would just come back and talk to us about it, I'm sure she would… Marc. Take your hands off your ears, Marc. If you would just listen for one bloody second. Can you please just– Oh, right, that’s really mature!” 

“Oh, that is bloody well it!” Steven shouts, and harsh fluorescent light floods your vision, momentarily blinding you, as the bathroom door is flung open. 

You stumble forward, nearly falling through the doorway. The only things that stops you from going arse-over-tits are Steven's solid frame and the fact that you faceplant square into the middle of his chest.

His hands go to your shoulders, helping to steady you, and it only takes a second to regain your footing. And then you find yourself staring up at your fuming boyfriend. 

Steven’s cheeks are flushed, chest heaving, and his beautiful messy curls are bouncing wildly on top of his head. He must’ve been well and truly hacked off at Marc, but at the sight of you the anger melts off of him. 

"Oh,” he says, blinking down at you in surprise, “hello, love. You’re back?” 

Turning back to the bathroom, Steven narrows his eyes pointedly at the mirror, then turns off the light and slides the door shut firmly behind him.

"How... uhm… how much of that did you overhear?" 

"Quite a bit," you admit, not bothering to beat around the bush. "I'm guessing Marc’s still refusing to come home then?" 

Steven gives an exasperated shake of his head. 

"He's being stubborn, as always."

You nod, but there’s a bitter clump stuck in your throat that you can’t quite swallow down. Steven must notice your struggle, because his hands trail down the length of your arms until he finds yours and weaves your fingers together, squeezing lightly. 

"Don't worry, love. He'll come around eventually, yeah? He just needs time." 

Steven likes to say the two of you have all the time in the world, but you're beginning to wonder if even that would be enough.

The flickering light from the telly is swathing the bed and surrounding surfaces of Steven’s bookshelves in blues and whites. You’re staring blindly at the ocean scenery playing out before you, without really hearing any of the narration as Attenborough drones on about whale wildlife. 

You feel listless. You try to tell yourself that it’s just been a long day at work. Between Poppy stealing your lunch, (which she denies) and that three hour Teams call that nearly ended your will to live, it’s no wonder you’re ready for this day to end. 

But it’s more than that. 

‘It’s better for both of you that I’m not around’.

Marc had sounded so tired in the loo this morning, like he’s exhausted to the depths of his soul, and you hate that for him. Guilt swirls in your stomach, simmering until it curdles into irritation and then anger. 

You’re furious at the whole situation. 

You hate how angry and defeated he sounded. Can't stand the thought that he's doing something that hurts him to keep you and Steven “happy.” But most of all you hate that he’s alone again. By himself, trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders like the victim of some tragic Greek myth, condemned to a solitary existence by the gods for all of eternity. 

But your anger isn’t helping you right now, and it certainly doesn’t help Marc.

In fact, nothing you’ve been doing has helped him, has it? All your efforts to get him to come back: spam texting him, poisoning him with your toxic coffee, confessing your feelings… The only thing any of it has achieved is to make him feel cornered and miserable. 

It needs to stop. 

You need to stop. 

“You all right, love?” Steven’s voice near your ear pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts. 

“Hmm?”

Steven frowns at you from where he sits beside you on the sofa. 

“You seem… distracted. Is there something on your mind, love?” 

“Yes, sorry, I think I’m just–” you trail off mid-sentence, the screen catching your eye when you lift your head. The credits are rolling and must have been for quite some time without you even noticing. 

Without pressing you to finish your thought,

“Let’s go to bed, love. Call it an early night, yeah?” he asks with a gentle smile on his lips. 

Curling up in bed with Steven sounds perfect to you in this moment and you nod at him.  

It’s all he needs to start moving,  Steven stooping to gather up the blanket that’s pooled by your feet and reaches over your lap for the remote to turn off the telly. The room dims without the brightness of the screen, and Steven takes your hand, pulling you to your feet. He watches your progress surreptitiously, keeping his hand steady over yours like he’s a guide dog worried you’re going to trip over your own feet. 

He doesn’t let go until you’re safely sat down on your side of the bed, and even then he stays standing there with an uncertain look on his face, one hand hovering in mid-air, the other hanging by his side, fingers fidgeting. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” Steven finally asks, the words bursting out of him as if he’s unable to hold them in any longer. “What happened today, that is. About Marc, and what you overheard.” 

“Marc…,” you begin, and his name barely even leaves your lips before Steven is already nodding enthusiastically for you to continue. “He sounded really quite tired today, didn’t he? It must be hard for him to keep this up. I don’t know why he thinks he has to keep hiding like this.” 

Steven’s chewing on his bottom lip, and there it is again, the feeling that Steven knows so much more than he’s been telling you. You can practically see the weight of the phrase ‘I can’t tell you right now’ perched heavily on his features. 

You look down at your lap, fingers twisting into the blanket. But maybe, it isn’t hard to guess what it is neither of them are telling you. It’s Occam’s razor isn’t it? All things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. And maybe the simple explanation here is that Marc just… doesn’t want to see you. Whatever the reasons, he’s made that much abundantly clear, and you’ve gone and ignored all signs and pushed forward regardless. You told the man you loved him, and he didn’t say anything back. 

“I think that what I said on the phone–me telling him I love him—has probably only made things worse.” 

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself as you raise your eyes towards Steven again. 

“I just want him to know it’s okay if he doesn’t feel the same about me. It’s all right if he doesn’t want this or– Or me. He doesn’t have to hide to avoid rejecting me or to spare my feelings. I don’t want him to be alone because of that. Can you… can you tell him that?”

Steven's eyes widens, and he shakes his head vigorously.  

“No. No, no, no, love. That is not what's happening here. That's not– The problem is– Marc is just–" He stumbles over his words a bit before spitting out tartly, "Just a right twit, is what he is." 

You can’t help the grunt-like snort that escapes, and the levity feels good. It’s nice to be able to laugh with Steven, even as glum as you are over the situation that you’re all stuck in. 

Your laugh must’ve pleased him, because he smiles back at you, eyes crinkling adorably. His shoulders relax too, and his hands stop their nervous fidgeting. 

Climbing knee-first onto the bed, Steven sits in front of you. His hand comes to yours, and he settles both your hands on top of your lap.

“Marc isn’t hiding away because he doesn’t feel the same about you.” 

Your face must show your scepticism, because Steven squeezes your fingers between his reassuringly as he continues. 

“Same body and all that, remember? I’m aware enough nowadays that I can usually feel what he feels when I’m not the one fronting.” 

"What does he feel?" You blurt out. It's a question that has been haunting you since your impromptu phone call confession. Longer even.

Steven hesitates, clearly torn, and it’s enough to make you realise what you've just asked of him. How unfair of a question it is.

"Sorry.” You grimace, your shoulders sagging. "I know you don't feel comfortable sharing things about Marc without him here. And I understand. It's okay. Really it is. It's..."

It's only right, isn't it? Of course it’s not for Steven to out Marc’s private matters. And what can be more personal than one’s inner thoughts and feelings?

"Oh, love," Steven says, voice impossibly gentle, “You're right that it's not my place to tell you.”

You nod, looking down at your lap, feeling like your whole chest has deflated. You know it's the right thing for him to do. You’re glad for it even—that he's looking out for Marc when Marc's not here to look out for himself—but you can’t help but feel disappointed all the same.

“Buuuut…” he continues, and your head whips up, searching his face with a tiny sprinkle of hope that perhaps there's still something Steven can share with you. 

“You heard what I said to him in there, right?” Steven prompts, and you nod. His fingers brush over yours, giving you the time to process. 

You try to remember everything you overheard, any other hints you’ve gleaned. How Marc always drinks your “awful” coffee. That he’d clutched onto his jacket after you’ve worn it. The shower. Your fingertips tingle all over again as the image of him in the shower tries to resurface in your mind. 

“Surely it’s obvious by now how Marc feels about you, isn’t it?” 

Steven looks so certain—like he can’t even begin to fathom why there would be any doubt about this—and you desperately want him to be right. Desperately want to think that Marc might care for you in return. 

He says it like all of the pieces of the puzzle are plainly there for you to see. And they should be, you suppose. Marc has shown you so many different sides of himself, and the conversation you overheard revealed more. The problem is that no matter how hard you try to mash the pieces together to make them fit… They don’t.

What Steven’s implying makes sense, and yet here the two of you are, alone. And Marc is still refusing to join you.

Despite everything, the picture before you is still somehow… incomplete. You can’t help but feel that there’s at least one more vital piece of information that you’re still somehow missing. 

“So why is he still hiding, then?” 

And there’s something there, in Steven’s reaction when you ask him. A quick, blink-and-you’d-miss-it flicker towards the direction of the fish tank. The only reflective surface, lit up as it is in the darkness of the room. 

“Steven?” you prompt loudly, fully intent on interrupting whatever tirade Marc is shouting at Steven. You lean forward, squeezing his hand for attention. “What is Marc saying to you? Why won’t he come back?”

Steven’s head whips back in your direction. His mouth is works, but no words come out, and he’s hesitating like he’s trying to decide how much he should tell you. 

“There are things that we—that Marc hasn't told you,” Steven finally says, eyes flicking to the fishtank again, then back to yours, holding your gaze earnestly. “Things that you ought to hear about from him. He doesn’t think he deserves– Well. He thinks that once you know about everything, you’ll walk away from us both. So he’s staying away. I guess in some way, he thinks he’s protecting me again. Buying me some time before it ends."

“That’s ridiculous!” you shout before you can stop yourself. “He can’t possibly know how I’ll react until he’s told me!” 

Your ears burn and you wouldn’t be surprised if there was steam coming out. Why can’t Marc just sit you down and tell you these things instead of making assumptions about what he thinks you would want? What he thinks would be best for you? It’s Steven and the goldfish all over again. 

“And, Steven,”—you look him right in the eye, because you don’t want there to be any doubt about this next part—”I love you. There is nothing Marc could tell me that would make me want to leave you, all right.”

Steven smiles, and even in the dark it’s warm enough to light up the whole room.

"Yes, love, I know.” His smile turns wry, “Like I said… a right twit."

It’s dark. 

Quiet. 

The world isn’t awake yet, and you’re not sure if you are either. You can’t even hear the London traffic outside. There’s too little light in here, and you can’t make out anything except vague shapes in the inviting darkness. You close your eyes again, ready to drift back to sleep. 

Fabric rustles nearby, a soft white noise like the raising of sails. It reminds you of visiting the beach as a child and putting your ear to the opening of a seashell. Everything sounds like it’s underwater.

The surface under you moves, rolling slightly, and then settles again, and it feels like you are out at sea on a small boat. Behind your eyelids, all you see is purple skies dusted with sugared stars. 

Someone is here on the boat with you, warm and sturdy against your side. For a moment or two, drunk on sleep as you are, you don’t quite know where you are or who the person is. All you know is that you feel happy and safe with them. 

The boat rocks again, the surface under you shifting, and the warmth moves away. You want it back. Before you can reach out, the soft weight covering you shifts like a wave, dragging against your hip as it rises up over your torso before settling again, tucked snugly under your chin. 

There are quiet, almost careful footsteps on wooden planks. Then the clink of metal like chains being dragged across the floor. 

It’s all so familiar somehow. 

Didn't there used to be a time when you'd often find yourself like this? Drowsy and half-conscious, pulled towards awareness by the quiet sounds of someone moving next to you, but too far under to fully wake? 

When did it stop?

Oh. Right. When Marc disappeared. 

This must be a dream then. Your brain processing and recycling old memories. Why else would you be out on the open sea? 

The noises stop. 

You can feel the moment drift, pulled away by the currents, but you’re not ready to wake up yet. There’s a long silence, where the dream threatens to slip beneath the inky depth of a wave. 

Squeezing your eyes firmly shut, you try to let yourself float gently on the current, hoping you can relax and prolong this dream. 

The surface you’re resting on dips, and something settles onto your shoulder. A solid, comforting weight. You know this feeling. It’s Marc’s hand, and it inspires the same feeling of safety it did last time, the last time you and Marc were together in person, after you'd cried yourself into exhaustion and he'd agreed to let you fall asleep in his bed. 

It feels nice. More than nice. It feels right.

You nuzzle your cheek into billowing warmth surrounding you that feels like a soft pillow and smells of fresh laundry detergent and coffee. You inhale deeply, sighing contently at the scent, trying to enjoy it while it lasts. 

You don’t want to give this up.

The weight lifts from your shoulder, and you almost rise up in protest, but something sweeps softly across your forehead. Those gentle fingertips, brush the hair from your eyes before coming to linger on your cheek. 

It's a bit funny, isn’t it? A bit cruel even, of your subconscious to conjure up a scenario where Marc’s touching your cheek tenderly like this. After all, isn’t this what you’d thought he might do that night? What you’d wanted him to do, even if you hadn’t known it then? To cup your cheek in his strong, warm hand; to hold you like you're precious to him, beloved, the same way that Steven does?

Marc’s hand moves away again, replaced by the gentle brush of soft lips and bristly stubble against your temple. It’s a barely-there touch, so light and fleeting that you might have imagined it, yet everything inside you aches like a tender bruise. Your skin tingles with an echo of lingering warmth.

You don’t dare to move; barely dare to breathe for fear that you’ll wake yourself up. Your chest constricts with a bittersweet longing that feels large enough to bury you whole. 

"I love you too," his quiet voice says, filling the silence.

Warmth blossoms in your stomach, pouring and pouring through you until you feel filled to the brim with happiness. You think you would be content to stay here, in this safe, quiet space, just basking in his loving presence forever.

For long moments, you do, sinking into the feeling of being loved by this grumpy, stubborn, confusingly gentle man.

Then you hear the heavy sigh.

"That's why I can't come back," he says, voice quiet, resigned, “I need you to be safe. And happy. I’ll make sure of that.”

The sea rises as his weight lifts away from you. The whole of the boat shifts unsteadily beneath you, tilting with the tumultuous waves. Set adrift by the unexpected and unwelcome turn the dream has taken, you’re convinced that the boat is going to tip over and capsize. That you’ll slip into the cracks between the planks of the deck and fall into the abyss, never to be seen again.

You reach out to grab the railing, trying to steady yourself. But where you expected a wooden ledge, hard and wet from seawater, your fingers grasp onto something soft and warm instead. It gives way easily under the grip of your hands, like cotton. Like sheets. 

Still you hold on tightly, bracing yourself for the inevitable descent, and then…

Nothing.

Nothing happens. You’re still on steady ground. Still surrounded in the stillness of the dark night. The only sound is that of soft footsteps moving away and then the unmistakable click of the front door. 

Wait, what kind of dream is this?

Your eyes fly open, and you’re greeted to the sight of the wooden planks, mostly lost in shadow. The bottom of the deck? Are you in the ship’s hold? 

No, it’s the  lowered ceiling over Steven's bed. You’re in his flat.

There’s an ache in your shoulder from having rested on it too long, and you force yourself upright. Your eyelids feel crusty and dry, as though a desert has sprung up behind them overnight. They sting as you blink, wanting to seal closed again. 

Are you awake now? Or is this just another part of a dream? Ten seconds from now, will you find yourself back down on the mattress, forcing yourself to open your eyes all over again?

It’s dark in here, but that tells you nothing. In wintertime, dark can mean 5pm or 7am or anything in between. Turning to the side of the bed, you pat at the nightstand until you find your watch and raise it to your face, squinting in the darkness to make out the dials. 

Eight-thirty? That can’t be right. You and Steven fell asleep well past eight last night, and it’s too dark outside to already be eight in the morning. You reach over to the small lamp, holding the face of it up to the dim light. The arms counting the seconds is taking much longer than a second to hobble forwards. It’s desperately trying to tick along but it’s not doing a great job at keeping time accurately. 

You really need to fix the bloody thing. Or better yet, get a new one. Everything about it is falling apart. Still you fasten it to your wrist by habit before you move to get out of bed. 

With a heavy sigh, you dip one foot onto the floor, and hiss out an involuntary breath at the chill of it. Your shoulders clutch at the quilt tugging it closer around your shoulder.

Wait, this is…

Real.

The biting cold is definitely real. Not a dream; not your imagination. As fantastical as your dreams can sometimes be, your subconscious wouldn't have the attention to detail to replicate the energy bill crisis. 

Turning your head, your eyes drift to Steven’s side of the bed where he fell asleep curled up next to you. Except, he’s not there anymore. 

You reach out your hand, resting it on the spot of the mattress where he would have been lying. 

Still warm and toasty. 

He must’ve gotten up mere moments ago. The door to the loo is open and dark, so Steven’s not in there. He’s not anywhere, and Steven wouldn’t have left the flat without telling you. Must’ve been Marc then, gone wandering off into the night again.

Your neck prickles.

And all of a sudden you’re wide awake, realisation slamming into you like a runaway lorry.

Oh bloody hell, that wasn’t a dream. It was real. 

Marc was really here. 

He really– 

Oh god!

Shoving the comforter away, you leap to your feet. The cold draft in the room punches the air out of your lungs, but you ignore it and focus on trying to find your clothes and dress as quickly as possible. In your haste, you ricochet off one of the bookcases and have to clumsily pat things back into place to avoid an avalanche of Steven’s mess, picking the first pair of boots that is within reach and your coat. Then you’re out of the front door with a loud slam behind you. 

To be continued.

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