#making the desert bloom

[purplespacekitty]

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[something-nunholy]

OH MY GOD THEY PUT BLOOM THROUGH YODA’S JEDI TRAINING REGIMEN??????????

[victorluvsalice]

-->And then it was off to Desert Bloom Park in Oasis Springs! Where, to my delight, it was actually NOT FUCKING THUNDERSTORMING. (Yeah, I am still bitter about how I had to buy a weather machine to actually DO the sale in Windenburg, why do you ask?) Also to my delight, I discovered that the gang could hang around together and draw pictures in the sand – I had Smiler do a smiley face while Victor and Alice watched, then had Alice do a star while Smiler looked for the perfect spot to set up the food stand. I had them set up nice and close to the central plaza, by the chess tables, then dropped all the food Victor and Alice had made into the table’s inventory –

And set up the ice cream machine on one of the side slots! Because that is what I wanted it for – adding another treat option to the food stand! I set about having Smiler make some chocolate ice cream (after accidentally canceling the interaction once by moving the food stand slightly out of place – these “live drag” objects can be dangerous sometimes) –

-->And while that was going on, I set about having Victor and Alice wander around the neighborhood and gather metals and crystals from the collectible rocks! Because that was my other main reason for coming here – to get materials for future jewelry-making! Alice found some citrine, a time capsule (I forgot to open it up, though, so have no idea which MySim is inside) and some silver (ironic for a werewolf), while Victor got death metal, alabaster, orange topaz, and another citrine from his wanderings. Not too shabby! :) And it was nice to see how pretty the park is in late summer too.

-->While Victor and Alice were occupied with that, Smiler finished their ice cream – I had them set the garnish as banana slices and the topping as whipped cream (would you expect any different from them), then added it to the stocked food and started their food sale! As usual, things were slow to start, though their buddy Presley did show up to help cheer them on. Victor, done with his collecting and apparently eager to meet her, started over to do a “Howdy Greeting” (must be from Horse Ranch), but she left before he could get the chance. Aw. So I instead had him summon his familiar Darkwing, give himself a quick Scruberoo, then sent him to ponder moves at the chess board while Alice ran down from where she’d gotten the silver to make some BBQ ribs at one of the many available BBQs. Smiler, for their part, had finally gotten a customer and was doing their best to convince said customer, Roxana, to buy something –

[cooking-with-hailstones]

Colonizer rhetoric is truly spectacular sometimes

[zombified-queer]

It's such lovely weather (raining) and only one thing could make it better.

[brown-little-robin]

"so you CAN smile!"

[heritageposts]

I'm reading about how Israel, in the immediate aftermath of the 1948 Nakba, deliberately replaced olive trees and other indigenous flora with European plants. This ecological disaster, which is now proudly hailed under the banner of 'making the desert bloom,' was done to 'de-Arabize' the landscape, and to cover up - often with fast-growing European pine trees -the ruins of Palestinian villages that were destroyed by Zionists forces.

And I just need everyone to read this passage from Pappé, because the symbolism of what happened to those European pine trees in the desert speaks for itself:

The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine, by Ilan Pappé (2006, p. 227-228.)

[artemisiatridentata]

made the potentially extremely bad decision to not wear a mask outdoors around a school group i was leading for the past few days (rationalized it bc I always wear a mask on these trips and none of my coworkers do and yet they haven’t gotten sick from a trip in the two years I’ve been working here)… anyways I started to wear one the other night + this morning bc I realized I was being dumb. I hope it’s not too late and that I didn’t get infected with anything, but some of the kids were coughing and sneezing sooo idk :( I didn’t spend very much time around them compared to the rest of my coworkers but still. one of my coworkers started feeling unusually congested this morning so she was wearing a mask and now im especially stressed bc I sat by her during dinner several nights this week (outdoors, but in close quarters). istg if I get sick the one time I made the dumb decision to not wear a mask outdoors, meanwhile none of my coworkers ever do and they hardly ever get sick (and when they do it hasn’t been from work)….. idk man. I feel so stressed and irritated (at myself yea but mainly at parents who sent their kids on programs knowing they were sick, and at the US government and corporations and the CDC for stigmatizing and politicizing mask-wearing to the point that everyone around me is just repeatedly getting sick and walking around with their whole face out, breathing their germs on me and everyone else who is trying to avoid covid and other illnesses)

[playnextdoor]

As long as you have me

summary: sesh with Sevika while she turns you out

cw: marijuana (whats new here), slight intox kink from Sevika, cunnilingus (r!receiving), Sevika is kinda rough, facesitting (r), tribbing, slight proofread, SEVIKA HAS BOTH ARMS!

The dizziness hits hard.

Sevika’s been letting you take hit after hit, teasing you about how easily you get high. By the time you’re a single drag in, you’re already teetering on the edge. Determined to prove her wrong, you pushed yourself past your usual two weak pulls of the jay she rolled. Now? You’ve nearly smoked the whole thing, and regret is setting in.

“All right, I can’t,” you mumble, unsure whether to laugh or cry because you’ve never been this high in your life.

“Yeah, I don’t think you can either,” Sevika snorts, plucking the joint from your fingers with a smirk. She takes one long, practiced drag, as calm as ever, before ashing the roach and setting it aside. Reaching for her glass of water, she takes a sip, then presses the rim to your lips. The lukewarm liquid feels like a lifeline, quenching the desert your mouth’s become.

The room swirls around you, even though the two of you haven’t moved from her bed in over an hour. Sevika lounges beside you, one hand buried in her hoodie, while you’re a twitchy, overthinking mess, trying not to forget how to breathe. Her free hand glides over your thigh in lazy, soothing circles, her touch grounding you even as the high drags you somewhere else entirely.

“Holy shit, your eyes, babe,” she gasps, her voice overly dramatic as she leans in close, cupping your face. Her thumb brushes your cheek as her sharp eyes scan your expression. “You good?” she murmurs, her breath warm against your skin.

You wrinkle your nose like you’ve smelled something awful and pull back, your face hot. “Stop. You always say that and then I get paranoid,” you whine, sinking back into the pillows.

Sevika doesn’t move, just stares at you with that crooked grin that always makes your chest flutter. You glance at her, and it’s hopeless—you’re smiling too, unable to ignore the butterflies crashing around inside you.

“What?” you mutter, voice low, but the question hangs in the space between you two.

“Nothing, just trying not to say something that’ll make you paranoid,” Sevika says, voice low as she shrugs off her hoodie. She knows exactly what she’s doing—underneath, it’s just that armhole tank that clings to her in all the right places, showing off her dark, delicious arms and just enough side boob to make your thoughts spiral. You can’t resist; your finger pokes at the exposed skin, playful and far too curious.

She smirks but doesn’t comment, shifting to get comfortable again, one hand rubbing her stomach lazily. Then, without warning, her hand slides between your legs, slipping past the hem of your t-shirt. Her fingers cup you over your panties, casual as anything, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches. Sevika stays completely still, her face calm, her body relaxed, but there’s no denying the heat that blooms between you. You’re soaked, embarrassingly so, and her fingers twitch like they’re itching to press harder, to push right where you need her most.

She doesn’t move, just watches you through heavy-lidded, red-rimmed eyes. Her gaze makes you feel dizzy all over again, like you’re floating somewhere just out of reach. You’re here, but at the same time, not really.

The corners of your mouth lift into a grin without you realizing it, and Sevika’s sharp eyes catch the change. She exhales, her heart racing faster with every second that passes. You can tell she’s already plotting how to pull that smug, dreamy expression right off your face.

“Mm... what?” you mumble again, your voice soft and slurred as your heavy-lidded eyes flutter open and closed. The THC hums through your veins, settling you into a weightless, floaty state that leaves your body melting into the bed. The sensation pools low in your stomach, and you can feel just how soaked you are as Sevika’s hand teases you.

She doesn’t say a word, just watches you with that look—the one that makes your pulse race and your breath hitch, like she’s planning to devour you whole. Her sharp gaze alone has your skin buzzing, but it’s the contrast that undoes you, the cool blankets brushing against your heated body, her large hand cupping your mound with such maddening gentleness.

Every nerve in you screams to stay calm, to hold yourself together, but it’s no use. Between the haze in your mind and the weight of her touch, you’re barely keeping it together. You’re fighting demons, and Sevika knows it.

“I’m gonna fuck you, okay?” Sevika asks, her voice low and casual, and you can’t help but giggle. You knew exactly what she was planning the second she pulled out her rolling papers, but hearing her say it like that sends you into a fit of laughter.

“Why’d you announce it like that?” you laugh, rolling over, making her hand slip out between your legs. Sevika grabs you before you can escape too far, pulling you back into her.

Your laughter spills out uncontrollably, and she starts laughing too. It’s that kind of laugh, the ridiculous, stoned-out-of-your-mind kind where every little thing feels like the funniest thing in the world. You wiggle on top of her, squirming as you mistake her attempts to steady you for tickling, which only makes it worse.

“C’mere,” she rasps in your ear, her voice like gravel, stopping you dead in your tracks. The sound shoots through your core, and before you realize what you’re doing, you’re straddling her midsection.

Her relaxed state is almost too cute. She’s not as far gone as you—her eyes don’t get as low and hazy—but you can tell the high is hitting her, too. She keeps licking her lips and swallowing, clearly battling cottonmouth. You get it, cottonmouth’s a bitch. Still, something about her slightly disheveled, unbothered demeanor makes your chest flutter.

“Who knew how fucking dumb you get when you smoke, hmm?” Sevika’s warm, rough hands snake up your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh of your hips. You groan in response, too floaty and noodle-like to argue. She’s right, and you both know it. Sevika had already prepped the room before you arrived, knowing you would ask for something every five minutes.

“You like it when you’re like this? Can’t even think, just focused on how I’m about to fuck the shit outta you,” she mutters, her voice low and teasing as she yanks you down into a kiss. It’s sickly sweet, almost painful, her teeth grazing your lip before biting down hard enough to make you whimper. Sevika gets rough and filthy when she’s drunk or high, all blunt force and no filter. Her favorite thing? Showing off just how built she is. Carrying you, dragging you, manhandling you however she pleases.

And her mouth? That’s a whole other person. She’ll say whatever crosses her mind, like now.

“C’mere. Get that ass on my face,” she growls, breaking the kiss. Her voice drops ten octaves and rasp, making your stomach flip. You cling to every word, breathless, barely able to think as she pushes you higher up her body.

“Wait—Sev, my panties,” you stammer, scrambling to slip them off. She bats your hands away with a huff, nuzzling between your thighs like she doesn’t have the patience for your shit. Then, before you can protest further, she presses her warm mouth against the damp fabric, tongue soaking through to taste your heady slick.

Fucking hell.

Your heartbeat pounds in your chest, the high amplifying everything. The heat of her mouth, the wet slide of her tongue, the glint in her eye as she devours you like a woman starved. 

“Wait, wait, can you breathe?” you gasp, stalling as your fingers card through her hair. You gently tug, trying to pull her away just enough to see her face. Sevika tilts her head up, licking her lips with her eyes half-lidded in bliss.

“Mhm. Now stop,” she mumbles, pouting as she pushes your hand aside to focus. And focused she is. Her lips wrap around your swollen clit, pulling soft whimpers from your throat as her tongue strokes you through the fabric.

You lift your shirt over your chest, exposing your tits. not just to watch her work but for her to see you too. The sight of your tits alone makes her groan against you, the vibration adding to overwhelming sensation.

If Sevika’s roommates walked in right now, they’d think they’d stepped into a porno. You’re practically sitting on her face, your high leaving you too sensitive, too reactive. You try to hold back, but fuck, the way her tongue lays flat for you to grind against, it’s overwhelming. She lets you use her, groaning because she loves every second of it.

One bad thing about when you’re high was that if you were to have sex, you came too quick and were far too sensitive than usual.

The final buck of your hip as you spilled in your underwear, soaking it as Sevika mouthed at it. Eyes rolled back to your skull, you find the dark tufts of Sevikas hair as you ground yourself. she flicks her tongue a bit as a way to soothe you, but it does the opposite, causing you to jerk away from her. 

“Ah��no more,” you murmur, lying horizontal on her chest, your legs numb and trembling. But Sevika’s hands are already at your hips, sliding your ruined panties off with a smirk that promises round two.

You roll over, watching her gulp the rest of her water before she climbs back into bed. She yanks the blanket off you (of course she does) and starts peeling off her own underwear.

Her smile grows, her hair messy and damp, half-up, half-down strands sticking to her skin. She doesn’t say anything as she adjusts you, moving your body to her liking until her cunt presses against yours. The slick heat of her clit catches on your folds, and you both whimper in unison.

“Holy fu—fuck, you’re so wet. You like this shit, don’t you?” Sevika groans against your lips, her voice low and rough, but her movements give her away. She’s trembling, losing herself in the mess of you, her swollen clit grinding against yours like she can’t help herself. It’s frantic uncoordinated, but it doesn’t matter. All you can focus on is the heat, the overwhelming feeling of her taking exactly what she needs.

You can’t even answer, just nodding dumbly as she kisses you again, her tongue sweeping into your mouth. The taste of her, weed and desperation, making you dizzy. Her hips stutter, and you moan against her lips, feeling yourself come down all over again.

“Sev—ah, slow down. I’m gonna come again,” you whimper, your fingers digging into her hip to try and steady her. But she’s too far gone, her pace frantic, her breath hot against your neck.

“It’s okay, fuck—just let me,” she gasps, her voice breaking as she buries her face in your shoulder. She sounds wrecked, her control slipping completely. Her arms tighten around you, her hands gripping your body like you’re the only thing holding her together.

Your orgasm hits hard and fast, ripping through you as you cry out her name. The sound is all it takes to send her over the edge. She chokes out a groan, her body shuddering against yours as she comes—sticky skin, hearts pounding, breaths tangling in the heavy air.

For a while, it’s quiet. The only sounds are your breathing and the faint rustle of sheets as you try to remember how to move. Sevika’s face is still tucked against your neck, her lips brushing against your skin as she exhales.

“You know you’re, like… really nasty,” you whisper, your voice breathless but teasing. A lazy smile tugs at your lips as you glance down at her.

She groans, lifting her head just enough to glare at you, though the flush on her cheeks gives her away. “We’re never smoking together again,” she mutters, but her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh.

“Sure,” you tease, too blissed out to care. You don’t even try to push her away when she shifts on top of you, her arms still holding you close. “As long as you get to have your way with me, I’m fine,” you murmur, your voice softer now as you brush your lips against hers. You can feel her smile before she kisses you again, this time slower, sweeter.

“Fuck, you’re mine,” she whispers against your lips, her voice low and possessive, sending a shiver down your spine.

“I hope so,” you reply, and it comes out like a promise.

a/n: can you tell i love writing about Sev? currently going through my drafts and revising them and so far this was fun to edit the most lol

[smileysuh]

hotel california

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. “Time is a funny thing in this place. I know it’s been days, weeks, years even- that I’ve been here, but I don’t know for how long. I eat, I sleep, I drink- I repeat. I don’t grow old, I don’t get sick. I just am. It’s fucking boring if I’m behind honest with you, or at least it was. It’s been a while since we had someone new show up at the hotel, and even longer since that someone was as gorgeous as you.” 

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, fingering, pussy eating, blow job, roughhousing, dirty talk, praise, finger sucking, multiple sex positions, spanking, mentions of pain kink, mentions of masturbation, breast worship, watching yourself in the mirror while you fuck, etc… I pet names: (hers) gorgeous. 

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 9.9k

🍭 aus. Non idol au, strangers to lovers, song as inspo, etc..

☀️ mlist + an. I’ve wanted to tackle ‘The Hotel California’ song by Eagles for ages, and after months of thinking about how to do it best, I think I finally did it justice. I wanted to also draw some inspiration from the tv show ‘The White Lotus,’ with the first season (and the first season’s Hotel Manager) being particularly interesting to me. I’m really excited about this fic, and I hope you guys enjoy it!

One:

Driving across the Californian desert after a twelve-hour shoot had not been your plan, but being double booked by your agent had left you with little choice in the matter. You’re still a blooming model, and you can’t yet afford the luxury of easy flights- no, you have to do it yourself, and it’s determination that’s driving you as you speed down the highway with the sun beginning to set.

You’re exhausted, and you can feel your body beginning to tire from your long hours, but you push on. In an effort to keep yourself awake, you put on some music, doing your best to focus on the long winding roads as you take the liminal path between one civilization to the other.

It’s a pretty drive if nothing else, at least as the sun sets, but once the purple and pink sky has faded to black, the whole thing feels monotonous. 

You yawn loudly, pushing harder on your gas pedal. There are no cops out here this deep in the desert, and if it saves you even ten minutes to speed, it will be well worth it.

It’s hard to concentrate, and you can feel yourself getting drowsier and drowsier, your eyelids getting heavier with each passing breath, but you’re in too deep to pull off on the side of the road.

Your body is relaxing, succumbing to the exhaustion. Your eyes begin to close- and just as you’re on the precipice of falling asleep at the wheel, your car makes a rough sound.

Body lurching with anxiety, your heart thumps wildly in your chest, and once again, your car makes a noise it shouldn’t be making.

With a loud groan, you slowly pull off to the side of the road, and that’s when the engine begins to billow smoke out from under your hood.

You reach for your phone, only to find it’s dead, and with a loud, “Fuck!” you get out of your car.

It takes you a second to remember how to pop the hood, after all, you’re a model, not a mechanic. As the hood lifts, a gust of hot smokey steam flairs up at you, and without your phone to use as a light, you can only rely on the rays of the moon to guide you as you fiddle with your car on the side of the road in the middle of the desert.

After five minutes of panic, you decide to give up. As you look around, you realize there’s a light in the distance. It’s a faint light, but a light nonetheless. 

You return to your car, sitting there for a while as you decide what to do.

Leaving your vehicle on the side of the road isn’t exactly the best-case scenario, but neither is staying with it overnight- you’ve heard that the desert can get cold when the sun goes down, and you’re already feeling chilly.

You weigh your options. After a while, you collect your things from the trunk and begin to make the trek down the long desert road toward the lights that symbolize civilization of some sort. 

Two:

“Welcome to The Hotel California,” a peppy man smiles when you approach the front desk.

It turns out the lights you’d seen from your car had belonged to a cute one-story terracotta hotel. You didn’t realize there were hotels along this stretch of road, but relief floods through you as you approach the man whose badge says ‘Jeonghan. hotel manager.’

“Hello,” you smile, releasing a sigh. “My car broke down a little ways up the road.”

“Well that’s not very good,” he frowns, empathizing with you.

“I need a room for the night, and I’d appreciate it if I could use a phone to call for someone to come and look at my car in the morning,” you explain. 

“I can get that settled for you,” he assures you, writing something down in the notebook in front of him. “A room for one?”

“Yes, it’s just me,” you confirm.

“Name?”

You give him your information, reaching into your bag for your credit card.

“We won’t need any form of payment until check out,” Jeonghan assures you. “Anything you eat or drink or do will be added to your tab, and you can deal with it another time.”

“Thank God, you have no idea how exhausted I am.”

“I’ll have our bellhop escort you to your room and help with your bags,” the hotel manager smiles. He waves over a man, whose nametag reads ‘Seungkwan,’ and with another nod and a grin to you, the manager watches you walk off.

You take a moment to look around. While the exterior of the hotel had been very rustic, the interior is Art Deco. There are many mirrors, and the lobby has a few red velvet couches strewn about. It’s actually kind of cute for a hotel in the middle of nowhere, and you’re thankful you’d come across it.

If your car had broken down even five minutes before, you doubt you would have seen the lights of The Hotel California, and then where would you be? 

Three:

You wake as light peaks through the blinds of your room. With a yawn, you sit up in bed, immediately reaching for your phone on the bedside table.

Although you’d plugged it in to charge the night before, the screen is still dead.

Your heart sinks in your chest, and with a groan of exasperation, you stand up. 

After putting on clothes and making yourself feel presentable, you head out in search of the lobby, where you find Jeonghan behind the front desk as he had been last night.

“Hi,” you greet him. “I was wondering if you have any news about my car?”

“We called a towing company, they had to come out from the nearest town. No word yet on what’s wrong with your car or how long it will take to fix.”

It’s hard to hide your disappointment as you release a deep breath. “So… I’m stuck here.”

“It would appear that way,” Jeonghan smiles politely.

As you’re about to leave, you remember the other point of contention on your mind, and you turn to look at the hotel manager again. “I tried to charge my phone last night, and I’m not sure if it’s a problem with my charger or your outlet, but it didn’t charge.”

“I can take your phone for you for now, and I’ll see if one of the chargers or outlets we have here will work,” he suggests.

You stare at him. The idea of giving up your phone doesn’t sit right with you, but at this point, you’re too tired to care. Although you’d gotten sleep, your body still feels exhausted- how many hours had you even gotten in bed?

“What time is it?” you ask.

“I think it’s time for you to get a watch,” the hotel manager teases.

“Right…” you trail off, pulling your phone out of your pocket to hand to him. “Please get this back to me once it’s charged, I’ve gotta call my agent and maybe rearrange a mode of transportation or something.”

“Go relax and I’ll deal with all of this,” Jeonghan assures you. “We’ve got a morning buffet in the dining room just down the hall, I suggest you go and get your strength up.”

“Thank you.” 

You follow his direction down a few corridors to a dining room. It’s a lovely space, with one line of glass walls that look out at the desert. The style choice is as art deco as the lobby, and while you’d found it charming at first, you’re already getting sick of the mirrors everywhere.

A large table lines the far wall, and there are many silver trays with food on them. Heading over there, you find a plate and begin to choose what you want to eat.

As you make a dish for yourself, you look around, noting that there aren’t very many guests in the hotel. You suppose that it’s a very odd location for a hotel, and its remote nature is probably the reason you only see a handful of people around.

Once your plate is full, you approach one of the many empty tables, taking a seat and looking around once more.

There are two men dressed in suits, and you immediately assume they’re in business of some sort. You wonder what they’re doing here of all places, but you don’t dwell on it for long, not when you notice that their table is covered with plates.

They’re both rather lean men, so you wonder how they plan to eat all the food in front of them, but you decide not to be a person who pries. After all, you’re only going to be here a short time, you don’t have to care about what others are doing around you.

Your gaze shifts to a man seated near the windows. His hair is dark and curly, and he has a pair of glasses on. His gaze is focused on a book in his hands, and you notice the only thing on his table is a lemon water.

For some reason, he gives you monk vibes, and you wonder how a man so young and attractive can be so peaceful in his way of living.

The hair on the back of your neck prickles, and you realize someone is watching you. There’s a man in the corner of the room, and on second glance, you realize he’s next to a record player. He stares at you for a few seconds, then lifts an entire bottle of whiskey to his lips.

He makes you uncomfortable, and after that, you just focus on your own plate, repeating to yourself that this will all be over soon.

Four:

After breakfast, you head back to your room, and when you get there, you’re surprised to find both your laptop and all your charging cords are missing.

You scramble through your bags, hoping you just misplaced them- but no, your electronics are gone, and it makes your heart race with anxiety.

You all but run back to the lobby, but when you arrive, Jeonghan is not there.

Looking around, you realize there’s a bar set up in the corner, and you quickly make your way over, stopping in front of the bartender. “Hi, I checked in last night, my car was having issues, and then so was my phone- I gave my phone to your hotel manager to charge, and when I got back up to my room my laptop and charging cords were gone-”

He stares at you blankly, and you read the name on his shirt.

“Look, Joshua, I just need help. I need something. I have to call my agent, I have to do something-” 

“Have a drink,” he suggests, lifting a bottle of tequila from behind the bar.

“I don’t need a drink,” you groan. “I need my phone, I need my laptop, I need my car- I need you to help me sort this out!”

“Calm down, gorgeous, Joshua just works here, you’re not going to get a lot of help out of him unless you want a mean cocktail.” A deep voice makes you turn, and you find yourself staring at the man who you’d seen by the record player at the buffet earlier.

He’s still carrying his bottle of whiskey, but it’s only about half full now.

“He works here, so he should know what to do or who to call-”

“Like I said, the most you’re going to get out of him is a wine and steak pairing recommendation,” the man in front of you laughs. “I’m Seungcheol, by the way.”

You tell him your name with a sigh, and you don’t miss the way his gaze rakes up and down your body.

“So what’s your story?” he asks.

“My car broke down, I walked here, my phone is dead, my laptop is stolen, I’m having a really shit day.”

“Sounds like it.” He brings the bottle of whiskey to his lips, taking a large gulp. “Maybe you should take Joshie’s advice and have a drink.”

“What I need is a nap,” you state. “I’m going back to my fucking room, to have a fucking siesta, and when I’m done, that fucking hotel manager better have my phone charged and my car fixed.” 

Five:

You have no clue what time it is when you wake up from your nap, all you know is the sun is beginning to set and your whole body hurts. You groan to even sit up, and you realize you feel as exhausted as you had this morning before your nap.

Are you getting sick? 

Deciding you don’t have time to dwell on the state of your body, you head to the lobby, where once again, Jeonghan is nowhere to be seen. So instead, you head to the bar, where the ‘Seungcheol’ man is sitting and chatting with Joshua.

You take the seat next to him and he turns to look at you with a grin.

“Hi, gorgeous, how was your nap?”

“Uneventful,” you state. “Look, I need a ride to town.”

“Which town?”

“Any town, I don’t care, I just need to get out of here.”

“Well, I don’t have a car.”

“You don’t have a car?” you stare at him in shock.

“Nope, just a motorcycle, and I doubt all your shit would fit on it.”

“I will literally leave ‘my shit’ here and come back for it once my car is fixed.”

“Well…” Seungcheol taps his fingers on the bottle of whiskey in his hand. “My motorcycle broke down on the way here.”

You blink as you look at this man. He’s stunning, with a strong jaw, broad shoulders, curly hair- but fuck, he’s a bit dense. “Well?” you ask. “Was it towed? How long have you been waiting for it to get fixed?”

Seungcheol only grins, taking a sip of his whiskey. “A while.”

For some reason, the way he says it is ominous. You don’t know if he’s playing with you, or what- but you’re done with all of this bullshit.

“I’m going to bed again,” you announce.

“Didn’t you just wake up?”

“I am going to bed!” 

Six:

When you wake up the next morning, the first thing you do is go to the lobby. You can’t help the relief that floods through you when you see Jeonghan standing behind the front desk.

“Thank God,” you almost laugh with triumph. “Do you have news about my car? Or my phone? Also, someone stole my laptop yesterday!”

“Unfortunately I have no news about your car, and it seems none of the chargers are working with your phone,” Jeonghan frowns.

It feels like the breath has been knocked from your lungs. “What?”

“Also, I don’t know anything about your laptop, but I’ll look into it.”

You’re tired of this hotel manager taking charge- tired of being at this Art Deco hotel in the middle of butt fuck nowhere.

“You know what, I’d like to check out,” you tell him. “I’d like to grab my things, call a taxi, and just go to the next town and wait for my car to be fixed.”

“I’d love to help you with that,” Jeonghan says, “but unfortunately there are no available cars to take you to the next town.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, no taxis come out this far, you couldn’t bribe them with a hundred bucks to come grab you.” Jeonghan laughs as if what he’s just said is a joke. “And unfortunately all the actual cars on the property belong to people who work at the hotel, all of whom are on shift and can’t drive you.”

“Can’t I wait till someone’s off shift?”

“Everyone on shift lives here in the staff quarters and I can assure you that no one wants to drive to the next town, which is over two hours away, after a twelve-hour shift.”

“So…” Your heart is racing. “What are my options?”

“Well, you can check out if you’d like,” Jeonghan says, “but unfortunately, I don’t think you’ll be able to actually leave the premises unless you walk, which would be very dangerous.” 

“Fuck. Give me my phone back.” 

You watch Jeonghan reach down and pull your cell out of a drawer, and then you snatch it from his hands.

“Have a lovely evening!” he calls as you turn and storm to the bar.

“What was that about?” Seungcheol asks as you come to stand next to him, releasing a breath of exasperation as you set your hands on the bar top.

“Joshua, give me a bottle of something.”

“What do you like to drink?” the bartender asks.

“Anything.”

“Looks like you’ve changed your tune, gorgeous,” Seungcheol grins next to you.

“I’m going to get drunk, and then I’m going to walk back to civilization if it’s the last thing I do.”

You note the way Seungcheol’s expression falters. “For real?”

“Yes, for real.” 

Joshua places a bottle of tequila on the bar and you snatch it up, flicking off the lid and taking a large chug. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Seungcheol muses. “He doesn’t either, do you, Joshie?”

“I just work here,” Joshua shrugs.

“Unless one of you wants to drive me back to town, I’m walking!” 

You can feel Seungcheol studying you, and then he sighs. “Fine. I’ll go with you.”

“I never asked you to come.”

“But I’m coming anyways, it wouldn’t be responsible to let a cute girl like you go out into the desert alone. There are aliens and shit.”

“Sure there are,” you roll your eyes.

You have a few more sips of your drink, getting yourself jazzed up for this- and then, you turn to look at the door that leads out of The Hotel California. “Okay, let’s get out of this fucking hellhole.”

Seungcheol releases a chuckle, shaking his head, and then he stands, following you out into the desert beyond.

The first half hour or so is you walking with determination, but as time ticks on, you begin to falter.

“Finally ready to turn back?” Seungcheol asks.

“Why did you even come with me?” you snap.

“I told you, it wouldn’t be safe to send you out here alone.”

“Because men who ride motorcycles really care about safety,” you roll your eyes.

Seungcheol only laughs, and he says nothing else, allowing a silent trek for another hour or so.

Is it an hour? Fuck, you can’t really tell. There are no clocks, no phones to check the time- you have no clue how long you’ve been out here, and anxiety is beginning to bubble up in the pit of your stomach.

Then- just as you’re feeling close to your breaking point, you see lights in the distance.

“Oh my God! We made it!” you practically scream, turning to look at Seungcheol, who doesn’t seem nearly as excited as he should be.

Your pace picks up, in fact, you begin to run toward the light, toward salvation-

You’re out of breath, your muscles screaming at you, but you push on… and that’s when you realize, these lights are familiar.

The excitement begins to die down, and when you’re close enough to see the source of the lights with clarity, you sink to the ground next to the highway in shock.

Gravel and sand crunches as Seungcheol comes to join you, standing a foot away.

“But- that’s- that’s the hotel!” you say.

“It is.”

“But- we went straight! We followed the highway! How are we back here again?”

You’ve never felt defeat like this, and you’ve been rejected by modeling agencies a number of times in your career. This is something different, it’s not just a momentary lapse- this feels more permanent, it feels more otherworldly, and you can’t wrap your head around any of it.

“I think…” Seungcheol releases a sigh. “I think it’s time I told you a few things.” 

Seven:

Seungcheol had insisted on going back to the bar to get a bottle of whiskey before divulging into a conversation with you. As you’d entered the lobby, Jeonghan had called out a bright ‘welcome back!’ and you were too defeated to acknowledge him.

You feel like a shell of a person as you lead Seungcheol back to your room, collapsing on your bed. “What the fuck is going on?” you ask.

“This is all going to sound a bit weird,” he admits.

“Weirder than us walking in a straight line for two hours only to find ourselves right back where we started? I doubt it.”

Seungcheol smiles, shaking his head a little as if this whole situation is somehow humorous.

“I think… everyone is stuck here.”

“Stuck here?” you question.

“You and I, we have similar stories. I remember driving my motorcycle, something happened, I pulled over, and then I saw this place,” Seungcheol explains. “I’ve talked to a few people who live here, and they all have the same story.”

“I don’t understand- Seungcheol,” you swallow thickly, “how long have you been here?” 

“You see,” Seungchol chuckles, but there’s a sad note to it, “Time is a funny thing in this place. I know it’s been days, weeks, years even- that I’ve been here, but I don’t know for how long. I eat, I sleep, I drink- I repeat. I don’t grow old, I don’t get sick. I just am. It’s fucking boring if I’m behind honest with you, or at least it was. It’s been a while since we had someone new show up at the hotel, and even longer since that someone was as gorgeous as you.” 

You can’t believe he’s taking this opportunity to flirt with you, so you pull yourself back on track. “Someone has to know how long we’ve been here,” you insist. 

“No one I’ve talked to knows.” 

“Well,” you take a breath. “I want to talk to those two men, the ones in suits who are in the buffet.”

“Why?”

“They strike me as the kind of men who would know things,” you tell him. “I can feel it.” 

Eight: 

You find the two men where they always are in the buffet. Tonight, they’re playing chess, using up a large table so the space not covered with the game board can be full of food and drinks. You still wonder at their glutenous ways, but that’s not why you’re here right now.

“Hi,” you say, trying to be friendly despite the day you’re having. 

The two men look up at you, then at their chessboard.

“I’m Y/N, and this is Seungcheol,” you introduce yourself only to be met with silence. “What are your names?”

“Jun. That’s Minghao,” one of the men says dismissively. 

“Do you guys happen to have the time?” you ask next.

They’re both quiet, and it’s making you angrier by the second, but you force yourself to keep your cool.

“Would you guys be able to tell me how long you’ve been here?

Still silence.

You look around for that man you’d seen, the one with glasses and a lemon water, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“Look,” you kneel down so you’re about level with the seated men, lowering your voice. “I just got here, something weird is going on, and I need answers.”

The two men exchange a glance, and it’s Jun who finally turns to you. “We won’t discuss this in the open.”

“Come to our room,” Minghao sighs. “But don’t make it obvious you’re following us.”

You wonder why the theatrics are necessary, but with a nod, you and Seungcheol move away. You take a seat at a table across the space, and after a few minutes where the two men converse in whispers, both stand up.

You wait for them to leave, and after a few seconds, you and Seungcheol slowly follow. 

Jeonghan watches you cross the space, and that’s when you realize why these men are being so weird. This hotel manager has an odd hold on everyone in this place.

When you make it to Jun and Minghao’s room, they open the door for you, saying nothing. As you enter the space, you’re ready to bombard them with questions, but when Jun moves to the coat closet, pushing fabrics aside, all your words die in your throat.

The entire wall, which had just been hidden, is covered in small tally marks.

“We were keeping a tab with a pen and paper, but the cleaner kept taking it away,” Jun explains. “I don’t think they want us to keep track of time.”

“And these tallies-” you begin.

“They mark the days the two of you have been here,” Seungcheol finishes.

“But,” you swallow thickly, “that’s thousands of days- that’s years!”

“Over sixty years,” Minghao says quietly.

“How can this be real?!” you ask. “You both don’t look a day over thirty.”

“When we’d arrived here, we weren’t,” Jun says sadly, “but that was in 1963.” 

“Nobody grows old here,” Minghao tells you, “because we’re in Hell.”

“So you both think that pansy hotel manager is the Devil?” Seungcheol scoffs.

You can see Minghao’s eyes immediately narrow in annoyance. “We just mind our own business, and we suggest you do the same.”

“Have you ever confronted Jeonghan?” you ask.

“Nobody confronts him,” Jun says sheepishly. “I guess, even though we’re all in Hell, lots of us are… scared of the consequences.”

“Well, he already took away my phone and my laptop,” you sigh, “I guess I have to be the man in the room and go deal with this.”

Nine: 

After spending the night thinking about it, you decide as the sun comes up that you’re going to rip the bandaid off.

Everyone in this fucking hotel is so evasive, but you’ll take this head-on. You’re a twenty-first-century woman, and you’ll be damned if some hotel manager ruins your entire life.

There’s a power in the way you walk as you head straight for the front desk, and you try to look intimidating despite your rapidly beating heart.

“Good morning,” Jeonghan greets you with a smile. 

“What’s the deal?” you ask.

“Hmm?” 

“The deal with this place, what’s going on?”

He flashes you a knowing smile, and the words that come out of his mouth next are an obvious load of shit: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

You size him up, and you realize that, at this precise moment, you’re not going to get any information out of this man, so you decide to switch to plan two.

Turning on your heel, you head deeper into the hotel, and in the back of the dining room, you see Seungkwan slipping into a corridor. 

Catching him is easy since he’s not exactly running from you, and the man stops to politely nod at you. “Good morning.”

“What’s going on with this place?” you ask.

“Excuse me?”

“This stupid hotel, what’s the deal? All my electronics are missing, there are no clocks, and I left yesterday, I left! I walked down the highway for two hours only to end up right back where I started!” You can’t help the way your voice is rising in annoyance, and you partly hope that you can actually successfully intimidate this man-

As you look at him, you realize intimidation is off the table, because he releases a laugh.

“Look at you, little miss demanding.”

“Please,” you sigh, your heart practically wilting in your chest. “I just need to know.”

“Talk to the hotel manager, he can answer all your questions.”

“Except he can’t, or maybe the word is won’t-” You struggle for a moment. “Look, don’t you want to gossip with me?”

You can all but see his ears perk up at the word gossip.

“You’re a bellhop, you like secrets, right? You enjoy tea?”

His eyes narrow at you. “I’m more of a coffee drinker.”

“Tea, as in gossip, gossip is tea-” God, you wonder how many of these people are from the last century and have no idea what you mean when you use current lingo.

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll tell you some tea,” you insist. “Gossip for gossip, deal?”

“I want something else,” Seungkwan tells you, and that’s when you notice his eyes lingering on your throat, your necklace. “I want that.”

You sigh, reaching behind yourself to unclasp the silver chain. “Take it and tell me what’s going on in this stupid hotel.”

As soon as the jewelry is in the bellhop’s hand, his entire demeanor changes. It’s as if he’s gone from a young man, and turned into an old woman telling you about her neighbors and how she snoops at her window to collect information all day. There’s an air to his essence that tells you you’re about to find out exactly what’s happening in this so-called ‘Hotel California.’ 

“What have you heard so far?” he asks. “What do you think this place is?”

“I don’t know? Someone said it might be Hell, but I doubt Hell is an Art Deco and terracotta hotel in the middle of the desert.”

Seungkwan’s expression shifts with an all-knowing sort of twist of his lips. “This isn’t Hell. It’s purgatory.”

“What?” You feel your breath leave your lungs in shock.

“And Jeonghan, well, he’s not a hotel manager, he’s a grim reaper. His domain is this desert, and every guest at this hotel, they died in his desert, so their souls were his to pass judgment on.”

“Wait a minute, what do you mean we all died here?”

“Keep up!” Seungkwan snaps. “This is purgatory! Of course you’re dead!” 

Your entire body deflates now. “But… how?”

“Fell asleep at the wheel, didn’t you, little miss model? Seungcheol’s motorcycle hit a pothole. Minghao and Jun were high on coke and drove off a cliff by the ravine not far from here, thinking they were invincible. Every guest has a similar story, it’s a dangerous stretch of road after all.”

“So… who are you? And how do you know all the people I’ve talked to since I got here?” 

“I’m a nobody, a highwayman. But trust me when I tell you, the staff here keep tabs on everyone.”

“Are all the staff... Highwaymen?” you ask.

 “In one sense or another.”

“And… and Jeonghan chose to put us in purgatory?” you question. “Why didn’t he take us to a final place?”

“Because your unfinished sins were too great to gain you entry above, but not dark enough to gain you entry below.” Seungkwan pauses for a moment. “It’s best if you try to overcome your original sins, you might just make it out of here.”

“Overcome my sins?” you repeat, on the verge of laughing in an odd sort of complete hopeless hysteria that you’ve never felt before. “Has anyone ever made it out of here?!” 

“One man,” Seungkwan says thoughtfully. “In fact, you saw him. The man in glasses, Jeon Wonwoo. He was a powerful man back when he was alive, lustful and glutenous. But in his time here, he’s overcome, and you were his final test.”

Anger bubbles inside of you. “I was a final test? You mean I was brought here to test some horny guy!?”

“Not many women die on this stretch of highway, not many who are so grey and muted as yourself. Jeonghan found you to be particularly… puzzling.”

“Puzzling?” you scoff.

“You’re a model,” Seungkwan shrugs. “Lust, envy, pride, greed- you belong here like everyone else. Those businessmen, overwhelmed by pride, greed, envy, gluttony, sloth, and even wrath. They’ve only conquered lust in their eternity here, but that was to be expected with no women to enchant them. They treasure their own company now, far more than they’d ever treasure yours.”

“And Seungcheol?” you ask.

“Seungcheol?” Seungkwan actually laughs. “A rockstar from the seventies? Lust, pride, greed, wrath- in his day he had an enjoyment of starting mosh pits at his own concerts, of fighting people, of drinking and sleeping with many, many women. No, Jeonghan chooses the right people. You’re all here, and you’ll likely all stay here.” 

Ten:

You’re sitting with Seungcheol in a secluded part of the buffet room, and you’ve just given him a rundown on all things Seungkwan. For a moment, he just sits there, and then, his brows furrow. “That little fuck says I’m here because I used to start moshpits at my own shows?”

“And sleeping with lots of women I’d assume.”

“I’m gonna beat that fucking bellhop’s ass-”

“This is what he’s talking about!” you insist. “Wrath!”

Seungcheol steadies himself, and then he sighs. “Who would have thought the seven deadly sins were a real fucking thing.”

“People who believe in the bible and stuff?”

Seungcheol shoots you an unamused expression and you have to stop yourself from smiling.

You look down at your hands, fiddling with your fingers. “So… are we going to try to overcome our sins or whatever?”

The man next to you exhales deeply. “I’ve been here a long time,” he admits. “I don’t think I’m going to magically change because some bellhop said I’m a horny fuck with anger issues.”

“True.”

“Besides, Jeonghan brought you here to test the whole lust thing, and I think we both know I’m failing in that one.”

Your skin tingles. Is this seventies rockstar admitting he’s into you?

I mean… you’d suspected as much, but to hear it confirmed like this…

Do you want to be good? Do you want to work on yourself?

Or do you want to give in to these lusty feelings? Do you want to go wild and make the most of this place since you’re probably going to be here forever?

You feel completely torn, and you clear your throat. “I think… I think I need to go clear my head.”

Eleven: 

You find your way to the pool after some deep soul-searching. You’re in need of somewhat of a cleanse, and you think water could be a good way to do that.

It’s the evening, but the air is quite warm as you make your way through the open spaces of the hotel. The sky is dark above you, but stars twinkle, as does the moon. It’s oddly peaceful, if you forget the fact that you’re in some fucked of purgatory liminal space.

When you get to the pool area, you realize there’s a man you’ve never seen before, and he’s sitting by the hot tub. His feet are submerged in the bubbling water, and his head is tipped back, eyes closed. There’s a bong next to his right hand, and you can smell weed. 

You stand and watch him for a moment, then decide to approach.

“Hello?” you say, drawing his attention. “Are you new here?”

“No, but you are,” the man muses.

“I am… but I’ve never seen you before.” 

“You wouldn’t, I’m nocturnal. Might as well be, since there’s nowhere to go but here.”

Obviously this man has his own opinions of The Hotel California, and you take a seat next to him, crossing your legs. “What do you think of this place?”

“It’s whatever.”

You risk another look at him, and you realize he’s closed his eyes again, looking as relaxed as ever. That’s when you realize this man’s main sin is glaringly obvious; he’s sloth.

“How did you find weed here?” you ask.

“Brought some when I arrived, started growing it when I realized I wouldn’t be leaving.”

So… this man is growing weed, sleeping all day, and smoking all night in purgatory. Sounds about right.

“Do you want to leave?” you question.

“It’s whatever.”

“Some man named Wonwoo left,” you point out. “Seems like there’s a possibility.”

The man laughs. “That fucking monk finally got out? He’s been trying to be a good boy for years.”

You swallow thickly at the reminder that even if you try to be good, you’re doomed to be here for years. It’s not an ‘okay I’ve been good for a day, let me out now’ sort of situation. The whole thing leaves a bad taste in your mouth, and you clear your throat. 

“I’m y/n by the way.”

“Vernon.” There’s a stagnant pause, and then he stretches. “You know, it’s nice here. You don’t have to cook or clean. There are no responsibilities. You just get to relax.”

“Kind of like an indefinite vacation.”

“Exactly.”

He seems nice enough, and if it wasn’t clear he was such a sloth with a thing for marijuana, you might expect him to be next on the list of viable options for getting out of this place.

“Just, enjoy yourself,” Vernon sighs. “You might as well.” 

Twelve:

After a night of thinking, you’ve finally made your decision on what to do in this God-forsaken hotel, and you head down to the lobby. One look at Jeonghan makes you rethink asking him for information, but you spot Seungkwan heading toward the buffet, and you quickly follow him out of sight from the manager.

“Hey,” you greet the bellhop, “have you seen Seungcheol today?”

“I believe he runs at this time,” Seungkwan explains. There’s a small rocky hillside out behind the pool, Seungcheol made a trail there for exercise, but between us, sometimes I think he’s hoping to get bit by a rattlesnake and die for a second time.”

From the small chuckle that leaves his lips, you can tell he’s trying to joke around, but you’re just not at the stage in your acceptance of this place to find dead jokes comedic.

“Thank you,” you nod, heading off in the direction he’s pointed you in.

The trailhead behind the pool isn’t very difficult to find, and you start up the path.

You have no clue what time it is, but you know it’s early morning. It’s just starting to get warm, but despite this, you have a fire inside of you driving to find the seventies rockstar.

This urge - call it lust maybe - it drives you forward, and finally, you find the man you’re looking for.

He’s in running shorts, and he’s shirtless. A sheen of sweat covers his muscular form, and God, he’s never looked this beautiful. His hair is curled from precipitation, and he’s panting, his hands on his hips as he stands at the top of the small hilly cliff that looks down at The Hotel California.

“Seungcheol!” you call, drawing his attention immediately.

“y/n?” 

You can tell he’s confused to see you here, and his brows furrow. Walking closer, you take a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking,” you tell him.

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking… if we’re going to be here forever, we might as well make it fun.”

Your words hang in the air, and on this tiny hill, you accept your fate. You accept that you’re dead, that you’re in some odd form of purgatory. And you accept the fact that you’ve found a partner to share this whole delusion with, for better, or for worse.

“So you’re saying…” Seungcheol swallows thickly, stepping closer to you.

“Just kiss me,” you laugh, shaking your head at him.

A massive smile appears on his face, and then he’s grabbing your hips and tugging you tight to his chest. His lips are on yours a moment later, and while you’d expected him to be an eager, lust-fueled maniac, he’s oddly slow with how he approaches this first interaction.

However, the kiss deepens when you wrap your arms around the back of his neck, your tongue swiping his bottom lip desperately.

Seungchoel lets out a deep groan, matching your rising energy with an enthusiasm of his own.

It feels so good to be doing this with him, and for the first real-time since you got to the hotel, you feel your anxiety slipping away. Your entire body is focused on this man, and this man alone- and then his hand slips down to your ass, grabbing it roughly.

“Hey,” you laugh, pulling away from the kiss. “We’re not fucking out here on some rock.”

“We’re not?” Seungcheol chuckles.

“Not in a million years, which it sort of sounds like we have.”

“Back to the hotel then,” Seungcheol tells you, and just like that, the two of you head back down the trail to the hotel.

It seems there are different routes to take, and you find yourself in the lobby as opposed to the pool, which is where Jeonghan stops you with a wave. “y/n,” he calls. “I’d like a word.”

Seungcheol groans, and you release a sigh, turning to look at him. “I’ll meet you later?” you suggest.”

“I’ll go shower, find my room after, I’m in number seventeen,” Seungcheol nods.

You watch him disappear, taking a moment to appreciate the muscles of his broad shoulders as he walks away, and then, you turn to face the hotel manager.

“Looks like you’ve made a decision,” Jeonghan muses.

You wonder what exactly he’s talking about. Is it a decision to pursue Cheol? To sin? 

You’re not quite sure, but at this point, you don’t care.

“I’ve made my choice,” you tell him, trying to sound confident about it.

“So you’ve chosen to be a part of The Hotel California.”

“I don’t think you left me with much choice,” you point out. 

A large smile appears on Jeonghan’s face. “I guess I have to agree with you there,” he admits. “Go. Enjoy Seungcheol. You might be able to help with his… less desirable traits if not his sexual habits.”

So everything here really is a set of scales. Cheques and balances. A lesser evil of cleansing Seungcheol of minor sins while fanning the fire of his lust. You suppose you can’t win them all. 

Thirteen:

You wander the hotel until you find room seventeen, and when you get there, you don’t even bother to knock. You simply push the door open, entering the space.

Seungcheol’s hotel room is different from your own. It’s significantly larger, with a den and a door that you assume leads to the bedroom. You make your way through the space, looking in at where he sleeps, which is where you find the man himself standing.

He has a towel wrapped around his hips, his hair is damp and curly, and God, he looks even sexier than he had on the hill. He’s so well muscled- part of you wants to lick his entire body and moan while you do.

Seungcheol turns to look at you, and when he smiles, you swear your knees feel weak.

“What did dickhead want?” he asks.

“Jeonghan?” Your mind goes blank. “He uh, I guess he wanted to see if I’m set on staying here or not.”

“And?”

“Well, we’re about to sin, aren’t we? So… guess I’m a permanent resident now.”

Seungcheol laughs. “Who wants to go to heaven if you can’t fuck there?”

“A lot of people I think,” you giggle.

“Well, not us.” He steps towards you, hands settling on your hips. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to show up.”

His words are nice, but you have some doubts lingering inside of you. “Would you fuck any girl who came here though?” you question. “Or am I special?”

“You’re special,” Seungcheol confirms. “You’ve got fire in you, I could tell from the moment we met.”

“Some people have called me a bitch before.”

“Well they can go fuck themselves,” he retorts quickly.

You laugh, looking around. “This is a nice room.”

“It wasn’t my original room, but once I realized I was staying here, I scouted out all the empty places to find my favourite.”

Your gaze shift up, and you notice that the ceiling is covered in mirrors. “I can’t escape these fucking mirrors.”

“These ones are fun though,” Seungcheol insists.

“Yeah? How’s that?” You wrap your arms around the back of Seungcheol’s neck, pulling him closer with a grin.

“Because… I can watch you when you’re riding me. You can see my sexy back when I’m fucking you. It’s just a good set up.” 

“And I guess you haven’t really had a chance to test it out before,” you muse.

“Not with another person.”

It takes you a second to realize what he’s saying, and then you laugh. “Cheol, are you telling me you watch yourself jack off with these mirrors?”

“It’s not like I have access to porno mags or anything!” he defends himself.

God, he’s from the seventies- did they even have easily accessible porn then? 

You push the thought out of your brain as you move closer to him, until your lips are just milimeters apart. “Now you have me.” 

“I do, don’t I,” he grins, tightening his grip on your hips. 

“Uh huh,” you nod. “And I haven’t been properly fucked in a while.”

“I bet I have you beat on that one.”

“Better make up for your lost time, big guy.”

“Better make this sin worth it,” he counters, and with that, he presses his lips to your own.

You smirk into the kiss, pressing your chest against his own as you wrap your arms around the back of his neck. It’s a mad flurry of tongue and teeth, no being cautious as he had been on the hill earlier.

No, this time, you know exactly what you want from each other, and there’s a freeing feeling in that.

He’s quick to guide you toward the bed, and when he gets you there, he pushes you down onto it. His hands quickly tear at your shirt and you raise your arms to allow him to easily take it off of your body.

Seungcheol sinks to his knees on the ground, his lips attacking your throat and descending down to your breasts. Two large hands grab at your tits, massaging them through your bra. He’s practically motorboating his face against you now, groaning into your cleavage.

“Take off my bra,” you tell him. “Suck on my tits.”

Seungcheol chuckles, but one swipe of his hand behind your back has your bra coming undone, and you realize that despite his forced celibacy, he hasn’t lost his touch.

Your bra slips off, and Seungcheol immediately picks up where he left off, but this time, he has access to your bare skin,

He grabs your breasts, pulling one nipple into his mouth while you throw your head back and moan.

It takes you a second, but you have the idea to open your eyes, and when you do, the mirrored ceiling gives you the perfect view of this man kneeling on the ground and sucking your breasts.

There’s something sexy about the view, and when you thread your fingers through his curls, it makes things even hotter.

Seungcheol groans, roughly tugging your nipple between his teeth and making you cry out.

“Shorts next,” he instructs, pulling away so you can both work on getting you fully naked for him.

It’s a little shocking how fast this is all going, but you don’t mind. Lust is fueling every cell of your body, and before you know it, Seungcheol is pushing you so you’re flat on your back. He places your thighs on his shoulders, and then he dives into your core with his mouth.

You whimper at the sensation of him sucking on your clit lewdly, and again, when you look up, you can see the view.

Fuck, with him now bending half over the bed like this, you can see his shoulders even better.

He’s so broad and strong and sexy, and it makes your core pulse with pleasure as he eats you out like he’s been starved for fifty years, which he has.

 “Just like that,” you tell him, bringing your hands up to play with your nipples, loving the view of it all.

Seungcheol shifts, and then you feel a finger push into your entrance. He doesn’t go slow with it, he immediately starts pumping, fucking you while he licks and sucks on your clit roughly.

There’s no tact in his motions, no precision, he’s a wild man, and you suppose that fits his rockstar soul.

There’s something so sexy about this animalistic way he’s treating you, and when he groans against your clit, your entire body lights up with pleasure.

He has you closer to the edge than you’d ever imagined possible in such a short time, but you wonder if perhaps your body has been in need of some stress relief like this after such a crazy few days.

Another finger slips inside of you and you moan, reaching one hand to tangle in his hair again.

As much as you want to close your eyes and enjoy this, you can’t bear to look away from the view.

God, it’s absolutely glorious.

This gorgeous, beefy man, is practically ravaging you on a bed with silk sheets, worshipping your pussy with his tongue and fingers while you watch, enthralled with it all.

You can hear your core getting wetter, and with each thrust of his fingers you can feel your juices. His tongue circles your clit in the perfect way and your stomach muscles begin to clench, signaling your impending high.

“I’m gonna cum,” you tell him, swallowing thickly even as you pinch your own nipple, writhing against the bed.

Seungcheol only growls in response, and the sound turns you on even more.

Within a few seconds, you’re coming undone, releasing a cry of pleasure as your body is flooded with euphoria.

Your hips push up against Seungcheol’s face, but his free hand pins you down, his tongue unrelenting on your clit.

Now, you have to force your eyes shut. It’s all you can do to contain the ecstasy he’s providing you, an electric feeling that’s surging through your entire body unlike anything else.

“Fuck, fuck- Cheol!” you gasp, wriggling in his grasp.

He pulls off your clit with a pop, and you can feel him looking up at you as he removes his fingers.

Then he stands, and you open your eyes to look at him.

“Here,” Seungcheol leans over you, and then he pushes his fingers into your mouth, “want you to taste yourself.”

All you can do is stare up at him in shock, lust overtaking you as you suck his digits off diligently. You even grab his hand to steady him, not wanting him to pull away until you’ve licked him clean.

“That’s a good girl,” Seungcheol groans. 

When you’re done with him, you release his hand, and Seungcheol pulls away with a deep breath.

“Can you suck cock like that?” he asks, undoing his towel so it can fall to the floor.

His hard length immediately slaps up against his abdomen, and you can see beads of precum dripping down his shaft. God, he’s super turned on, and your pussy pulses at the mere sight of him.

“Gonna give you the best head you’ve had in fifty years,” you promise.

“Ha ha,” Seungcheol says, but there’s little humour in it. 

You sit up, and then, you stand. He gives you a confused look, but when you push him down onto the bed, things seem to click for him.

You take your spot on your knees, where he’d just been, and this time, it’s your turn to push his legs slightly open, giving yourself space as you grab the base of his cock.

“Don’t cum in my mouth,” you warn.

“No?”

“Want you to cum inside me, don’t wanna waste a drop.”

“Fuck,” Seungcheol groans as you put your mouth onto his tip, sucking and licking with all the enthusiasm he’d just given you. 

His hands immediately grab at you, pushing your hair out of your face. He holds you gently as you sink more and more of him into your mouth, swirling your tongue to tease every inch of skin that you can.

“Shit, feels good,” he tells you, collecting your hair into a ponytail to make things easier.

You hum against him and his hips twitch at the stimulus.

“Fuck-” he says again, and you’d bet your life - or maybe your afterlife - that he’ll be swearing a lot. 

He’s a man who hasn’t felt the touch of a woman in fifty years, you would blame him if he’s quick to bust?

“Keep going, fuck,” Seungcheol groans, applying some pressure to your head.

You don’t mind that he’s beginning to get rough with you, and you diligently sink further onto his cock, taking him all the way to the back of your throat. You gag a little around him, and Seungcheol releases his loudest moan yet, tightening his grip in your hair.

“Keep doing that, fuck, keep doing that!” he encourages you. 

You do your best to relax your throat, wanting to please him, to give him the best blowjob he’s ever had. You have always found satisfaction when pleasing others, call it a trauma thing or whatever you want to call it, but his pleasure is your pleasure, and you can feel yourself getting wetter by the second as you listen to his moans.

“Shit, I’m close,” Seungcheol tells you.

With those words, you immediately pull off of him, and he looks down at you in shock. 

“You’re not cumming in my mouth, remember?”

“Please?”

“No.” 

You stand up, staring down at this man, who suddenly looks very needy. Then, you push at his chest, prompting him to lay flat against the bed while his knees are still bent, feet on the ground.

One of your own knees makes contact with the bed, and then the other, so you’re straddling him now.

“You said you wanted to watch me ride you,” you remind him. “So watch me ride.”

You grab the base of his cock, lining it up with your core, then you sink down onto him fully.

He’s big, and you feel the stretch, but you’re so wet from this that your lubrication makes the actual taking of his cock much easier than you’d imagined. God, when you pause for a moment, fully seated on him, you both groan from the pleasure… then you begin to bounce.

“Jesus Christ,” Seungcheol whispers, one hand grabbing your hip while the other latches onto your breast. He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whimper, throwing your head back.

You look up at the ceiling, watching yourself ride this beautiful man.

The view makes your core throb, and you can feel your pussy clamping down around him, which earns another groan from the man you’re riding.

“You look so fucking good like this,” Seungcheol tells you, sitting up and using his hand as a brace against the bed so he can wrap his mouth around your nipple.

You grab him, threading your fingers through his hair and using him as an anchor as you move on his cock, bouncing to the best of your ability even in this position.

Again, you find yourself looking at the view, and you realize maybe this is a completely new kink of yours that you’d never discovered before.

“Okay, okay,” Seungcheol grabs your hips, making you stop. “My turn now.”

“Your turn?” you scoff.

“My turn,” he confirms.

Then, he’s standing up, and taking you with him. His hands grab your ass, keeping you pinned to his body while you squeal with delight, latching onto his shoulders.

“Wanna fuck you doggy first,” he tells you.

“So original,” you roll your eyes.

“Gonna make you regret that, gorgeous,” Seungcheol laughs.

“Then do it.”

With a shake of his head, he throws you onto the mattress, and with one quick manhandle, he has you on your knees with your ass in the air.

He’s standing at the foot of the bed, and he grabs your hips with one hand, his cock with the other. His tip finds your entrance, and with one rough thrust, he’s buried inside of you again.

“Fuck!” you whimper, arching your back and bracing your cheek against the sheets.

“Feels good, huh?” he asks, immediately picking up a pace that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“Fuck, so good!” you moan, loving how deep he’s hitting, how rough he’s being.

A harsh smack erupts through the room, and you realize as the pain blooms like heat along your skin that he’s just spanked you.

“Did you like that?” he asks.

“Maybe?” You’re not sure how you feel about the sensation, but when a second smack comes, you jolt, your pussy clamping tight around Seungcheol’s cock.

“You liked it, didn’t you?” he teases.

“No!” you insist, but you can’t help the fact that you had enjoyed it, and you can tell from the gush of wetness you feel in your core that it will be clear to Seungcheol that you liked it as well. 

“Keep lying to yourself,” he laughs, his hand returning to your hip so he can fuck you even harder.

You enjoy the feeling of this for a while, but soon, you’re practically itching for another hit of pain.

“Spank me again,” you tell him.

“Hmm? Didn’t quite hear you.”

“Spank me!” you say, louder this time. “Please!”

Another chuckle escapes the smug bastard behind you. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

One more spank becomes three, and you’re a whimpering mess at the end of it, clawing at the blankets like a whore.

“Guess we’re going to have to explore this pain kink of yours,” Seungcheol teases. “But first, I think I’m gonna cum in this perfect pussy and mark it as mine.”

You’re so overwhelmed by how good this has felt that you can’t even find the words to respond, but you don’t have to.

Seungcheol pulls out of your pussy, and then he adjusts you on the bed, pushing you closer to the pillows so when he joins between your legs, he has space to plank over you in missionary.

His cock enters you, his lips finding your throat, and as you stroke his powerful shoulders, you find yourself blinking up at your reflection. 

You’re watching yourself sin, but you’re entirely okay with it.

You’re listening to him pant in your ear as he gets closer and closer to the edge, but you kind of love it.

This hotel might be a place to overcome sins, but you’re not sure how anything this perfect - this natural - could ever be considered wrong.

“I’m close,” Seungcheol whispers, sucking on your earlobe.

“Then cum inside of me, give me all of it,” you tell him, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol groans, pressing his lips to your own. He kisses you desperately as his hips falter, his pace becoming erratic.

You can feel the moment he explodes, can feel his cock throbbing hard as he shoots his cum deep inside of you. He fills you up with warmth, and it feels like completion as he groans, half collapsing on top of you from the effort.

The kiss breaks, and you stroke his hair as he pants against your throat. Your eyes never leave your own in your reflection of the mirror over the bed.

Jeonghan might have put you in this place, but you’re the master of your own fate, and this is the direction you’ve chosen. 

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! I'm going to miss this au.

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🔮 preview.   When Seungcheol thrusts, it pushes you onto Mingyu, and when he pulls back, he pulls you with him, effectively controlling the pace of absolutely everything. Seungcheol might be working on his envy streak, but he’s as controlling as ever… although, you kind of love that about him. Sure, he’s a flawed man, but he’s your flawed man, and as he begins to fuck you rougher and harder, you know that you’d never give this up, not even for Heaven itself. 

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, threesome, pussy eating, blow job, fingering, multiple reader orgasms, use of mirrors, masturbation, controling/dom Seungcheol, dirty talk, praise, slight degradation, spanking, deep throating, eiffle tower/spit roasting, etc…   I petnames. (hers) gorgeous. 

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 3.1k I teaser wc. 150

🌙 starring. Seungcheol & Mingyu x afab!Reader

bonus

You’re sitting at The Hotel California bar with Seungcheol. The two of you enjoy having a few drinks before a night of raunchy sexual escapades, and at first, this is a night like any other… until, you hear a new voice and turn to see a stranger talking to Jeonghan by the front desk.

You can’t help the look you immediately exchange with Seungcheol.

The two of you have spent months- years even, enjoying each other, and one thing you’ve always discussed bringing into the bedroom to spice it up, is another person. However, no one currently at the hotel has ever caught your eye, so you’d agreed that if anyone new showed up… you two might give them a try.

Now, with a tall, dark and handsome stranger standing just meters away, you think you may have found your new third, and excitement bubbles up inside of you.

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[astraystayyh]

La déchirure 

You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known.

pairing: figure skater!hyunjin x ballerina!reader.

genre: angst. slowwww burn. heavy and recurrent grief. healing.

warnings: mc has a bad relationship with her parents. grief is a prominent theme here so please be aware. some allusions to sex but no smut. description of injuries.

word count: 21.8k

author’s note: heyyyy…. haven’t posted anything in 3 months i feel so shy AJNSJD i say this about every fic but this fic is truly my baby it took me so long to get it done and i poured my heart into it. so please if you enjoyed reading pls pls pls let me know. it means the world and more to me. happyyy reading!!! also thanks to @hyunverse for indulging all my brainrots about this fic i LOVE YOU

Your bare soles are bleeding across the graveyard. You don’t remember when your sandals slipped away from your feet, nor when your body decided to bring you here, heels scratched from the tiny rocks littering the ground.

But the pain doesn’t register in your brain, not yet. You’re only paying attention to the last name written on the tombstone— your last name, to be exact. 

Right now, more than ever, you wished your first name was engraved beside it too. 

You’ve memorized this graveyard like the back of your hand, know what sound the tree branches make during spring— gently swaying, like a melancholic flute, aching because flowers refuse to bloom upon them. And during winter too— even sadder, angrier, perhaps to mimic the sound of the souls left alone in the graves to fend off the cold.

Though you’ve never approached this tombstone before. You always remained a few feet back, each time your parents brought you to your late sister’s grave— every Sunday, for the past eighteen years of your existence, without fault. 

You don’t know the person they’re mourning.

You don’t know the person they wish to mold you after. 

Somehow, in a sick twist of fate, the course of your existence was set in stone before you could draw your first breath into this universe. 

She looks just like her sister, your mom whispered in awe, tears brimming in her waterline as she beheld you close to her bare chest. 

That is what your grandmother recalls about your birth, the rejoice of you being an exact copy of your sister’s features. There was nothing in her, in everyone’s memory about you. Everything orbited around your sister, the way the planets chase after the sun. You were, after all, born to replace the void she left behind. 

You sometimes wonder, is your physique the first setting stone of your pain? Had your hair been lighter, darker than hers, your lips smaller, plumper, would your parents be forced to look at you, behold you for who you are, learn to love you for who you would be? 

The question first popped into your brain at age five— maybe less intricate, a feeling that pressed against your ribcage: your parents don’t love you a lot, do they? You are now eighteen, the question has yet to desert you. 

You’ve always been aware of this reality— there are more pictures of your sister than of you in your house. Your parents always spoke of her, the perfect little girl, whisked away by a terrible sickness, at age seven. 

And she loved ballet. 

So, you had to love ballet too.

You weren’t given a choice, per se. At age four, you were thrust into a ballet class with little oblivious girls; just like you. Flushed cheeks and glossy eyes as you all tried to follow the teacher’s instruction. It wasn’t easy, it never got easier, year after year, only more challenging, only harder on your body.

Bigger bruises, sprained ankles from time to time, you’ve lost count of the injuries this art has inflicted upon your body. But thankfully, you ended up loving it too. You loved how graceful it made you feel, how the music seemed to whisk you away to an enchanting world, how the applause roared each time you came first in a competition, all eyes on you alone. 

Or so you hoped, you prayed. You wished to dance better, harder until all your parents could see was you. Not the daughter that came before you.

It was hard to admit at times, certainly something you never said out loud. But surely, yes, you were jealous of your deceased sister.

How could you not be when it seemed like you were competing with a ghost, someone whose absence weighed more than your presence?

Snippets of your life flash before your eyes as you stare at her grave. Pirouette, arabesque, plié, tendu— those are words engraved within your mind, ones you breathe in more than oxygen. You hear them in the voice of your ballet instructor, Jihyo. She’s a woman in her forties, though she looks older from the harsh lines framing her face. 

Her voice is high-pitched, her hair always tied back in a sleek bun you’re sure pains her brain, her words are harsh each time she corrects your posture.

And she’s the only person who believes in you.

She’s not nice, she has made you cry more times than you can count. So, you knew when she leveled her eyes to yours when you were nine, when she told you, “I see something magical in you”— that she was telling the truth. 

You wanted to prove her right, because for once, someone saw something in you, not in a ghost, not in ground-up bones.

In you.

You feel an uncontained anger swell within you, waves of relentless hurt swarming you as you fall to your knees.

You worked hard. You worked so hard. Between classes and ballet practice, the days strung you by like a puppet and sometimes you didn’t have enough time to breathe. 

Your entire life revolved around ballet. spin, point well, adjust your posture, you can’t stop now. Suddenly it’s two a.m. and you only get four hours of sleep before your classes begin. You didn’t have time to socialize with your peers, to have a crush on the sweet guy in your maths class, to giggle at an arcade with your friends. Soon after you were in your ballet class, even more spins, points, arabesque. 

But all of your exhaustion dissipated today. All of it seemed okay, for the first time in your existence, perhaps, the breath that escaped your chest wasn’t heavy. It was light, it was airy, it was one that yearned for the next, for the days that will follow, tinted with happiness, for once.

“I got into Julliard” 

That is what you told your parents an hour ago, voice brimming with uncontainable happiness, tears dripping down your eyes in an uncontrollable flow. 

Your mother’s eyes became teary in an instant. You thought the past was past you now. You’ll forgive eighteen years of coming second in your mother’s heart. Surely, she will only see you now.

But then her eyes set on the portrait of your sister on the wall, her tone desolate when she whispered—“she would have loved Julliard too.”

You don’t remember what happened after that. What curse escaped your mouth from the years of barely contained bitterness, when everything lashed out like venomous poison on your parents. 

You remember screaming, lots of it, something breaking too, you don’t recall if it is you who threw the vase or your father. The latter seemed more plausible— he was always bound to these sudden bouts of anger. Effects of grief, consequences of your sister’s absence. Her, yet again, poisoning your life. 

You remember feeling like a stranger in your home, a nobody, someone they’d kill in an instant to bring her back.

It was no longer a feeling, though. It was a fact. Your father cemented it loud and clear for you— “I wish she never died so you would’ve never been born.”

A pin-drop silence followed. Your father was always bound to bouts of anger, you knew that. He always regretted it afterward too, just like he felt in that instant, scrambling to apologize, to cup your cheek and say he didn’t mean it.

For how long has this thought festered in his brain, taken root in his veins, and flashed before his eyes each time he looked at you?

For how long did your parents wish you were dead instead? 

You don’t remember how you got to the graveyard. You don’t recall when it started pouring heavily on you. You only register the rain because the earth is wet as you clench it between your fists, as you punch the ground under which your sister is buried. 

You are crying, sobbing, a hysterical mess, you don’t know what you’re yelling, who you’re calling out for, what you’re trying to achieve by punching her grave. 

Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.

“What are you doing?” a stranger’s voice startles you, cutting through the fog in your mind like a thunderbolt. 

You don’t reply, simply turning around to look at the man standing a mere inches away from you.

“Do you know her or are you just desecrating her grave?” he asks calmly, as he brings a pink umbrella over your head. You realize that you’re drenched from head to toe, your feeble pajama does nothing to fight off the cold filtering between the fabric and your skin. 

You are freezing. You fear there is no place warm enough for your soul, not anymore.

“She’s my late sister,” you say, voice raw, scratched like a broken record. 

“She died young,” he says, looking at the dates engraved on the tombstone. 

You feel so horrible, for a millisecond. 

She was only seven. 

Her grave is too small compared to your body. 

But the anger quickly comes back to blind you. You invite it into your heart, push away the sadness and welcome the rage instead. It is the only thing comforting you in that instant.

“Did she do something to you?” he asks, his voice contrasting nicely against the heavy shatter of rain. It reminds you of the intro of your ballet music, soothing. 

“No,” you admit, a bit shamefully. But all sense of guilt dissipates at his next question— “then wouldn’t she be sad seeing you do this?” 

“What about MY sadness? MY anger?” you shout, lips trembling like the branches above your head. the storm picks up with your rising voice, the rain’s pitter-patter mimics the chaos inside your brain.

He remains silent and you can barely grasp the expression on his face, concealed by the umbrella’s shadows. You imagine that this conversation must have bored him, so you turn around yet again, your heart pounding angrily against your skin. 

But then, he kneels beside you, his umbrella completely discarded. You don’t dare to tilt your face towards him, so you simply stare ahead, your breath caught in your throat— what is he thinking of your most vulnerable state?

“I am rage,” he says, his voice permeating your being softly, the storm seems to calm down too to follow the ebb of his voice. “It means I am alive, or better, I am life, according to Armand, a modern art painter. You are alive today, and you get to be angry. That’s not something anyone here can enjoy,” he points out, taking a fleeting glance at the graves surrounding you. 

“You get to do something with that anger. But this, this won’t cure it.” 

He’s young, roughly your age it seems, but he speaks as if he beholds a wisdom beyond his years. You wonder what he went through to understand rage doesn’t fix anything. You wonder if he has ever been this angry, too. 

Did he move past it? Or did he drown the anger deep within the wells of his soul so he wouldn’t confront its ugly face? 

The question roams in your head as you watch him place a bouquet of red lilies atop the grave. You didn’t even notice the flowers at first, your view was too distorted by tears to grasp anything beautiful. 

“You’ll catch a cold,” the guy points out, smiling at you, or at least attempting to since the grin doesn’t reach his eyes. His words come out slower, as if weighed down by a sadness only he can feel. 

He is in a graveyard after all, the flowers were meant for someone else than you. 

“Wait here,” he says, quickly getting up and jogging out of the graveyard. 

What a silly request, you think, it’s not like you would dare move. Your feet are aching and you have nowhere else to go. 

He returns a few minutes later, a hoodie in his hands that he promptly pulls over your head. The warm fabric engulfs you in a cloud of roses and musk. “I tried to warm it up with the car’s heating,” he says sheepishly, and you blink slowly at his kindness, a pink tint blooming across your cheeks. 

“Thank you.” 

His eyes fleet to your bare, bleeding feet, and you fidget in place, trapped by a bout of embarrassment. 

“I have spare shoes in my car. Do you want me to drive you home?” His voice is gentle, as if speaking to a wounded animal, too bruised by the hands of humans. Tears spring to your eyes once more, you wish the earth could crack open and swallow you whole. 

“I don’t want to burden you.” 

“You won’t,” he says, and as if sensing your hesitation, he adds, “I promise. Leaving you here is what would burden me.”

You are very tired as he drives you to your place. You speak once when you ask him if he wasn’t there to visit someone, he says that it’s okay, he can come back tomorrow. 

You only dare look at him at the last red light before you arrive at your address. He’s beautiful, black strands sticking to his forehead, a tiny pout pulling his rosy lips forward. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, contrasting beautifully with the mole on his cheek. Then, by his jaw. Another at the beginning of his neck. You wonder if he has a map of ebony stars trailing down his chest.

You don’t know why this stranger instills such safety in you. Why would you rather stay in his car than set foot into your house once more. You dread what will await you behind those doors, you don’t think your heart could handle another tear at its tender flesh. 

You don’t think you could handle looking at your parents and only seeing strangers. 

But you know this safety has something to do with the way he placed the lilies atop the grave; as if it beheld someone dear to his heart and not a stranger. How he made sure you got home safely, how he didn’t seem to care that you dirtied his front seat and the carpet below your feet. 

He looks like a good person. 

You wish to tell your good news to a good person. 

“I got into Julliard,” you quickly let out as soon as he parks. You don’t allow yourself time to regret your confession. 

A breathtaking smile overtakes his face, the thunderstorm outside pales before the sun shining in his features. 

“Really?” he asks cheerfully, and you nod, a tiny smile painting across your lips. “Mm. Really.”

“That’s amazing!” his grin further widens, his eyes disappearing into two lovely moon crescents. “I know I’m just a stranger but, I'm proud of you,” his voice softens, “I mean it. I hope you’re proud of yourself too.” 

It takes you a few seconds to answer, you wish to bask further in the sound of his voice, to store his words into your memory, to revisit his kindness on nights that are too cold. 

This was all you’ve ever wanted to hear. 

“Thank you,” you smile softly. A moment of silence passes, you find yourself missing this stranger before you even leave his car. You wish to carry a piece of his memory within you, a souvenir of who he is— “I'm Yn, by the way.” 

“Yn,” he repeats, his voice tender. “Nice to meet you, Yn. I’m Hyunjin.” 

Four years later.

“You need to work on your landing more, but the rest is good.”

“Thanks, coach.” Hyunjin gives Jihyoun, his lifelong mentor, a thumbs-up as he loosens the laces of his ice skates. A dull ache is throbbing through his legs, like the faint buzz of bees circling roses. 

His body is weary, every muscle reminding him of the sheer effort he’s poured into perfecting his routine for the upcoming figure skating competition— the most important one of his life, by far.

“Are you leaving now?” Jihyoun’s voice pierces the delicate silence and Hyunjin nods, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. “Just gonna take a breather.”

“I’ll head out then,” Jihyoun says, patting his back gently, “make sure you get some rest.”

Hyunjin waits till his coach is far out the corridor to release a relieved breath. A familiar silence wraps around the ice rink like a comforting cloak, the stillness sits beside Hyunjin like an old friend. It is here, amid the soft hum of machines and the chill of the rink that Hyunjin feels most like himself. 

A few minutes trickle by, slow and silent. An uncomfortable feeling nudges at Hyunjin’s rib as he remains as still as a statue; he knows he’s on a losing bet to make time stretch forth, hoping that the sun outside will pause in its descent— a few more moments before the darkness completely sets in Seoul. Because the night will surely string along with it the next day, and the next day is one Hyunjin isn’t ready to face. 

When does he ever? 

But the sun always sets and rises once more, even if you dont wish for it to. 

With a sigh, Hyunjin grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He makes his way to the vending machine upstairs, in the dimly lit corner near the dance studio. He drops a few coins into the slot, punching the number for his usual drink. But it gets stuck—of course. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold glass before frustratedly kicking the machine.

“I am rage,” a voice suddenly teases from behind.

Hyunjin is quick to distance himself from the machine, startled, and admittedly, very embarrassed. His shame morphs to surprise when he sees you standing there. 

Your lips curve into a gentle smile, and your eyes sparkle with quiet amusement— that light, however, dims slightly when he doesn’t immediately respond.

It takes all of Hyunjin’s will to act like he doesn’t recognize you.

“You get to do something with your anger, but this won’t cure it.” You quote, your voice softer now. “You know, you told me this, near the graveyard…” You point vaguely behind you, each word growing quieter as if you’re no longer sure if that scene was real or a figment of your imagination.

Hyunjin nods in recognition, and you relax, the tension lifting from your shoulders.

“Miss Julliard,” he murmurs, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. Your grin brightens at his words and Hyunjin notices faint smile lines tracing your lips and eyes. It seems as if you’ve laughed quite often for the past four years. The thought brings him a strange sense of comfort.

“What did the vending machine do to deserve this?” you ask, tilting your head with playful curiosity.

“Stole my money,” Hyunjin mutters.

“You’ve got to hit the side when that happens.” You show him, tapping the machine with an experienced hand. His drink clatters down, and he shoots you a thankful grin as he bends to retrieve it.

In those brief seconds, with his head bowed, Hyunjin begs his heart to slow its frantic beating. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask once he stands.

“I’m an ice skater,” he says, and your eyes widen with genuine surprise.

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“Yeah… I guess it is. Are you back from Julliard?” His voice is softer now, more tentative, reminiscent of the day you met. 

“For a little while. Just a few months. This studio—” you glance around, “—it’s where I used to train before I went away.”

“I see,” Hyunjin nods, “I train upstairs, in the ice rink. Because I’m an ice skater,” he repeats, before closing his eyes in embarrassment as your giggles spill forth. No shit Hyunjin.

“I’ll see you around then,” he quickly mutters, eager to end the conversation, before turning around and hurrying away. 

He’s almost by the stairs when your voice calls out his name, urgent, pressing.

“Hyunjin!”

His body freezes before his mind orders it to—he’s not the only one who remembers, then. 

“Did you eat dinner?” you shout, a little out of breath.

“No,” he admits.

“There’s a place nearby that makes the best kimchi stew. Want to go?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’s my treat.” Your smile has slightly dimmed, and you’re unconsciously scratching the skin by your nails. Even from afar, Hyunjin can discern a shadow looming in your eyes, a plea unspoken. 

“Are you lonely?” Hyunjin’s question comes out before he can stop it, blunt and raw. He’s always been honest, maybe too honest for his own good. Time has taught him that every moment matters, that each second slips away faster than you expect, and that it’s better to speak the truth before it comes back to poison you. 

Your smile falters. “I just… don’t want to go home. not yet,” you confess quietly.

“So you’re using me?” he teases, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. You roll your eyes, muttering “Never mind” under your breath as you start to turn away.

“Fine,” he sighs, pushing off the wall. “But I’m craving sushi.”

…

Hyunjin’s eyes are more worn than the last time you’ve seen him. 

Four years ago, they were puffy, soft with exhaustion, their brown dulled like the last flower clinging to life as fall sets in. But now, the lights have gone out completely, like a bloom crushed underfoot, its color bleeding into the cracks of the pavement.

You steal glances at him between spoonfuls of kimchi jjigae (he silently followed you to your restaurant), watching for any sign of recognition. But he doesn’t seem to remember your name, nor the day at the graveyard as much as you do.

The thought strips you of embarrassment and clothes you in sadness instead.  

Hyunjin has written your name into his diary more times than he’d care to admit, even less so to you. 

He has always walked this earth alone, a stranger even to his own emotions, especially his grief— no one understood how his mother’s death consumed him whole.  

It is true that only one body was laid to the ground many years ago. But Hyunjin’s soul followed hers into the ground when he was just fourteen. 

His sadness made sense to his teachers, his classmates, and even the distant relatives who only came around occasionally. But no one grasped the depth of his anger—at the universe for taking his mother when he was still a child, at the illness that wore down her bones, at himself, mostly, for still breathing when she no longer could.

That rage had devoured him, tore through his flesh with its canine teeth. He only saw its reflection once—when he met you.

Hyunjin didn’t know who or what you were mourning that day at the graveyard. But he remembers your screams on his way to his mother’s grave, raw and stripped down to the marrow. It was as if he had stumbled upon his younger self, begging his mother to dig through the earth and hug his frail body once more, just once more. 

“How long have you been skating ?” you ask suddenly, your gaze flickering over his face. He blinks slowly, as if to bring his consciousness back to the present moment. 

“Since i was a kid, nearly two decades now,” he says. 

“Do you like it?” it is a harmless question, a natural succession of the one that came before it. But nothing was ever that simple with Hyunjin, because ice skating reminded him of his mother, and his mother was the wound that had yet to stop bleeding. 

“I do, I really do,” he speaks softly, a fragile smile curling his lips. He waits till you both finish the first bottle of soju to ask— how have you been? and it’s your turn to frown slightly. He notices the tightening of your fist around the spoon, the subtle tremor in your hand. You, too, carry an ever bleeding wound.

“I’m okay.”

The next question slips from him without thought, “are you still as angry?”

You remain silent for a few seconds, holding his gaze as the question settles between you. His cheeks flush, and he almost apologizes for his bluntness, but then you speak.

“Was I ever angry? I think I was just very sad.” 

Snippets of a younger Hyunjin flash through his mind. The numerous brawls he got in with his classmates, the way he pushed away anyone who tried to show him kindness— He was all thorns, keeping others from reaching the tender petals beneath.

Tears spring in his eyes, unbidden, and he bites his lower lip. He understands what you mean perfectly, you understand what he feels perfectly too. 

“I feel as if my heart is too tired now to bear such big anger,” you say with a smile. “Have you worn out yet? That’s what I’d like to ask.” 

“Aren’t you afraid of the answer?” he pauses, adding in a quiet whisper, “I am.” 

The chandelier above dances across his glossy eyes. You’ve never been optimistic—life hasn’t allowed you that luxury. But a small part of you wants to offer Hyunjin hope, to breathe life back into his weary heart, even though you no longer believe in hope yourself.

But no words of reassurance come. So instead, you offer something much simpler, much more realistic. “Let’s ask it another time, then,” you smile, pouring each other a new round of drinks. You quickly down three shots before laying your head on the table. 

“Are you sleeping?” Hyunjin asks with a quiet laugh, the sound light, like a melody played softly on piano keys.

“It’s fine,” you wave a hand in the air. “The owner knows me. He’ll wake me when it’s time to close.”

Both of you are running from home, or what’s left of it. Hyunjin watches you, your face softened by fleeting peace, so different from the grief he’s etched into his memories.

Far more beautiful, too.

“Then wake me up, too,” he sighs, resting his head beside yours.

His eyelids close instantly, lulled to a nice sleep by the buzz of the fridge and the soft hum of your breathing.

Many minutes pass by— quiet and uninterrupted. Hyunjin finds that the next day has come much slower in your company. 

…

The first time you saw Hyunjin figure skating, you were drawn like a moth to a flame to the music echoing from the ice rink.

You recognized the swelling violin of Can You Hear the Music, and paused by the entrance, torn between stepping in and turning back. What if it wasn’t Hyunjin? Worse, what if it was, and he didn’t wish to see you?

Still, your feet betrayed your hesitation, inching forward. You stood at the door, watching in quiet awe as Hyunjin leaped into the air, spinning with perfect grace. He landed effortlessly on one foot, the other extended behind him in a flawless arc.

The lights danced over his body, his flowing white blouse trailing his movements like a siren’s voice pulling in sailors. His black hair floated weightlessly with each spin, strands resting delicately against his forehead.

For the past four years, you had struggled to feel human. The world tasted bland, as if your heart had lost its ability to savor anything. You were afraid you’d lost the capacity to be amazed—by sunsets, by poignant art that once moved you to tears. So you chased after beauty, desperate for the feelings it could still stir in you, a fragile reminder of your humanity.

But watching Hyunjin skate— that gripped your heart more than anything else had in years.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” a voice startles you and you turn quickly, caught off guard by a man standing beside you, a bottle of water in hand and a kind smile on his face.

“Yes, he is,” you reply quietly.

“I’m Jihyoun, Hyunjin’s coach,” he introduced himself, extending a firm hand.

“Yn,” you hesitated, glancing at Hyunjin, who was still absorbed in his performance. “An acquaintance.”

Jihyoun nodded, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. You followed suit, unable to tear your gaze away from Hyunjin as he spun, cradling his chest as if holding a memory close, his body lowering toward the ground in a quiet ache. It was a pain you knew all too well.

As the music softened, Hyunjin stilled, closing his eyes, taking a moment to catch his breath. You were about to slip away, retreating like a shadow escaping the light, but Jihyoun would have found you weird, perhaps he’d think you were a stalker. So, you remained there. 

“Hey, coach,” Hyunjin waved, skating toward you both. Anxiety flickered in your chest like a match that refused to light up—you regretted coming now. You had shared a meal just days ago, but Hyunjin hadn’t asked for your name, nor did he seem to remember it. Maybe you held onto his memory more warmly than he held onto yours.

“Miss Julliard,” Hyunjin greeted with a soft smile as his eyes landed on you, and just like that, your worries dissolved like sugar in hot tea.

“Julliard? That’s impressive,” Jihyoun whistled, but you shook your head. You often forgot how prestigious your school was—perhaps because no one ever celebrated your acceptance in it.

No one, except Hyunjin.

“Have you eaten?” Hyunjin asked, gliding to the edge of the rink, his blouse clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.

“No,” you shook your head. He nodded nonchalantly.

“I’m craving kimchi jiggae again,” he tipped his chin towards you, “we can go again, if you’d like.”

“Sure, I’d like that,” you grinned.

“Okay. Wait for me.”

… 

Hyunjin’s routine has always been quite simple. 

He’d work out in the morning, the rest of his day lost in practice, his nights reserved for painting or reading, sometimes pouring his thoughts onto paper. It was a life untouched by turbulence, a pattern he rarely swayed from— until you wove yourself into it.

For the past two weeks, you always came to see Hyunjin at the end of his practice. Some nights you’d go eat dinner at your usual spot; sometimes you’d simply buy a drink and find a quiet refuge on the rooftop, watching the city lights twinkle beneath the stars.

There was a strange sense of comfort, he had found, in two bruised souls sitting with one another— an unspoken understanding of what your tongues had often failed to express.

But you hadn’t come to see him in two days.

It’s past one a.m. when Hyunjin finally exits the practice building. He pauses outside, turning back to see that the lights are still on in the dance studio. 

He hopes it is you dancing there. 

With a faint sigh, he takes the stairs two at a time, not wanting to dwell on the fact that, for the very first time in a while, Hyunjin, the ever lonely man, is seeking someone else’s presence. 

When Hyunjin pushes open the studio door, he finds you sitting on the floor, knees tucked to your chest. Your tutu encircles you the way petals would hug a stem— layers of soft tulle in pale pink, contrasting delicately against your sheer tights and pointe shoes.

You appear just like the water lily he sketched only yesterday—soft pastels and an unmatched delicateness. His cheeks flush at the comparison, and, in a hurried attempt to leave, he fumbles, catching his shirt on the doorknob and bumping into the door. 

He’s frozen in place, wincing when you call out his name in surprise. Does he have to embarrass himself each time he’s around you? 

He turns slowly, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. “Miss Julliard,” he waves, and you grin in return, your eyes warm, “What are you doing here?”

The words are lost on him as you run over to him, stopping mere inches away from his figure. His fingers twitch for his sketchbook, a sudden urge seizes him to draw you.

“You didn’t come by yesterday so I came to see you,” he explains, voice soft like a summer breeze. 

Your grin brightens like the sun. “Ah, did you miss me?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes playfully, walking past you to sit on the floor. 

Did he miss you? no he didn’t, but his heart did ache, just a little, at your absence.

“Why did you look so defeated sitting on the ground?” he asks instead of replying, leaning against the mirrored wall.

You sigh, taking your place across from him, “practicing this dance is so hard, I got sick of it.” 

He nods, understanding the frustration that stems from being a perfectionist, always chasing ideals in your work.

“You know what helps me? Performing to a song I love. Reminds me what I love about the sport.”

You hum, before a mischievous glint sparks in your eyes. “There is this one song.. From a barbie movie.”

He blinks in surprise, laughing as you dash for your phone.

“Barbie?”

“Yes! The 12 dancing princesses. My mom made me watch it to convince me to take up ballet.” 

“Is that so?” he grins, placing his chin atop his palm. 

“Yeah, she wanted me to follow my sister’s footsteps,” you say, and he thinks back to the small grave you were both kneeling next to. “I wonder if I wouldn’t have become a ballerina if I didn’t watch it,” you muse, before clearing your throat.

“Anyways,” you force a smile on your face, as a whimsical melody streams through the loud speakers. Your grin turns childlike as you stand onto pointe, your raised foot grazing the knee of your supporting leg. 

You glide across the floor as if you are floating, your tutu catching the soft glow of the studio light. Your leaps are as light as air, and you slide to Hyunjin grabbing his hand to pull him up, drawing him into your orbit. 

You laugh, spinning around him, your movements fluid and free, yet your arms frame your figure with a rehearsed prouesse. He can’t help but laugh with you, the warmth of your presence filling the room, the music wrapping around you both like a spell. 

You’re a blur of pink and light, you appear like an angel dancing to the tune of childhood memories.

As the song reaches its end, you twirl one last time before bowing gracefully. Hyunjin claps, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.

“I haven’t danced to that in years,” you say, catching your breath. “I probably looked ridiculous.”

He shakes his head, his voice steady and sincere. “I think ballet would’ve found you anyway. It’s like you were born for it.”

Hyunjin is used to the cold bite of the ice rink, that is where he feels most like himself. But he is somehow drawn to the warmth of this particular studio—no, not just the studio. It’s the warmth you bring, the way your smile lights up the space at his words, that makes him feel, for the first time in a long while, that he could have a friend. That he doesn’t need to walk down the path of life alone.

…

You’re lingering at the doorstep of your home, keys gripped like a lifeline in your trembling fingers. It always takes you three heartbeats to open the door—one to shut your eyes, two to fill your lungs with air, and three to prepare for the tidal wave of hurt waiting on the other side.

You push the door open and slip inside, peeling off your shoes like a shadow trying to leave no trace. With each step, the house pulls you in, a black hole swallowing the warmth that once flickered in your veins, devouring any trace of light.

Dinner with Hyunjin still burns faintly in your chest, like the lingering heat of a fireplace after the flames have died. He makes you laugh a lot, because he’s clumsy, and a peculiar fan of weird debates. You had just spent an hour discussing whether humans have two buttcheeks or simply one.

But you wither down inside this home, your joy punctured like a balloon drifting too close to the sun.

The walls have permeated your sadness, they echo the killing sentence your father cast into your heart four years ago, a wound that festers no matter how much time has passed.

Hyunjin asked you a few days ago why you were back to Seoul. You told him you were competing in the Seoul International Ballet Competition, and he said that he was preparing for the Olympics selection. He then laughed, saying how strange it was that after a month of seeing each other every day, it was only now that you’d shared this. 

You tried to laugh with him, but the sound felt like a stone sinking in your throat. Guilt gnawed at you, not because it was a lie, but because it wasn’t the whole truth. The ballet may have brought you back, but something else called you home. 

At times you wonder if you had made the right call by answering it.

“You’re home,” your mother’s voice cuts through the quiet as you enter the kitchen. You nod, humming absentmindedly. 

“I made pasta, it’s in the oven. And I bought that drink you like,” she says, but her words are too sweet, too forced—like the artificial flavor of apple in fizzy drinks. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, barely loud enough to carry the word across to her.

“I’ll grab it for you,” she says, moving toward the fridge. But when she opens it, her hands falter, hovering over empty shelves. “That’s strange… I could’ve sworn I put it here.” You grip the counter tighter as she flits from cabinet to cabinet, her search growing frantic. 

“It’s fine, I’m not thirsty,” you murmur, but she continues, finally pulling open the dishwasher.

“Ah, silly me,” she says softly, retrieving the can with trembling hands. You keep your eyes low, unwilling to meet hers. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice as fragile as a cracked vase, “I forget so much these days.” 

And just like that, she slips out of the kitchen, leaving behind a gaping hole in your chest that threatens to swallow you whole.  

You hate it when she forgets in front of you, because it shatters the illusion. You see her now, as something frail, crumbling under the weight of time. Her mind, like a worn-out book, is losing pages faster than you can salvage them.

And the cruelest part is that it forces you to forgive her—to hold her in the softness of your heart, knowing that one day she’ll forget who you are entirely.

But has she ever known who you were to begin with? Has she ever dared to ask? 

Has she ever cared to? 

… 

The first time Hyunjin spoke about his mother, you were both lying on the grass underneath a starry night.

You had been rambling about a specific bagel from New York that you missed, while he hummed absentmindedly, his thoughts entangled in memories like marionettes tugged by invisible strings from the past.

He hadn’t meant to ignore you; so when you turned to him, playful mischief dancing on your lips—“Are you listening to me?”—he could only offer a sheepish grin in response. 

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, and he bit his lip, worry knitting his brow. 

Hyunjin had never had anyone to speak to about his mother; her memory resided in the pages of his diary, the strokes of his paintings, the rhythm of his dances—never out loud, never to another soul.

But he suddenly felt an insatiable urge to speak of her; thorns pricking his throat, his skin growing feverish as he fought to form the words he longed to speak. 

“What’s wrong?” you pressed, your tone shifting to one of concern. He thought you wouldn’t mind if he shared her memory, but what he would even say? There was so much to talk about, so much he admired, so much he missed.

“My mom…” he started, his voice tentative. He had your full attention now, he could tell by the way you fully turned around to look at him. “She used to make the best kimchi stew,” he confessed, closing his eyes in slight embarrassment. Is this really what he decided to speak about? 

Still, he pushed through. “She made it for me whenever I was sick. I don’t attach it to bad memories because it was delicious, and I could feel that she made it out of love, out of concern.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. “I hadn’t eaten it at all since she passed away. I couldn’t bring myself to. Until you took me to that restaurant.”

His eyes glistened as they settled on you, “So thank you for taking me there. I think you would have liked her kimchi stew.”

Your eyes widened slightly, dewdrops brimming in your waterline before you smiled softly. “I’m sure I would’ve.” 

He cleared his throat, somehow emboldened by the tenderness of your gaze. He thought that her memory would be safe within the confines of your mind. He thought that he wouldn’t mind sharing her with you. “She was the best figure skater I’ve ever seen.”

“Was she? Is she the one who inspired you to become an ice skater?” you asked, curiosity lighting up your expression. He nodded eagerly. “Yes, she was graceful with her moves; it felt as if she floated atop the ice. The media dubbed her the best figure skater of her generation,” he spoke, pride swelling within him as he noticed the admiration in your expression.

“It was always just her and me, so I’d stay late into the night watching her practice. That was my favorite pastime. She’d always buy me the food I wanted afterward, as a thank you.”

“She sounds like a good mother,” you said, and your words morphed into fingers pressing on his tender bruises. 

“She was. She is.” 

“Tell me more,” you smiled, and so he talked, and talked and talked. He shared everything he could recall: their weekly picnics beneath cherry trees, birthday candles they’d blow out together, the medals she dedicated to him, and her silly jokes that had once filled their home with laughter. 

He spoke of her kindness, her joy that lingered even until her last breath, the love that she beheld for this life and her art, and him. He didn’t mention her illness; it was a mere passing moment, never defining her, never stripping her from the passion that bound her atoms together. 

When he finished, he found his cheeks damp with tears, but his heart felt lighter than it had in years. The air around you was sweeter, for once, it wasn’t fourteen-year-old Hyunjin weeping over the memory of his mother. The ache had softened.

His last words hung in the air, echoing softly in the stillness of the empty park. You didn’t speak; instead, you gently placed your palm atop his. 

It is his very soul that twitched at your touch. 

“What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly, a foolish question, perhaps. 

Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.

“Comforting you.”

“I…” he hesitated, eyes darting furiously over your face, then your hand resting upon his, then your eyes once more, watching him patiently, leaving him the space to retract his hand or intertwine your fingers with his. 

“I’m scared,” he finally admitted, the shadows of his fears looming large. It terrified him even more to utter such words, yet he knew you wouldn’t use them against him; you understood what it felt like to be deprived of comfort— somehow that only saddened him even more.

“What if… What if I forget the coldness of her fingers wrapped around mine?” 

“Your mom loved you, Hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hand to feel warm.” 

Something shifted within his heart, atoms rearranging themselves to spell out a simple truth for Hyunjin— your mom would want you to be happy. 

He nodded, willing his fingers to slip in the empty spaces between your fingers. You squeezed his hand—once, twice, thrice—each pulse a silent invitation for your warmth to seep through his veins, to permeate his bones and sink into his heart. 

He could get used to this, he thought. He wants to get used to your warmth, he realizes.

What does that mean? 

…

Hyunjin has always known who he was, memorized to heart the architecture of his personality. 

He knew he loved art, that he found solace in learning about artists past who, like him, seemed to have sculpted their solitude into something lasting.

He knew he loved painting, he knew he hated egg plants, he knew he’d rather die than not achieve his mother’s dream, for him. 

But something within him was shifting—unraveling. 

His eyes are drawn to the entrance of the ice rink, like a compass needle to true north. His neck craned almost instinctively as the clock looms over 11 p.m.— the time you usually come by to the studio. 

“Don’t worry, she’ll drop by,” Jihyon’s voice cut through his trance. Hyunjin startled, his cheeks blooming with the soft pink of a rising dawn.

“What are you talking about?” he mumbled, but Jihyon only grinned knowingly. 

“Miss Julliard,” his coach teased. Was he that obvious? Did you notice it too? 

That nickname clung to you both since the first time he uttered it near the vending machine. You never corrected him, never offered your real name, and he never asked—though he knew it well. He had thought of you often over these past four years, wondered if you had been well, wondered if you had ever moved on or if you still carried the anger, the heartbreak as if it were your own spine.

He felt guilty that he had found comfort in your pain all these nights past. 

Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely? 

“Don’t stay up too late,” Jihyon said as he waved goodbye.

“Don’t worry about me.” 

Jihyon lingered by the door, as if wishing to say something else, but he simply sighed before leaving.

It feels odd now for Hyunjin to stand in the stillness of the ice rink, feeling like a hollow shell without you. The quiet is no longer familiar, nor comforting, not when he’s grown accustomed to your giggles spilling all over the place. 

What does it mean, he wondered, when the heart learns to beat to the rhythm of someone else’s presence? When the mind begins to archive every detail, every smile, everything that the other person has ever loved?

Like clockwork you jog into the studio, waving at Hyunjin from afar. He skates over to you, leaning against the railing as he smiles, it is natural for him to smile at you.

“How was practice?” you asked, and he shot you a thumbs-up, his fingers drumming against the railing.

“Isn’t your competition next week?” you ask and he nods, “Can I come watch then?” you say and his heart stutters at your request.

“You can, if you want to, if you don’t it’s okay too, you actually don’t have to,” he mumbles, his words rushing out, until you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him 

“I’ll be there, I have to make sure everyone cheers for you when you win,” you grin, self-assuredly, as if you have never doubted that he’ll qualify for the Olympics. 

His heart grows limp at your words, his limbs losing their strength as your finger lingers upon his lips. He gently grabs your hand, moving it away, goosebumps rippling across his skin at how soft your wrist feels.

This isn’t normal. 

“Should I bring pom poms? Actually, should I make them from scratch? What’s your favorite color?” 

“Will you actually come?” he whispers. Hyunjin has never had anyone cheering for him in his competitions, except for his coach, but he was obligated to do so, in a way. He doesn’t remember what it feels like to smile at someone in the stands anticipating your win. 

Somewhat, you sense the gravity of hyunjin’s question, the vulnerability it entails, one he doesn’t try to hide. He has never attempted to hide his emotions from you, now that he thinks about it.

“Of course I will,” your voice softens, your playfulness melting away. “I promise. I…” you point your pinky to him and he chuckles quietly, “I pinky promise.” 

You kiss your thumb pad and signal for him to do the same, he shakes his head before following your lead, pressing both your thumb pads together. 

“There, sealed forever.” 

You quiet down, before giggling for a reason that eludes you both. 

“Have you ever tried ice skating?” he suddenly asks and you nod, “I know how to skate, but not how to do all those fancy spins of yours.” 

“Do you want to try?” he smiles and you lighten up, “Actually? What if I fall?” 

“I’ll be there to catch you.”

A few moments later, you were both on the ice, Hyunjin spinning around you as you found your balance. “This feels so different from ballet,” you chuckle and he grins, “do you like it?”

“Yeah, i do.”

“Come here,” he beckons, reaching for your hand, and you don’t hesitate, your fingers intertwining with his as he leads you across the rink. 

Can you hear the music starts playing on the loud speakers and Hyunjin laughs, turning around to look at you.

“I’m scared,” you giggle happily and he shakes his head, “Let go of your fears and hold on to me.”

And then, without warning, he spins you, the motion sending your hair flying around you like wings unfurling in the wind. he’s spurred by the emotions this song alone can bestow on him. Can you hear the music?, it asks. Yes, he can, now more than ever, is his answer.

He wraps a secured arm around your waist, lifting you off the ground as he traces wide circles on the ice. Your laughter can be heard over the music, shouts of exhilaration ripping through you as you lift your leg to a ninety degree, as if doing ballet on ice. 

He twirls with you in his arms, as the music hits its crescendo, before finally putting you down, his arm still around you, your chests almost brushing against one another.

You’re so close, closer than you’ve ever been, Hyunjin can decipher the specks of light in your eyes, can hear the booming sound of your heartbeat in his chest. Your hand wraps around his bicep as you catch your breath, and Hyunjin is wrapped in a cocoon of your scent. 

He doesn’t wish to break free, he wants to remain in the chrysalis woven by the notes of your perfume. 

It’s a few hours later, Hyunjin laid on his bed, a pillow tightly pressed to his face. He wasn’t a stranger to late-night thoughts strung along by the twilight, but he had never thought before of this—of your lips, how soft they looked inches away from his, how it’d feel to press them on yours, to move slowly, tentatively, and then ravenously, hungrily, achingly.

“Fuck,” he mutters, further burying himself under his covers. Hyunjin wasn’t accustomed to these kinds of thoughts, he had never pursued someone, never had the time nor the energy to do so. Never had anyone grab his attention, in the first place.

Until you.

“Do I like her?” he murmurs to no one but himself, before shaking his head forcefully. “Go to sleep, Hyunjin,” he mutters, willing his eyes to shut closed, sewed so tightly together images of you cannot slip through his eyelids.

But to no avail.

He groans, kicking the covers off before heading to his desk. There, he opens his diary, grabbing a pen as if to write a new entry. But his fingers itch for the buried notebook from four years ago, the one he eyes from the corner of his eye.

He sighs softly before digging it out of its place, his fingers expertly going to his entry the night he came back from the graveyard. The night you met.

He remembers coming home slightly distraught after dropping you off, he had lingered by the door a bit, hearing echoing screams, a door being slammed, then an eerie silence once more.

Hyunjin had been too immersed in his pain to afford absorbing others’ sadness. A sponge that is too saturated, unable to welcome the woes of any other being.

But you had managed to crack through his defenses, frayed yourself a passage through the small gaps forgotten, shed sunlight on parts of himself he had thought were rotten, lost beyond salvation.

He felt an excruciating sadness for you, for your anger, for your sadness, for the way it consumed you whole, because he knew what would follow—when a body burns up, all that is left after is ashes, scattered everywhere, mingling with specks of dust, meaningless, a heart that serves no purpose anymore.

He never told you, he is unsure if he ever would, but it was the fourth anniversary of his mother’s death when he met you. He had planned to spend the night in a willowing state of sadness, an incapacitating one that didn’t allow for his limbs to move, similar to the first anniversary, then the second, then the third.

But he had spent the rest of it sketching your tearful eyes as you looked up at him, as you cowered away from his words, as you relaxed in his car.

That is the image he finds in his diary entry. But now that he thinks about it, he didn’t skillfully depict the moles scattered on your face, the crease near your eyes, or the way your hair reflects the sun’s light. He didn’t capture the arch of your eyebrow or the way beauty seems to reside in every nook and cranny of your face, seems to pour out of your pores like the sun brushing against a waterfall the way timid lovers do—magical, beautiful.

He sees you in a whole different light, now.

Hyunjin runs a tired hand through his hair, before grabbing his sketchbook. In the hours that ensued, in which he tried to do your beauty justice, erasing and retracing the shape of you time and time again, numerous questions ran through his mind, racing against time to find answers.

Does he like you? No, too simplistic of a question, too dim to encapsulate what knowing you feels like.

Is his soul drawn to yours?

Perhaps. Yes. Most definitely, his heart whispered.

Would he be a fool if he ever confessed it to you?

It is his mind that answered then. A bit forcefully, in fear, in warning: yes, a thousand times yes.

…

There are places in your parent’s house that you always stray from, the way oil stirs away from water. One, the vicinity of their bedroom, two, the living room— the ones in which you are most likely to stumble upon them. Three, the attic, in which you will most likely brush against ghosts from the past.

But somehow you found yourself exactly there, tonight. 

It's 10 p.m. The sun has long sunk below Seoul’s horizon, leaving behind a sky awash in an exquisitely deep blue, so inviting you almost wish to disappear into it. Today was your rest day, no dance studio, no late night escapades with Hyunjin.

You find yourself missing his giggles and how they would linger in your mind long after you part ways.

The attic is still, the floorboards creaking beneath the weight of your feet as you fumble for a light switch, your hand sweeping along the dusty wall. It flickers on, weak and golden, and you squint as the air, thick with age, coats your lungs. 

Old furniture crowds the room, remnants of a life you left behind four years ago. You’re surprised they kept your bed untouched in your room, one last string tying them to your memory.

Your eyes sweep over old paintings, broken suitcases, and wooden shelves, a hand mixer—useless now. And then, you see it, the reason you climbed here. 

Your mother had once mentioned a box, in passing, filled with things your sister wanted to leave for you. Your mother wasn’t pregnant with you at the time nor did she intend to, but she’d entertain the idea to make her favorite girl happy. 

You kneel and pull the box to your lap, the cardboard soft and weathered under your fingers.

“She was so kind,” your mother had said, too many glasses of wine in her system, her words loose and unguarded. “She gave up her favorite toys for you, before you were even born.” You never asked why they were never passed on, deep down you already knew the answer. She never deemed you worthy of having them. 

Inside, you find a small doll with golden hair and big glassy blue eyes, its pink dress dotted with strawberries, a swan hairpin missing some crystals, and tiny, delicate ballerina shoes, pale pink, unused, small—so small. 

And then, a note. 

Your heart stumbles, the bile rising fast to your throat as you grip the worn paper in your hands. 

Your sister had always been a myth, a memory passed down to you by your parents. An elusive figure you have only seen in photographs, until now. 

You’ve never had words that she addressed to you. 

The paper crinkles as you unfold it. You can somehow hear the rush of hot blood in your veins—uncomfortable, deafening. 

The words blur together as your eyes skim over the paper. You catch fragments— to my future sister—then something about how she wants to play with you, urging you to hurry, come quickly, before I break all my toys.

Your vision wavers, the small, careful handwriting barely legible through the haze. I left you my favorite doll and hairpin. So simple. So kind. I also left you my new ballet shoes. You don’t have to like ballet but if you do that would be awesome.

I would love to dance ballet with you.

The note crumples in your hand as your heart lurches, body jolted upright as if struck by lightning. You stumble out of the attic, discarding the box as the walls close in on you. They press, like the past, against your ribcage until you feel like you might suffocate.

You’ve carried resentment like a stone in your chest, a tide pulled by the moon, ever present, ever rising. You resented her because her memory haunted you, grew larger than life as you did. But she never asked for that. She was just a child, a seven-year-old who loved you before you even existed.

How horrible are you? 

Guilt is bitter on your tongue, sour as acid, and you swallow hard against it, tasting the metallic tang of regret. You don’t think as you barge into your parent’s room, blinded by feelings too entangled like vines to tell apart. 

“What’s wrong?” your mother asks, sitting in a bed too big for her alone. You throw the crumpled note at her. 

“Why did you never give me this?” you demand, and her eyes widen as she skims the lines, a sheen glazing her pupils. 

“I…” she stammers, and you laugh—a hollow, jagged sound—as your hands press against your forehead, fingers digging into the migraine feeding off your pain.

“You know I hated her, right? I– I hated a child, my sister because I never felt loved by you,” you choke, voice fracturing, “how– my god how pathetic is that?” 

“i’ve always loved you,” she says, voice tentative. but it is too meek of a reply, too hollow before the depths of your abandonment. 

“I’ve never, NEVER felt once loved by you! YOU made me feel as if I was competing with a ghost. She wasn’t here but she was everywhere and I was never enough to fill her shoes!” 

“I was a grieving mother!” she yells, standing up to face you, her face flushed and her hands trembling. “Do you know how terrible it feels to lower your child into the ground? Do you know how horrible I felt covering her grave when she was scared of the dark, when she hated the cold? She–” her voice cracks like fragile glass, unraveling as tears spill over her face, “She kept telling me that she didn’t want to leave us, that she didn’t want to die. How am I—“ She sobs, the sound raw, torn, “how am I supposed to forget my baby’s last breath? how am i supposed to be a perfect mother to you when I couldn’t protect her?” 

“i never wanted a perfect mother.” you murmur, eyes shutting tight, chest heaving with hiccuped breaths. “I never said you had to forget her. But I was right here. I was alive. I was breathing, hurting, waiting for you to see me, to love me.” Your voice breaks, you sound like your seven years old self and you hate that. “Did I mean so little to you?”

You smile sadly before her silence, your shoulders dropping low. You are too tired for an offense, too tired to tear down her defenses. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t always a good child. I’m sorry that sometimes I threw tantrums. I’m sorry for all the ways I failed you. I know I’m not perfect. I hurt, I stumble, I make mistakes. I am filled with resentment. I choke with it, and sometimes I hurt others too. But I try. I always try to make things right. And I apologize if I do.” 

Silence thickens between you both like browned sugar, though this moment is anything but sweet. You remain quiet, hoping for your salvation to come in the form of two words, two simple words— I’m sorry—that is all it would take to soothe your heart a little. 

You wait, and wait, and more seconds pass as the silence stretches longer and your mother refuses to meet your eyes. And slowly, slowly the hope withers within you. You know she isn’t apologizing tonight. Maybe not ever.

“Forget it.” you whisper as you leave the room and hurriedly walk out of the house. You need something strong, something to burn away the ache, something to scald the memory from your bones, to forget.

It’s nearly midnight when Hyunjin finally steps out of the training building. The air is crisp, cool against his flushed skin, but his relief is short-lived as his eyes land on Sohee, the owner of the kimchi jjigae place nearby, hovering by the entrance. 

Hyunjin’s frown deepens—something feels off. 

“Ah, hyunjin,” the fifty something quickly jogs up to him. “The security guard told me you still hadn’t left.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Yn has been drinking for the past hours, she looks.. Sad. And I’m worried she can’t get home safely.” Sohee’s tone sets off the alarm in Hyunjin’s mind. 

His worry tightens into a knot in his chest as he steps into the narrow restaurant. His eyes immediately fall on you—your cheek pressed against the table, five empty soju bottles scattered around you

He crouches in front of you, his heart twisting as he takes in the dried streaks of tears on your cheeks. What happened?

“Hey,” he whispers gently, afraid to jolt you awake. You stir, blinking groggily, trying to piece together your surroundings.

“Hyunjin,” you breathe, barely a whisper, and his heart softens at the sound. He nods, offering you a small smile, though concern darkens his eyes. “What’s wrong, hm?”

His words unlock something deep inside you, and your face crumbles like a porcelain vase breaking apart. The tears come swiftly, welling in your eyes until they spill over, your lower lip trembling like fragile branches in a storm.

“I’m a—I’m a horrible person,” you choke out between sobs, your voice trembling as much as your body. Your eyes squeeze shut as your shoulders quake, and Hyunjin’s hands move instinctively, gently covering your tightly clenched fists.

“No, you’re not,” he murmurs, his voice soft and steady, as if trying to hold you together with his words alone.

But you shake your head fiercely, a sob tearing from your throat, raw and unrestrained. “I’m a horrible sister,” you manage to whisper, your words barely audible as you wipe at your eyes, only for the tears to fall faster, harder.

Hyunjin watches you break, his heart aching with every tear that slips down your face. He feels weird, feverish, as if your pain has somewhat transferred to his heart. He glances at Sohee, who quietly steps out of the restaurant, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, dim light.

With a soft sigh, Hyunjin gently cups your face in his hands, his palms warm against your tear-streaked cheeks. His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles across your skin.

“You didn’t even get to be a sister, how could you be a horrible one?” 

“I hated her for so long when all she wanted was to dance with me. I hated a child for so long, I’m a-a horrible person.” 

Hyunjin tentatively licks his lips, thoughts jumbled in his mind like wires. His heart is beating so fast as he wraps an arm around your back, bringing your face to the crook of his neck. You seem to melt in his embrace, tension loosening off of your back as he gently pats your spine. 

“I don’t think you hated your sister. You hated how your parents treated you. Those are two different things.”

Your tears are unceasing, trickling down his skin as you sob more and more. He doesn’t mind the dampening of his shirt, he would never mind a lot of things when it comes to you.

“Humans aren’t straightforward lines, we bend and twist and stray from our paths because our hearts are too frail and sometimes we carry emotions too heavy for us to bear. Sometimes we are pushed to feel certain things when we’ve never wanted to go through them.”

He never stops patting your back gently, his hand traveling from the top of your hair to the base of your spine. “A bad person does not worry about being a bad person. I’m sure your sister knows you love her. You have nothing to feel horrible about.”

Your tears are unyielding and Hyunjin feels as if it isn’t enough— to press your body to his hoping the rhythm of his heart would calm down yours, to think of words of his own doing to soothe your pain. He has not had to comfort anyone in so long, he doesn’t know how to stop your ache. He wishes he could soak your sorrow into his heart instead— he’s used to it, he can handle your pain and his, at once.

He’s racking his mind furiously for things to comfort you. In his memory he stumbles upon the poem of Mary Oliver that has held his hand in the dark.

“Would you like to hear my favorite poem?” he asks, in a whisper.

He feels you nodding against his chest, and he peels himself away from you, painfully, like removing a bandaid from a wound that has yet to scab.

Hyunjin’s eyes are wide and glossy as he peers into yours, as he looks beyond your irises and gazes at your soul, as he recites to you, with a steady voice like a current that doesn’t fall prey to the hazards of storms— “You do not have to be good.” He smiles softly. “You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.” The verb strikes you like a thunderbolt. “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”

It passes him like a vision, a flash of white that blinds him, him holding your cheeks but without tears, him cupping your face, in the mornings and in the nights, because it is you his soft clueless flesh aches to love.

It’s gone as quick as it came, his words come out much slower, much more disoriented as he continues— “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”

“I want to tell you,” you hiccup, your cheeks are all rosy, delicate red veins protruding the white of your eyes. Your lips are all swollen from how hard you bit them to muffle your sobs.

“I will listen,” he reassures. Hyunjin stays true to his words. He drives you to his place, there, atop his couch, lit by a flower shaped lamp casting warm shadows on you both; you felt safe, a vanilla tea in hand, to talk, to tell Hyunjin everything, how you felt and how lonely, excruciatingly lonely you have been for the past years.

And he listens, he listens well, nodding, holding your hand when it shakes, wiping your tears when they slip from your face.

You feel a sense of gratitude swell in your heart, as if a hundred tulips bloomed in your chest at once. You feel safe talking about your biggest fears to Hyunjin, handing him your heart on an open palm, bruised, bleeding. He would wrap it in a gauze for you, he would keep it safe till you can heal it once more.

You doze in and off sleep on the couch, you can feel Hyunjin placing a warm blanket atop you. You swear he sat by your side for a long while, his hand gently patting your hair and threading through your locks.

You resisted the urge to pull his hand, to beg him to climb near you on the couch and have him encapsulate you in his hold once more. It would be too much for him to bear. Too much of you to ask. Too hard for you to handle a no.

Because even in your drunken state, with a heart weighed down by alcohol and ten thousand stones of grief, when Hyunjin cupped your cheeks in his larger, warmer hands, when he peered into your soul with his brown glimmering eyes, when it looked as if he could mirror your pain, as if he could understand the guilt, as if he could hold your hand through the grief— for one second, for a fleeting instant, it was all forgotten. 

The grief became a simple myth in your mind, a distant memory, something you could brush away as a bad dream slipping away with the march of time; simply because he was there for you through it.

… 

Hyunjin is beautiful.

This isn’t new knowledge for you, per se. You've known it from the moment your eyes met his, through a veil of relentless rain and the sting of unshed tears. Even then, you recognized it—he was the most beautiful human you’d ever seen. 

But somehow, you’ve managed to tuck this knowledge away, placed it in a forgotten recess of your mind. You had found other things to like about Hyunjin, things that wouldn’t be weird for a friend to admire— and Hyunjin made that an easy feat for you. 

You enjoyed the poems, all the ones he’d recite to you from time to time. You loved watching people’s eyes turn to behold him, and him unaware of this magnetic aura coating his porcelain skin. You felt warm hearing his bright and unrestrained giggles, seeing traces of happiness carved into his eyes, watching his lips stretch into a wide grin that seemed to swallow the world whole. 

But there are moments when it’s harder to forget. Like now—when Hyunjin stands before you, slipping on the finishing touches of his performance outfit. His sky-blue top clings to his frame, bedazzled with pearls and diamonds that cascade like teardrops, swooping around his small waist and hugging his broad shoulders. The fabric melts into his black pants, carving his silhouette like a chiseled statue.

There are only ten minutes left before his turn on stage. Last night, over quiet spoonfuls of miso soup, Hyunjin told you to please stay backstage with him, his voice so soft it felt like a secret only meant for you. And how could you refuse? Hyunjin wanted you close—Hyunjin asked for you.

He is nervous, you can tell by the slight tremble of his hands as he struggles with his earring, the delicate hoop slipping from his grasp. It falls, and before you know it, you’ve stepped forward, picking it up, your fingers steady as you help him clasp it into place. 

His gaze is heavy on you, and your heart beats a little too fast. You avoid meeting his eyes—he’s too close, too vulnerable of a setting for you.

You finish, stepping back, but Hyunjin’s hand finds your wrist, gently tugging you close again. He doesn’t let go, his fingers playing with the hem of your sleeve. He bites his lip, lets go of the plush flesh before biting it once more, then he confesses. “i’m scared.” 

Your fingers find his wrist, settle above his wildly beating pulse, a small part of you selfishly wishes it is because of your proximity. Your thumb gently swipes across his soft skin as you say, “you’ll do amazing. I’m sure of it.”

He nods, though something flickers in his eyes, something unsaid that lingers between you. He swallows it down, offering you a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll see you after.”

“Okay,” you grin back, “I’ll see you with a gold medal.” 

You’ve seen this choreography countless times before, memorized every twist, every subtle motion of his body. But watching him perform, under the harsh, burning lights, is like witnessing something new. 

Hyunjin moves with a grace that defies reason, a dancer molded by the music, his body bending to its rhythm, his face crumbling as the music swells. 

Hyunjin glides around as if he is one with the ice, he glows, like the sun on stage, mesmerizing, dipping low with the music and soaring high with its rhythm. Your hand is on your chest as you watch him deliver the killing move, a deep dip, head thrown back, his body a perfect arch on his knees. 

He finishes, under the roaring applause of everyone around. You’re first to stand on your feet and the entire arena follows, giving Hyunjin the standing ovation he deserves, the only one of the night. He bows deeply, a hand on his heart as he soaks in the praise. 

You feel like throwing up as you anxiously await the results to show up on the screen. One minute of silence passes by, then, you see it. His name comes in first. 

Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.

He’s already skating towards you, and you’re moving, rushing down to meet him. You wrap him in a tight hug, feeling his chest rise and fall with quick breaths.

“How was it?” he asks, laughter bubbling in his voice. You find it to be such a silly question. 

How could he be anything but extraordinary?

“You fucking did it, Hyunjin,” you say, the words leaving you in a rush. He tips his head back, laughing, his happiness so pure it aches. You reluctantly pull away from him as Jihyoun comes to congratulate him, pulling him too for a hug.

“Proud of you son,” he says and you can see Hyunjin’s eyes well up with tears. you wish you could kiss them away, the tears and the sadness, will it to desert his heart, kiss his smile and happiness, learn the taste of his joys and sorrows. 

Oh god. 

The thoughts submerge you like you’re doused in gasoline, and being near Hyunjin is the crickling match that will set you on fire.

“There’s an afterparty to celebrate the man of the hour,” Jihyoun grins, patting Hyunjin’s back in a fatherly manner. You can feel the pull of the crowd, people waiting to shower him with well-deserved praise, like waves gathering to meet the shore.

“Are you coming?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft as his gaze lingers on you. You hesitate, and he pouts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “I want you to come, please.”

“Okay,” you smile, though your feet are already inching away. “But I left my phone at home. I’ll go get it and come back.” That is the truth, or maybe just a shadow of it.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Hyunjin, ever the considerate one. His kindness cuts deeper than he knows, a dull blade slicing against your fragile skin. You hate how you pull his thoughtfulness to somewhere tainted with shadows. You hate how your mind cannot accept that someone could care for you. What if he pities you, still? It asks. What if he only sees you as the selfish girl sobbing at her sister’s grave? 

How could someone like Hyunjin, radiant as the sun pay attention to a mere rock floating in space, aimless, too unimportant to even be given a name? 

“No, it’s a quick drive. Enjoy your moment.” You flash a smile, hoping it covers the tremor in your voice. You quickly slip away before Hyunjin can notice, your pace quickening as his brow furrows behind you.

You’ve never dared to truly like someone. The harsh truth is that people like you, who were born sipping grief in their mother’s womb, only end up accustomed to its metallic tang on their tongues.

You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known. 

It’s been thirty minutes since you left and Hyunjin’s eyes keep drifting toward the door, pulled by some invisible force. Jihyoun is talking, excitedly introducing him to someone new, someone important from the sound of it. He hears snippets of the conversation— Switzerland, the best coaching center, a guaranteed win, but the words are distant, like murmurs underwater. 

His mind is a whirlwind of paranoid thoughts as Hyunjin redoes the calculations: it was supposed to be a fifteen minute errand, at most. Where are you?

His heart feels tethered to a storm as he steps out, muttering a feeble excuse to Jihyoun, feet moving before his brain catches up. The air feels heavy like trying to inhale metal, only to end up crushed from all sides.

He searches the parking lot, scanning the faces mingling there, but he finds no sign of you. His feet keep moving, driven by instinct, by a chilling feeling pulling at his heart, desperate to glimpse you.

Then he sees it—flashing lights up ahead. His world dims as he watches a man on the phone, gesturing frantically toward a car. A car that’s all too familiar. Yours, crumpled like a piece of paper, flipped on its side, crashed against a tree. 

A loud ringing floods his ears akin to the buzzing of a hundred angry bees, at once. His legs buckle, his hand slamming against a nearby car for balance, but it feels like the earth beneath him is giving way. His eyes squeeze shut, his back turning away from the wreck. Not again.

Please, not again.

His throat burns with bile, and it feels like nails are clawing at his chest, ripping his skin open and exposing his heart. It’s pounding wildly, erratically, like it’s trying to escape the cage of his ribs and splatter on his feet. 

He can’t turn around—he’s too afraid of what he’ll see. But he has to. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his vision spotted with white as he stumbles forward. He taps the man’s arm. He struggles to find his voice as if it were never his to begin within. “Did someone get out of the car?” he whispers, broken, pleading. The man shakes his head.

Hyunjin rushes to the window, desperate to find you, to see you breathing, but the glass is tinted, hiding whatever lies inside. Without thinking, he throws his fist against the window. Once. Twice. Again. And again. His skin splits, blood dripping down his knuckles, but he can’t stop. He pounds the glass until it shatters, only to find nothing within.

“Hyunjin?” A voice, so achingly familiar, cuts through the haze. He spins around, breathless, and there you are—limping, disheveled, but alive. You’re breathing.

In an instant, he’s in front of you, his eyes wide, frantic, searching yours as if they behold the answer to every fear, every prayer he has ever uttered. His hand trembles as it cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, needing to feel your warmth. His gaze flickers over your body, checking for any trace of life-threatening injury, his heart lodged in his throat.

“Are you okay?” His voice is raw, stripped bare.

“I am,” you reply, and your words are his salvation. A sigh shudders out of him, pulled from the deepest parts of his soul, as if he’s been drowning and you’ve finally pulled him to the surface.

He falls to his knees, palms pressing into the ground. Tears spill from his eyes, hot and heavy, streaking down his face like rain in a storm. You kneel beside him, and his arms instinctively wrap around you, pulling you close. 

His fingers weave through your hair, pressing you to him, needing to feel you, needing to know you’re real. His body trembles as he buries his face in your hair, his tears soaking through your shirt, inhaling your scent, grounding himself in you.

“Yn,” he breathes, your name the only thing that could express the magnitude of his relief. He holds you tighter, the words tumbling out like a prayer, “I thought I lost you. My god, I thought I lost you.”

It takes a while for you to process his words, to understand the scale of his fear at the thought of losing you. Those are foreign notions for you, a sight you never thought you’d grasp one day. A sight you never deemed yourself deserving of. 

“You’d care this much if I died?” Your voice is a whisper, small, uncertain.

Hyunjin’s bloodied hand smooths your hair, his eyes red, chest heaving. “Yn, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut, voice breaking. “Yn, please don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry,” your lower lip quivers at the sight of his tears, somehow seeing him sob leads to your own unraveling, as if your emotions are tied by one red string. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to worry you,” you apologize, you the forgotten one, the ghost in your own home, apologizing because for once, your absence did hurt someone, because for once someone would miss you if you were ever gone.

Hours later, you’re in Hyunjin’s home, tucked into the safety of his bed. You’d refused to call your parents, not wanting them to know what had happened, how close their wish had become reality. 

The ambulance had taken you both to the hospital, where they patched Hyunjin’s wounds and checked you for a concussion. You repeated, over and over, like a broken record— “The brakes stopped working, and I jumped out of the car.” Hyunjin spoke for you when you grew tired.

“How are you feeling, Yn?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft, as he hovers over your figure. Your name sounds sweeter from his lips. It sounds as if it was always his to pronounce. 

“I’m okay. I’m sorry I ruined your night.” Your apology is quiet, but he shakes his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your eyes shut closed as his lips caress your skin, as if wanting to drown out all the other senses, useless, needing to focus solely on his touch. 

“If you’re okay, that’s all that matters to me.”

He goes to leave, but you catch his hand. You don’t overthink your next words, you think you’re long past that when it comes to him. “You called me by my name. I thought you didn’t remember it.”

“I never forgot,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve known who you were since the moment I saw you. I… I thought about you a lot for the past four years, Yn. I think about you now too,” a pause, “for different reasons. Sweeter reasons.”

He remembered. He has come to know you and he still thinks of you.

“Me too,” you smile softly, “I think about you so much it feels as if you’re all I’ve ever known,” you confess breathlessly. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and his do the same.

Before you can think, you’re standing on your tiptoes, your lips resting on his, unmoving, driven by a desire so raw it blinded you.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” You pull away, stumbling back.

But his hands find your waist, pulling you back. “Can I do that again, Yn?” His voice is soft, and you nod, dazed. How could you ever refuse him?

His mouth returns to yours, slow and deliberate, like a melody reuniting with its refrain. Sweetness spills from his lips onto yours, a blend of honey and wildflowers and something that is entirely his. His breath surrounds you, intoxicating, pulling you into a world where all you wish is to melt into him, to slip beneath his skin and flow through his veins. 

Fireworks bloom behind your eyelids, explosions of colors you’ve never seen before, as if the universe itself has unraveled in the space between you both. His hands cradle your face, thumbs tracing circles along your cheeks that send a thousand butterflies flapping their wings throughout your being. Your fingers weave into the silk of his hair, a breath of relief escaping you as you touch him the way you’ve longed for. 

You’re still kissing him and yet you already ache to do it again, again and again, till you forgive the world every cruelty it has inflicted into you, if it allows you to hold his warmth a little longer, to keep your sun cupped between your palms. 

“Is this what happiness feels like?” he murmurs against your lips, a smile threading between your breaths, your teeth grazing his in the closeness. You laugh softly, your foreheads touching softly, “I think it is. It tastes so sweet.”

“Mm, I think I need to taste it again, to make sure,” he teases, his lips finding yours once more, playful and hungry. Time loses its meaning, minutes slipping away like sand grains between your fingers. By the time you part, your heart has memorized the rhythm of his breath and the weight of his lips upon yours, as familiar now as your own pulse.

… 

“So, how do we do this?”

Your laughter echoes softly down the corridor. Hyunjin has you pinned against the wall near the skating rink, his right hand braced above your head, the other hovering over your waist—yet, it’s that mere sliver of air between his fingers and your skin that ignites a wildfire within you, burning bright with longing.

“Wouldn’t it be strange if we just walked in, holding hands? I mean, Jihyoun knows me, but…” Your voice drifts away like chimney smoke, dissolving into the background of Hyunjin’s thoughts. He’s no longer listening—he’s observing. Memorizing. His gaze skillfully captures every curve, every shadow of your face, as if this is the last dawn he’ll ever witness. As if, by morning, he’ll be blind, and this moment is his only chance to engrave you into his memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his voice soft, almost reverent. Your words falter, fading like the final notes of a song only he remembers. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek with a tenderness that paints your skin crimson red. 

He smirks, satisfied by the effect—perhaps, he thinks, that is how the sun feels as it kisses the horizon goodnight, leaving the sky a blushing mess. 

“You were saying?” he teases, and you roll your eyes, pretending to be exasperated. “I was saying that it would be—“ But his lips find yours once more, plucking the words from your tongue like petals from a flower. 

In the dim glow of the corridor, the world around you fades to an afterthought. It feels as though you exist only for this, only for him— to kiss and to be kissed by Hyunjin.

“Finally!” Jihyoun’s voice shatters the moment, ringing out like a bell, pulling you both apart. “Thank you for kissing him, Yn. Now he’ll stop with the longing stares at the door.”

“What stares?” you laugh, the sound bubbling sweetly up your throat. Hyunjin scratches the nape of his neck, shrugging innocently when your eyes meet, as if he has no idea what Jihyoun is talking about (though he knows all too well).

Hyunjin catches his coach’s eye over your shoulder, a wide smile tugging at his lips. Jihyoun once told him that he seems to bloom around you, like a flower starved of sunlight, finally nourished. The thought warms him—knowing that the people closest to him feel your presence like a balm to his soul. His mother would have loved you too, he’s certain of it.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Hyunjin whispers later, as you’re leaving the practice building, his arm draped over your shoulder, yours wrapped around his waist. Natural. Familiar. Like two rivers flowing into one.

“I don’t have anything of mine there,” you pout, and Hyunjin stops, cupping your cheek, his nose grazing yours in a gesture so tender it makes your heart float within your ribcage. “That’s part of my secret plan—to get you in my clothes.”

“Oh, what a very secretive plan,” you giggle, stealing a quick kiss. “And what would we do tonight?” 

“Sleep together.” You raise an eyebrow, and he shakes his head, flushing crimson. “I mean—sleep, actual sleep, not that I wouldn’t want to make love to you,” Your laughter rings out, as his forehead finds its hiding place against your shoulder, embarrassed. “I just want to hold you close. That’s all.”

Your sweet Hyunjin.

“I want that too, Hyune.”

Hyunjin has never been much of a writer, his forté has always been to express himself with his body, spell out words out of the movement of his limbs. It is more evident as he opens the door to his apartment, with you trailing behind. As he looks at both your shoes sitting side by side near the entrance, your accessories resting next to his in the bathroom. 

He lacks the words to explain how right, how natural it feels for him to have you in his space, for you to fill it with the music of your voice and the fragrance of your perfume. As if it has always been his reality, to walk home with you, to watch you slip into his clothes, to brush his teeth next to you, to lay atop the bed with your warm eyes staring at him instead of a cold wall. 

“Do you believe in fate?” you suddenly ask, your thumb trailing alongside his neck, pausing right where his pulse beats. He has never been aware of the weight of life against his skin until he knew you. 

“I never did, I didn’t want to believe in something pre-written for me. Wouldn’t that confine who I am, who I could be?” he muses and you nod softly, inching closer to him. “But somewhat,” he trails off, lifting your hand to his mouth, peepering the sweetest kisses alongside your palm and wrist, like dewdrops caressing leaves. “I believe in it now, because of you.” 

“I think I was meant to find you that day in the graveyard. I think what I feel for you is too grand to be a pure coincidence,” he confesses. 

“And what do you feel for me?” you ask, your voice soft, curious. 

Hyunjin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gently twirls a strand of your hair away from your eyes, before tucking it behind the cuff of your ear. He presses his forehead to yours, like two pages of a book meeting one another, then he exhales slowly, like a man who has found peace after a lifetime of searching. 

And in a way, he has. He can stop looking frantically for something that would stitch his soul up, he has found you, now. 

“I used to resent hearing my own heartbeat. At times it felt like a punishment, because existing felt like a chore. I wanted the sound to quiet down, I didn’t want to hear anything, nor feel anything anymore.” 

“But now,” he pulls you closer, your legs intertwining with his, like roots seeking comfort in one another, “it’s reassuring to hear, because it means there is still life within me to love you in it.”

Love. The word has long felt like a thorn ingrained into your skin. You have always recoiled from it, less from repulse and more in fear— if the people who were put on this earth to love you, didn’t, then weren’t you meant to remain unloved for the rest of your life? 

But looking at Hyunjin now, at the way the word rests gently on his lips, rolls off his tongue with such ease, with such certainty, you don’t want to run.

You want to stay. 

It is when Hyunjin traces maps along your skin with his lips, as you drift down the constellations of moles on his chest, as you find yourself lost within everything that makes up his being— his scent, his sounds, the weight of him pressed against you— that you find your words to reply, to breathe your first I love you to him. 

And in that confession, another realization comes, though this one is bitter, sour, like a chilling premonition: if Hyunjin were ever to leave, what would be left of you after? 

…

Hyunjin has never been fond of the concept of time, minutes seemed to march differently when it came to him— seconds stretching out like thin threads, nights unraveling in restless turns, sleep plucked right off from his eyelids. 

But with you, time softened, as the hours spun forward, swift and gentle. Around you, Hyunjin no longer felt the weight of passing days on his heart. 

Hyunjin didn’t feel the two months of happiness you bestowed upon him slipping from his grasp. 

He was lost, adrift in the gentle tides of your being—swept by the melody of your laughter, cradled by the softness of your curves. He often wondered if he was deserving of this happiness, yet never lingered long enough to find an answer. He selfishly accepted the joy you gifted him, for once. 

Your belongings filled the empty nooks of his apartment gradually, corner by corner—your satin pajamas settling just above his plaid ones, your skincare nestled near his on the bathroom shelf, your favorite mug clinking against his in the dishwasher. 

In some way, it mirrored how you’d seeped into him, like sunlight breaking through the longest of nights— threads of the sun illuminating what was once lost to darkness. 

He’d steady your chin to help with your mascara, your doe eyes looking up into his. You’d brush his hair, pressing gentle kisses along his shoulder blades. He’d do your laundry. You’d make his coffee each morning. He’d brew your tea each night.

You didn’t have much time to talk during the day, both of you engrossed in the practice of your respective arts. Yet, the knowledge that you were just a floor above him, close if he ever wished to see you, was enough to soothe his heart.

It was at night that you bared yourselves to each other, in ways that went beyond the tender grip of his hands on your waist, or the slow trail of your fingers down the curve of his back.

In the hush of the twilight, you’d unfold softly, revealing the hidden layers within—you’d share your dreams and hopes, and the moments that shaped you, letting the fragments of your pasts settle in the safety between you both. 

“I think I know my purpose now,” you whispered one night, and he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “What is it?” 

“I think I kept ballet at a distance because loving it felt like surrendering to my parents’ dreams, like I’d be becoming what they always wanted me to be.” You paused, your voice a little softer, a little braver. “But I do love it, Hyunjin. I want to be the best at it. I want to honor my sister through it.” 

His gaze softened, as a tender smile blossomed in his lips. “You already do.”

Some nights were less sweet, tangled with heavy grief and unshed tears, yet it felt easier to walk through them if you were there holding his hand. 

“Would you go into her room with me?” he asked quietly one night, his gaze locked on his mother’s bedroom, its door sealed for a decade. He had never dared to enter it once more, afraid it would further cement the notion that she was gone.

That truth felt easier to confront with you near.

“Of course,” you replied softly. “Whatever you need.”

The room was just as he remembered, only stuffier with dust and heartache. Time hung in the air, dense and unmoving, clutching at her last moments alive, unwilling to let go. 

He looked to the bed, and he could almost see the shape of her there, frail and thin, her clothes too loose over a body worn out with sickness.

You held him close, steadying him as he took in each familiar corner: their photos framed with gold on the desk, her countless medals hung on the wall, her perfume and hairbrush untouched on the vanity, her rings resting in a small seashell container.

He walked slowly to the vanity, his fingers reaching for the ring he had loved most—a thin band of gold, crowned with a small emerald, dulled by time. Gently, he wiped away the dust with his shirt, before turning to you and slipping it onto your finger.

“Keep it,” he whispered. “It will live again through you.”

In the days that followed, you helped him breathe light and air into the room once more, sweeping dust from the framed certificates and photographs, polishing the medals until they shimmered as they once had. You washed the linens and her clothes, packing them carefully for a donation to cancer wards—something he never found the courage to do, until now.

Grief no longer felt like a knife lodged into his heart, its metal rusting with the passing of time. He saw its true face now—a soft ache, a quiet longing, a thicket of thorns that can only grow from the roots of love.

Your voice floated in his mind that night, echoing like the bells of a long standing cathedral. “your mom loved you, hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hands to be warm”— would want you to be happy.

Happiness swept into Hyunjin like an endless, gnawing hunger—an insatiable ache that demanded to be fed. He was ravenous for joy, longing to sink his teeth into it, dip his tongue into its sweetness and let it spill all over him. 

When an exoneree tastes freedom after decades of longing, it is the small breeze, the waves lapping hungrily at his bare feet that make his heart twitch. So it was with Hyunjin: the small joys swelled within his ribcage, vast and boundless. His heart strained against his chest, eager to burst free and feel it all. 

Somehow, Hyunjin’s biggest joy came from watching you dance— the principal dancer of your competition team. Whenever he had a break, he’d choose to slip away from the ice rink and climb the stairs at a hurried speed, slip into the dancing studio and sit in the corner. 

There, he’d watch you, leading the group of dancers you’ll perform with. You stood in the center, beckoning the attention of everyone around. Beautiful, so beautiful.

How foolish of him it was to try to deny it. How foolish of him to think that there was any outcome but to fall for you.

You always caught his eye across the mirror, your face breaking out in a wide grin, as you waved shyly at him, the strictness melting off your features and morphing into something warm. He felt special in a way, to be the sole recipient of such a breathtaking smile. He felt as if he could write hundreds of poems about that alone. 

That smile feels even more precious as you stand on stage at the Seoul International ballet competition, seconds before the light would turn on and you’d begin dancing. In the split second of darkness, it is him your eyes sought after in the crowd, it is him you wink at, before switching into your professional mode.

You aren’t as nervous as he expected you to be. Somehow your facade only slipped when five minutes before the stage you beckoned hyunjin in for a hug. “Do you need anything?” he asked as he kissed your temple softly, tightening his hold on you.

“I just need to hug you for a minute. It helps me calm down.” 

Hyunjin had always known you were a stellar ballerina. You were humble with your achievements, speaking of your art as if you don’t have years of practice to attest to your expertise, as if you hadn’t gotten acclaims nationally and internationally.

Still, seeing you on stage made a different pride bloom in his heart. You are the rightful star of the night, the swan of ballet as the media had dubbed you— delicate with your movements, spreading your arms like the unfurling of their feathers, spinning delicately into the air with a grace that made his breath catch in his throat. You were mesmerizing. 

You didn’t simply move, or dance, that would be too simplistic to encapsulate how you breathed life into this art. Into him. 

And it is hyunjin’s arms that you run into, scurrying down the stage steps, an overflowing bouquet in your right hand and a gleaming trophy held tightly in the other. 

“You won, my love,” he shouts, ecstatic as you throw your arms around his neck, as he cradles your waist, spinning you around like how he always orbits around you. 

He puts you down, leaning in to kiss you with no second thought, your eyes closed as you savor one another, as your lips move as if commanded by the stars, to part only to meet again, and again. Till your cheeks are both flushed and all he can taste is the strawberry in your lip tint. 

Your eyes lock on his, your pupils widening till they swallow your irises, mirroring your breathtaking grin. Hyunjin felt as if the sun had left the sky and lodged within his chest.

But what Hyunjin failed to understand is that, for souls like his, happiness is only a fleeting passenger. Even then, it isn’t meant to be swallowed whole; it is to be eaten bite by bite, back hunched, hidden from the harsh glare of the universe. Perhaps this is the price he pays for defying the sadness that shadows him—his own eager canines sinking into joy, ultimately tearing it apart.

…

“I think I’ll go to Switzerland.”

It takes a few seconds for Hyunjin’s words to settle into your mind, for the syllables to unfurl slowly, like a wave gathering its strength before inevitably crashing on the shore. 

Once, Hyunjin had spoken of a figure skating center in Switzerland, one that Jihyoun praised endlessly—the pinnacle for skaters reaching toward gold.

“Will you go?” you’d asked, and he’d only shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.” The conversation had dissolved then, lost in the press of his body against yours, in the paths his fingers traced down your stomach— dizzying enough to make you forget the sound of your own name.

But you should have known—some things cannot be buried beneath the covers. They always resurface, haunting, inevitable.

You draw in a deep breath, your gaze settling on your congratulatory bouquet. The flowers have started to wither now, despite the sugar cube Hyunjin dropped in the water. 

Were they a trigger for the slow withering of your relationship, too? Did the fall of that first petal set the course for your own undoing?

“Okay,” you nod, biting your lip anxiously. “When will you go?”

“In three days. Or else I’ll miss the deadline to join.”

Oh.

You remain silent, feeling as though barbed wire coils around your throat, each metal spike pressing deep into your flesh. He steps closer, his warm hands cradling your cheeks. It takes you a few seconds to meet his gaze.

You suddenly imagine a life untouched by him. The thought fills you with a horrible urge to weep.

“I know it’s sudden,” he murmurs, voice low, “I tried to delay it as long as I could, but Jihyoun kept insisting, saying it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I don’t want you to feel abandoned.” 

You shake your head, as if to push that thought away, as if the notion itself is meaningless.

“I’ve always known we wouldn’t stay in the same place forever. I have to go back to Juilliard soon, too. I just… never thought it would happen this fast.” You sigh softly, a tender smile slipping across your face as you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. “But you’re meant for grand things, Hyunjin. If Switzerland is where you’ll find them, then I couldn’t be happier for you.”

“I love you,” he whispers, his nose brushing against yours, a gentle, aching gesture. “We’ll make it work, right?”

He searches your eyes, pleading, his brows drawn into a worried knot.

“Of course, we will.”

It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin. 

“I love you,” he repeats, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the counter.

“I’ve only known love thanks to you,” you murmur. That much is true.

Hyunjin kisses you with hunger, his hand tangled in your hair, his body moving with a fierce rhythm—passion and love dripping from each one of his touches, each one of his spilled i love you’s between broken whimpers and moans. 

He loves you tonight like he has something to prove. As if his fingertips must be etched upon your skin, as if his name should be the one carved deep within you, the one found if you were split open to your soul.

Lying against his bare chest, you feel his breath rise and fall beneath you, the tip of his fingers sketching aimlessly upon your skin. Yet, you sense as if there is already a rift between you both. As if the news of his living has seeped between your bodies— the distance has already laid its claim, separating you both.

… 

You’re back in New York, slipping into the rhythm of your classes like a puzzle piece wedged into place, not quite fitting, yet you force it to. You spend each waking moment practicing your final dance at Juilliard—The Sleeping Beauty—the ballet that will close this chapter of your life.

Your apartment has remained unchanged; the conversations with your classmates are as futile as ever. And your heart still pulses, aches for Seoul, for the warmth you found there, in Hyunjin.

Winter settles in, snow gathering in quiet drifts along the streets. Two languid months slip by, time dragging its feet, as if too wishing to remain right where you left Hyunjin. You lose yourself in the pursuit of a perfect performance. And yet, the praise of your professors and peers no longer fills you as it once did.

It all feels hollow, empty, when you can’t remember the last time you and Hyunjin spoke, actually spoke, the way you used to.

You’d already seen this scene unfold in your mind the day he broke the news—more vividly still as he walked away in the airport. You had known the first few days would be good—frequent calls and texts, sharing the smallest details of his new life and of your familiar one.

But then, the silence would settle in, as it has. Because you and Hyunjin are both perfectionists. Because without your art, both of you are left with nothing but shadows of yourselves— hollow shells calling out in agony to what truly pleases your souls. 

You’re afraid to say it out loud, but Hyunjin’s face is blurring in your memory, details softening as though sketched by an impressionist’s brush. All that remains clear are the shadows under his eyes on your last video call, dark circles carved deep into his soft skin, his exhaustion bleeding through the screen as he struggled to stay awake for you.

There is no one to blame, and somehow, that only hurts you even more. You could sacrifice your hours of practice, and so could he. But then the guilt would come, ravenous, gnawing at your soul. And guilt is a hungry being, soon enough it won’t be satiated by you. Soon enough it will turn to your love for Hyunjin. 

And you couldn’t afford that. 

You miss him most on days like this, when nothing seems right from the moment you open your eyes. The city’s chill feels sharper, as though mocking you, reminding you of the warmth you left behind.

The wind bites as you step into the night, wandering aimlessly, your feet carrying you to nowhere in particular. Tears hover at the edge of your lashes, but you refuse to let them fall.

There’s no grace in the way you don’t allow yourself to cry, no mercy in how you hold yourself together. You've always been a performer, haven’t you? Even your pain feels like a scene you must perfect. Is it tragic enough? Does it carve deep enough to justify being felt?

You bite your lip, numb fingers pulling out your phone. You type out Hyunjin’s contact— my love. Your last message to him was two days ago.

With a sigh, you press call. He answers on the final ring.

“Hi, my angel,” he says, a bit breathless. Probably mid-training.

You force a smile, hoping he won’t hear the tremble in your voice. “Hi, baby. Practicing?”

“Yeah.” He hums. “Are you outside?”

“Im going for a walk.” Your voice quiets as the lump in your throat tightens, a chain wrapping around your words, binding you.

“Are you okay, my love?” he asks gently, and you nod though he can’t see.

“I am,” you lie. “I just miss you.” The confession slips out before you can stop it, and the weight of it crushes you. You miss him so much it’s killing you.

“I miss you too,” he says softly. You feel like throwing up. You have to make it quick before your courage betrays you. 

“I think we should end things,” you say quickly, biting down so hard on your lip that blood beads up, sharp and metallic on your tongue— just like your words.

“What?” he whispers, and you hear his faint apologies, the rustle as he moves to someplace quieter, someplace where you can break his heart without an audience.

“Why do you want this? Don’t you love me anymore?” His voice is small, fragile, and you feel the tears welling in your eyelids, but not yet.

“You know there’s no one I love but you,” you say, drawing in a breath that doesn’t wish to be trapped by you. “But we’re both so busy it barely feels like we’re together anymore.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby, I’ll try to text more, I promise. I’ll cut back on my training for you, I’ll—.”

“You know I’d never ask that of you.” You cut him off, smiling sadly and he falls quiet.

You see him then, in a haze of memory—Hyunjin’s head resting in your lap, your fingers lost in his hair. You hear his voice again, soft and raw, “My mom’s last wish for me was to win that gold medal. I’m terrified of letting her down. Just thinking about it—” He’d let out a humorless laugh. “She isn’t here, and yet I still feel this debt to her. Isn’t that strange?”

You know it well—the pain of failing those you love, even those who don’t love you back.

“Your mom wanted you to win that medal, didn’t she?” you say softly. “I would never come between you and that.” A pause. “But doesn’t it hurt more to wait for a message that never comes?”

“I…” he stammers, a sniffle slipping through the phone, and it nearly undoes you.

“Yn, I- you know that I love you.”

And in that instant, you know he understands. It’s because Hyunjin understands that you love him.

“I love you too, my Hyune.”

“Then don’t say this,” he chokes out, “say something cruel—something that’ll make it easier not to miss you so much when you’re gone.”

You can hear him crying, and the sound permanently breaks a rib within your heart. It sounds so raw, so painful that you wish to abandon everything and run to him. Had life not been this harsh to you, perhaps you would. Perhaps you’d have enough courage to believe that love can suffice for everything. 

“I came back to Seoul because my mother was sick. I thought…maybe it would bring us close again. But I think now that I came back just to meet you, Hyunjin.” His name falters, slipping from your lips in a stuttered breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking, “thank you for making me happy.”

The call ends, and you fall to your knees in the snow, finally surrendering to the grief tearing through you. Sobs wrack your body, raw and relentless, so fierce it feels as if your heart might just stop, as if you’ve become nothing but an ache, a bruised, throbbing mass of memories, pulsing with each thought of him.

Is this enough for you? you want to scream at whatever cruel hand pulling the strings of your fate. Has my suffering finally paid the debt of my existence— for both me and him? 

… 

You’ve come to understand that the expanse of human emotions is boundless, as vast and unknowable as the space that holds the universe. And with each passing day, it feels as if another star dies within you, its light dimming slowly, far from rebirth.

You once thought your heart had grown accustomed to grief—your life spent in mourning: parents you wished you had, love you wished had dared, even just once, to find you.

But mourning the happiness Hyunjin brought is something else. It’s a different kind of ache, not like the eruption of a volcano that fades into a quiet resigning. This pain lingers, dull and relentless, day after day, a wound that refuses to close, a pulse that never stills.

It has been a month since your fateful call. Hyunjin first sent you a bouquet of white roses, with a note nestled within—To the one who made me find love again, I will love you until my last breath.

You didn’t reply, but Hyunjin kept sending bouquets, each one arriving with a message that tore at your heart a little more than the last. I am thinking about you often; please think of me, too. As if you could do anything but that. If I am to exist in only one place, let it be in your mind.

You’ve hung each note on the fridge, their words staring back at you every morning as you make your coffee, exactly the way Hyunjin likes it.

Sometimes, you’d let the water run, overflowing in the coffee maker as you read his words again and again. Then, you’d catch a glimpse of your own distorted reflection on the water’s surface, wondering what it would feel like to drown in the sea, to let the liquid fill your lungs and wash over you.

But you never let the thought linger too long, chasing it away with the hum of a song. You know it will only lead you somewhere scary.

After three, maybe four months, the bouquets eventually stopped arriving. Hyunjin had surely grown tired of your silence.

The heart is no rigid thing; it doesn’t stay frozen in one place. It stretches and contracts, bleeds, then patches itself together again. But you hadn’t done much to heal it—truthfully, you hadn’t believed you deserved to feel good once more.

Then month five came, and there was no time left to dwell on anything. A strange relief, you thought, for a mind like yours, that never quite stops turning, even in sleep. Graduation loomed on the horizon, and you were terrified of your efforts going to waste, of them somehow never being enough to set you apart.

But one night, your professor placed her hand on your shoulder, her gaze warm as it met yours. Suddenly, you felt seven years old again. “I think you could be this generation’s prima ballerina assoluta, she said—absolute first ballerina, the best of the best. 

“Really?” you whispered, hardly breathing, and she nodded. “Yes, if you keep going this way, you will be.”

You thought about calling Hyunjin to share the news, but quickly brushed the thought aside. Instead, you spent the night picturing his reaction. It was pathetic, maybe, but you liked to believe he would’ve said he was proud of you, called you angel, kissed the tip of your nose, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. You fell asleep with his words murmured on your lips, as if they’d been real.

Month six rolled in, then seven. You had been keeping tabs on Hyunjin’s name as the Olympics approached. There has been news of him wanting to attempt a quadruple axel spin— forty-four years after the triple one. An automatic win, some would say.

You knew that if anyone could do it would be hyunjin.

You wondered if he too read the articles released about your performances. Did he smile at them, his sweet dimple surging forth? Or did your name sting him, like droplets of acid falling into an open wound? 

Month eight arrived, genuine joy weaving into your life once more. You took your final bow on the polished stage of Juilliard, the roaring applause ringing in your ears for days to come. You had the highest performance score of the history of the institution. Your professor’s eyes then searched yours— “where do you see yourself now? where would you feel happiest?”

Hyunjin’s arms. You almost said. Barely holding yourself. 

“I don’t know. I think I’ll try at operas. I want to perform the white swan there.”

“Then go to opéra garnier in Paris. I have a friend there. Talk to him, feel it out.”

You had almost kissed her cheek right there and then. Not only because the Opéra Garnier had been your childhood dream but because now, Paris was where the Olympics would be held.

You now had an excuse to be there. 

You kept looking for Hyunjin in every monument you visited. In the hush of night by the Louvre, along the quiet flow of the Seine, in the gentle strokes of Monet’s paintings at Musée de l’Orangerie. What would you do if you met him on a random street in Paris?

Thankfully, or unfortunately, you still hadn’t decided, you never had to find out. You didn’t see him.

It is the men’s singles day at the figure skating Olympics, and somehow, you feel more nervous than in all your own performances combined. You’re seated close to the ice, close enough to feel the chill radiating from it, close enough to capture every detail of the performances.

Then Hyunjin steps onto the ice. If not for your seat, you might have collapsed, your knees a mass of useless ground bones. 

He’s dazzling—achingly, excruciatingly beautiful. His hair falls longer now, delicate strands brushing his forehead like a prince out of a fairytale. His outfit is pure white, adorned with emerald diamonds cascading like droplets of light. Instinctively, you reach for the emerald ring on your finger too. 

Your gaze follows him everywhere, drinking in the sight of him tipping his head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he talks to Jihyoun, every stretch, every step, every quiet act of his being. 

He was still as lovely, still as beautiful as you have always known him. 

You wonder if he’s thinking of you, too, as his eyes flutter shut before his music begins. What image knits behind his eyelids in that instant?

It has always been his face for you. 

The air buzzes with anticipation, thick with belief and doubt alike as everyone knows what Hyunjin is attempting tonight. All eyes follow him as he skates, tracing wide circles across the ice, bending low to the ground, spinning in perfect arcs.

Then, he launches into the air.

The seconds seem to trickle by as slowly as blood droplets rushing to a dying heart. You see it— one spin, planets orbiting around the sun, aching to inch closer to the warmth. 

Two spins— seconds marching forward to catch up with the next ones in a ticking clock. 

Your breath freezes in your throat, your hands grip the chair so much your knuckles turn as white as the roses hyunjin sent you after you parted ways.

Three spins— fireflies dancing around the light, drawn to it like milky stars.

And then he does it.

His fourth and final spin— your heart orbiting around Hyunjin as he achieves his dream, as he breaks the world record he long yearned for.

You fall back in your seat, a rush of relief loosening the tension in your body as the crowd erupts into thunderous applause. Unbelievable is the word on everyone’s mouths. 

But not on yours.

Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would. 

Tears gather in your eyes as he stares at the scoreboard, his gaze fixed, waiting, breath held alongside every other skater. 

Hyunjin’s name comes first. 

He collapses to his knees, the weight of his victory pressing down his body, finally breaking him open. Jihyoun rushes over, cradling him, shaking him, laughing, “You did it, Hyunjin! You did it, son!” The tears won’t stop rushing down your face; they have a life of their own now.

You watch as Hyunjin circles the audience, waving at the crowd cheering his name. He drifts closer to your section, his eyes scanning the sea of faces until, finally, he finds yours. 

The world stills, you force the earth to stop spinning to have this one moment with Hyunjin. You lock onto his gaze, holding it, savoring the way his lips form your name.

Then, as if pulled by a force greater than either of you, he climbs over the stands, moving swiftly across the seats until he reaches you. In an instant, his arms are around you, his head buried in the crook of your neck. “Yn, I…” he chokes, and you nod, whispering, “I know. You did it, Hyunjin.”

“I did it, Yn,” he echoes, his voice trembling. He pulls back to look at you, his hands resting on your shoulders, both oblivious to the flash of cameras, the seas of people flocking around you. 

No one here could ever understand what this moment means to him. No one but him—and you.

As he takes his place on the podium, tears shimmer in Hyunjin’s eyes akin to the reflection of the sun across the sea. He bites his lip, struggling to hold it together as the bronze and silver medals are awarded. Then the official steps forward, gold medal in hand. Hyunjin extends his shaking hands, watching as the ribbon drapes over his head, at long last. 

Suddenly, the past eight months of heartache are justified. You would endure it all again, twice over, if it led to Hyunjin having this moment. 

“Miss Juilliard,” Hyunjin says softly as he meets you by the door. He had asked Jihyoun to tell you to wait for him. Jihyoun seemed happy to see you once more. 

Hyunjin is different now than he was twenty minutes ago, when he threw himself into your arms, overcome by emotions too vast to name. Now, he stands before you, more composed, more guarded, though his gaze remains tender. He’s never been able to hide his eyes from you.

“Congratulations on your win,” you say.

“Congratulations on your graduation.”

He knows.

In that moment, you see it all—the two paths unfurling before you. You could smile at him and he would smile back. Then you would part ways. And you would meet again, in a ceremony of some kind. And he would have grown only more beautiful, and the ache would have not softened. And his loving gaze would set on someone else but you.

Or, you could speak now.

“I made some tiramisu back at my Airbnb,” you say, your voice tentative. “Would you like some?”

Hyunjin’s shoulders stiffen, a debate flickering in his eyes. Then he exhales softly. “Of course.”

You sit side by side in the uber. His phone keeps lighting up with congratulatory messages until he switches it off.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling the need to break the silence. He tenses beside you.

“For what?”

“For stealing you away.”

His shoulders relax. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to come.”

The apartment you rented is small—studio-sized, really, but near Montmartre, where you’ve loved taking nightly walks by Sacré Coeur. Hyunjin slips off his shoes, placing them next to yours by the door.

For a moment, you both pause, staring at the sight of your shoes, side by side, once more.

He clears his throat as you gesture for him to make himself comfortable. He moves to the window, gazing at the city below, while you retrieve two plates, carefully setting a slice of tiramisu on each.

“Thank you,” he says softly when you hand him his plate. But neither of you takes a bite. It’s as if opening your mouth would lead to a torrent of words escaping, ones neither of you can contain. 

He yields first.

“You came,” he whispers, glancing over at you.

“I couldn’t miss seeing you win.”

“I missed you,” he says, biting his lip. Hyunjin has always been honest, especially when it comes to you. “It hurt a lot to miss you, Yn.”

“I’m here tonight.” 

Your words settle into the air as the hum of the world outside fades away. Hyunjin’s gaze, sharp and knowing, meets yours—those piercing eyes that have always stripped away your defenses, reading between the lines of your every unspoken thought.

He holds your gaze for a beat too long, and you fumble for your fork, needing something—anything—to diffuse the weight of what lingers in the silence between you.

Then, suddenly, his lips meet yours.

Kissing Hyunjin again feels like breathing in after being starved of air, like a cool breeze caressing your skin on a scorching day. A shiver spreads through you as he gently lowers you onto the couch, his body a pressing weight above you. Your hands find their way to his back, moving with the instinctive ease of muscle memory, while he kisses you with the fierce urgency of someone who’s finally tasted salvation. 

You wish to never part from him. You wish for your body to liquefy and morph into the hot rush of blood within his veins— anything so you wouldn’t have to part from him once more. You don’t think you can handle it. You don’t think you can lose Hyunjin again. You know you can’t.

When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed a soft pink, like fresh dahlias, his eyes glossy and filled with something unspeakable as they trace over your face. “Tell me, Yn,” he breathes, “do you still love me? I need to know, please. It’s been tearing me apart.”

“I love you,” you say, with every bit of honesty you can muster. “I loved you before I even knew what love is, and I will love you, Hyunjin. Whether you are near or not. I will always love you.”

A breathtaking smile unfolds across his face, warm enough to thaw every frozen corner of your heart, to make decades of loneliness melt away. You would endure it all again, face the heartbreak and the grief. Fall at your sister’s grave and repent once more. You’d do it all if it means your path will cross with Hyunjin.

“I was always ever yours to love.” 

Epilogue. 

Hyunjin has always felt as if he has lived many lifetimes at once. Like a serpent, shedding its skin, he had lost parts of his being in various places. Some he managed to retrieve, others not. He had a lot to learn, overwhelmed by certain things past. His thoughts weren’t always kind. His hands didn’t always sweep gently against his skin. 

But on days like those, you were there to love him. He had learned and unlearned many things with you. Hyunjin had found that love wasn’t a sharp emotion, it didn’t slice away at the heart, it didn’t puncture. There were no sharp edges when it came to you. Even if he lost you along the way, he would round up a corner and find you there. 

And he did. Hyunjin found you, even when you didn’t wish to be found. You scurried from place to place, set foot into Paris to Seoul, Alexandria and New York. The distance lessened then widened. But it never tore you apart once more. Your souls were satiated in a way. You could rest side by side now. 

And you did, as you settled in Seoul, decades down the road. Where both you and Hyunjin built a new training center. Figure skaters on the first floor, ballerinas on the second. The days passed by in happiness, laughter and giggles. There was no curse. No punishment. Not anymore. 

You are in a graveyard once more. You watch as Hyunjin sweeps the name atop the tombstone gently. Prima ballerina assoluta, he reads, the swan of my heart. His weathered hands shake as they clutch a bouquet of fresh red lilies, and your heart still aches at the sight. 

It is late at night at the graveyard, the branches are still humming to one another, like a melancholic flute. You understand now that they speak to the buried ones. “Not so long now,” they reassure, “your loved ones will follow.”

You believe them, and you will wait. For now, you’ll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave. 

They are now meant for you, at long last. 

[perlelune]

Oblivion | Paul Atreides

There used to be beginnings and ends, nights and days, dream and reality, before the haze took over, swallowing every thought, every memory, every whisper of free will.

Warnings: NON-CON, Fremen Reader, Kynes!Reader, Mind Control, Memory Manipulation, Padishah Emperor Paul, Loss of Identity, Brainwashing, Mentions of war and religious fanaticism

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Muad’Dib leads the way. 

It is what the prophecy dictates. That he is the voice from the Outer World. The one who will lead your people to paradise. The one who will turn Dune’s arid desert lands into bountiful, endless green fields. 

But as your eyes rest on him, you do not see the chosen one. You do not see the Lisan Al-Ghaib. You see your friend Paul, broken, lost, his heart shattered into a million pieces due to your cousin’s absence. 

He sits at the head of his bed, shadows fluttering across his delicate features from the glowglobes’ dull orange light. Wide black rings surround his sunken blue eyes, the result of his daily consumption of spice melange. Lank, greasy brown curls hang around his handsome face. A pang twists your chest. He hasn’t slept in days, has barely gotten a full night of replenishing sleep since she left on a maker’s back.

You cannot blame your cousin. Paul’s ascendency to the Golden Lion throne came at a cost. A hefty one. Promises were broken. Trust was destroyed. Only time will repair the damage that was done. Though you carry faith the two of them will find their way back to each other. 

You stir the spice-coffee in the pot, straining the shimmering dark powder before pouring some in a cup. A spicy cinnamon smell coats the cool night air. 

You rise and bring the cup to him.

“For you, Usul.”

A soft smile blooms on his lips as he takes a slow, weary sip.

“You make it so well,” he praises.

You glow at the compliment, returning his smile. Your grandmother used to show you and Chani how to blend coffee beans with spice and herbs. The knowledge never left you. Now, every time you feel troubled or upset, you make a fresh kettleful. A single sip of the familiar brew is enough to alleviate your frazzled nerves. Especially here, so far away from Sietch Tabr, between the strange stone walls of the Arrakeen Keep, you have craved little reminders of home more than ever before.

Fremen belong in the desert, not in peculiar tents made of marble and stone.

Paul’s brows crumple as he studies you. 

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he says.

“I can get another Fremen-”

His fingers latch around your wrist, desperation sizzling under his touch. 

“I prefer it to be you.” He sighs. A bone deep fatigue radiates from the sound. You halt in your tracks. You suppose you could stay a while longer. “Please, stay, your presence soothes me.”

You nod. “I’ll stay, Muad’Dib.”

Relief falls over his features. 

The doors suddenly open, the guards stepping aside to let Stilgar in. He bows to Paul.

“Lisan Al-Ghaib…”

Your friend’s mouth flattens into a thin line. 

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

Stilgar acquiesces. He will never stop addressing Paul with reverence and admiration. None of his followers believes in him more. At times, it scares you a little. While you share the same faith, the fervor with which every Fedaykin is willing to lay their swords in his name can be frightening. Sometimes you wonder if Chani was right. How much will it take to liberate your world? How much blood will require spilling? You’re not completely naive. No war was ever won without a few casualties. Still, part of you hopes the war will end soon and peaceful times will come.

“No sign of her?” Paul asks. 

A contrite expression tugs the older man’s face.

“Apologies, my liege. We scouted the Southern regions this time. We couldn’t find her. She knows the desert well. It is home to us Fremen. She will not be found…”

“...Unless she wants to be found,” you finish, grabbing the empty cup from Paul’s hands and placing it back on the table.

The faint embers of hope in Paul’s cobalt gaze flicker out. Your heart sinks, for both you and him. Though you do not wish to burden him, you miss your cousin too. Her practicality and common sense. Her strength. Without her, a piece of you is missing. A crucial one. Your mother died in childbirth and your father in battle, so both of you grew up together, close enough in age to share secrets and play together for most of your childhood. 

It was Chani who taught you how to summon a worm and ride upon its back for the first time. She is the sister tragic circumstances blessed you with.

Stilgar apologizes profusely once more before taking his leave.

As soon as he’s gone, Paul’s shoulders slump.

“She hates me.” 

You crouch beside him.

“She doesn’t hate you. She never could. She is your quiet in the storm, and you are hers. She will return when she is ready.”

A wry laugh escapes his lips. 

“I have Irulan, my beloved wife, who is likely plotting my demise as we speak. Qizarate missionaries pressing me to take action and purge the non-believers on Aldinor. I am surrounded by foes, everywhere I look.” That distant expression he gets whenever his visions haunt him touches his face. “Blades pointed at my neck at all times, waiting for a sign of weakness to strike.”

You grab his hand, reassuring him, “You also have friends, Usul, who believe in your cause.”

“Fanatics,” he corrects bitterly. 

Your chest swells with worry. You don’t like it when he questions himself as such. His cause is right. He freed Arrakis from the Harkonnen’s iron-fisted rule. He will bring peace to every world in the universe. It is written. It’s the only path forward.

“You are not alone.” His fingers squeeze around yours. Warmth rushes to your face, the realization that you’re awfully close to the Emperor striking you. You adjust the nezhoni scarf covering your hair and rise. “I shall let you rest, my Lord.”

“Stay, please.”

His tone is beseeching. Your gaze swings to the window. There, moon beams pierce through the colorful glass, scattering rainbow splashes of light across the floor. Vibrant stars pepper the dark sky, pearls lost in a sea of ink. It’s pitch black outside. You should be in your own room. Not his.

“Muad’Dib, it’s late…”

His grip on your hand tightens. When he speaks again, his tone is different. Disembodied. Powerful. Its tantalizing echo drips inside your head like honey. 

“Stay,” he mumbles. You plop down on the bed, your body moving on its own, driven by the strange, irresistible thrall of Paul’s voice.

“Usul…” 

He cups your cheeks. 

“Sleep beside me tonight.”

“I’m not her.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

“She should be with me and she isn’t. But you are.” His inflection becomes soft and inviting as he drinks you in. As if he were lumbering through the desert, parched and desperate, and you were a well overflowing with fresh water. “You are beautiful. I never noticed before.” He pauses, tracing your bottom lip. “Perhaps I should have.”

You blink, dazed. When did Paul’s face get so close to yours? You can outline each of his long lashes, the speckles of green lingering in his blue eyes. 

“Paul-”

His mouth grazes yours, his thumb stroking your cheeks. It only lasts a few seconds. The warm plushness of his lips on yours yanks you back to reality. You gasp and flinch back. When you recoil, his silky tone fills your ears once more.

“Don’t fight it. You love me, remember?”

A confused whisper slips through your lips. Two parts of your mind wrestle with Paul’s words. 

“I do?”

His eyes dive into yours.

“Of course, you do.”

“Of course I do,” you repeat, his tone nudging aside the doubts lurking inside your mind. 

A bright smile unfurls on his lips, his lids sagging to half-mast.

“It’s like you said before. You are my quiet in the storm and I am yours.”

Right. You uttered those very same words. How could you forget?

You are Paul’s quiet in the storm. He is yours.

His mouth covers yours. It moves slowly against your own. He explores your mouth as he cradles your face. His long lashes fall over his cheekbones as he loses himself in your taste. He hums against your lips, gentle fingers touching your face. You don’t move, eyes half-open as you let it happen. It’s foreign, the sensation of Paul’s lips on yours. Foreign and strange yet you can’t help but numbly accept it. 

Once he frees your lips, he rests his forehead against yours. 

“Come into my arms, my love,” he says.

You don’t resist as he pulls you into his embrace, nudging you onto the bed. Soft strands of Paul’s brown mane brush against your cheek as he buries his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling your spice-coated scent. 

His arms circle your waist. Your back melds against his chest, the warmth of your bodies mingling through the thin layers of your clothes. 

“You smell so good,” he mutters. Your scarf shifts when he rubs his face against it. “Don’t ever leave me.”

When you don’t reply, his tone gets firmer. “Promise it.”

The words roll off your tongue easily.

“I won’t ever leave you, Paul.”

Tension leaks out of his tightly coiled muscles. 

“Good,” he says, drifting off to sleep quickly with you nestled in his snug embrace. 

You fall asleep too, no thoughts in your head, Paul’s soft snores lulling you into peaceful slumber. 

You awake with a start, the stark unfamiliarity of the palatial chambers you find yourself in causing your pulse to soar. Your eyes dart about the room. Recognition hits you. These are the Emperor’s apartments.

Your eyes grow wide. You’re not supposed to be here. Panic sets in.

“W-What am I doing here?”

Paul’s quiet voice flows across your back.

“Calm down.”

“No. I shouldn’t be here…”

You start crawling off the bed but Paul’s fingers around your wrist impede your departure. 

He holds your face, vibrant blue eyes locking with yours. You find yourself incapable of looking away, ensnared by his unflinching focus.

“I said, Calm down.”

The alarms ringing inside your head fall quiet. You lean into Paul’s touch. What were you doing? What were you thinking? Every thought you attempt to grasp at evaporates in the heat of Muad’Dib’s stare. 

“There. Much better,” he coos, satisfaction hovering on his handsome face. His voice sinks into a sensual whisper. “Why don’t you kneel for me?”

You do as he instructs. Then all fades to black as quicksands of confusion engulf your thoughts. 

When you return to yourself, you aren’t on the bed anymore, but on your knees on the carpeted floor. 

Paul is looming over you, grunting, his throat bobbing. One of his hands is curled around your nape while the other is under your jaw. 

You note the saltiness coating your tongue, the drool on your chin, the soreness in the back of your throat. 

You choke on his length, air wavering inside your lungs. 

Paul’s cock is in your mouth. 

The sick, awful realization tumbles over you like a bag of stones. 

Muffled moans leave you as you lift pleading eyes towards him.

You place your hands on his thighs, shoving with all your strength. 

Paul doesn’t let you move. He cradles your face and thrusts inside your mouth until his balls are pressed into your chin. 

Clouds of lust obscure his gaze as it falls upon you. 

He caresses your face, dragging his cock out before pushing it inside your mouth again. Gurgled sounds leave your throat. Tears skip down your cheeks and you wonder when you’ve started crying. 

Fremen do not cry. Ever. Even for the dead. It is a rare, sacred act.

Paul wipes them off your face with his thumbs. 

“You love me. It is what lovers do,” he says matter-of-factly.

Your body relaxes. 

Right. Of course. You love him. It is what lovers do. 

You hollow your cheeks and suck him off. He unleashes a throaty sigh of delight as you pleasure him with your mouth. 

When his seed drips down your tongue, he coaxes you not to waste a single drop. You swallow all of it, showing no resistance when he nudges a stray drop between your wet lips. 

Several days in a row, you awake in the emperor’s chambers. At first, you experience great confusion. However, Paul’s soothing words always quell your rising panic. It becomes all you know. The Emperor’s mesmerizing voice. His large, soft bed. His ceaseless, ravenous touch. 

Sweaty, tangled limbs melting in lewd harmony.

You stop questioning it. Even the strange lapses of time when you are in one room and mysteriously wind up in another. It isn’t rare for you to wake up with the Emperor’s head bobbing between your thighs, greedily lapping at your folds, or with your hips grinding into his as he impales you on his cock. 

It is where you belong. And you believe him when he says that, mumbling loving promises into your ear in the dead of night.

“If we do not strike fast and hard, they will not accept your rule,” Stilgar says. 

“They worship a false god. We are doing them a favor,” another man sitting at the table interjects. 

A shaky exhale flows from your tongue. You look around, dismay filling you when you realize you’re in Paul’s war room amidst a council meeting. Your head throbs. How did you get here?

You rise from your chair. Bemused gazes land on you. 

Princess Irulan snickers from her seat.

“Husband, your concubine is acting strange,” she sneers.

Concubine? You step away from the table.

You blink several times as you stumble outside. You grip your temples, your forehead scrunching. That cannot be right. Is it? 

You are no one’s concubine. 

You are…

You are…

Adrenaline pumps through your blood as your head buzzes. 

The answer will not come, your mind keeping it under firm lock and key.

Frustration mounts within you. You blindly waddle around.

You end up in a room that bears vague familiarity. You lean against a basin full of water. Water…just lying around. That seems strange.

Your eyes land on a mirror on the opposite wall. The reflection in the glass has your heart rate spiking. Who is this?

You bolt to your feet, the water in the basin splashing around your feet. 

Your tremulous fingers rise to your face, horror filling you when the woman in the mirror mimicks your exact motions. 

Your gaze travels across the wide, open space. Quick breaths rush from your throat. The Emperor’s room. Why did you think it was your room? 

You stagger backwards. You gasp as you bump into a solid form.

You whirl, eyes widening.

“Paul.”

He gauges you, slight concern etched in his blue eyes. Relief fills you as you soak in his boyish, slender features, much more familiar than those of the stranger in the mirror. 

You know Paul. Muad’Dib. Paul is familiar, safe. You trust him. He will tell you who you are.

“Yes, my love?”

“Paul, who am I?”

A displeased frown settles on his brow. He approaches you and grabs your face. His expression hardens.

“You are mine. Nothing else matters.”

“But Paul-”

Your protests are stifled by the feverish press of his lips on yours. A fog surrounds your thoughts as his kiss grows more passionate, his hands sweeping over your curves. You place your hand on his chest, pushing feebly.  

“Forget it. Forget it all, beloved,” he mumbles against your lips. You sag against him. You drown in Paul’s blue eyes, time stretching beyond eternity. 

When you gain a semblance of awareness, your naked form is writhing above Paul’s. Your palms are spread over his lithe muscles, your hips moving as he slams his cock into your cunt repetitively. Paul bites his lip, his gaze glued to the sight of his length disappearing between your wet folds. 

When did you get on the bed? When did you shed your clothes?

Every inquiry melts in the heat swirling across your damp flesh. 

Your lashes flutter as you unleash a broken whimper, Paul’s hard length touching you in places that send electricity rippling through your spine.

You tighten around him and he purrs. 

“Remember nothing but my name,” he rasps, clutching your hips possessively. He impales you on his length, thrusting faster. You choke on your breath, his quickening pace driving you wild.

You brace yourself on his chest and lose yourself in the pleasure, your breath hitching each time he pounds into you.

The filthy sounds of your coupling fill the room, bouncing off the stone walls. Paul’s deep, animalistic moans. Your soft, desperate whimpers. The blunt, wet sounds your cunt makes as he buries himself inside you. The bed rattling and squeaking under your writhing forms.

“Paul, Paul…” you pant as you bounce on his cock. An intensity ignites his eyes as his name falls from your tongue like a prayer. You toss your head back, voice dying in your throat as another wave of pleasure crashes over you. Your toes flex. You tremble, your body jolting as your slick walls flutter around his length. A husky moan leaves him. He twitches inside you. His back lifts from the sheets, his body tensing as he hits his peak too. Slick warmth spills from his tip, glazing your walls. 

An errant sliver of panic lurks inside your brain. Your eyes bulge as you glance down at where your body and Paul’s are conjoined. Rapid breaths burst from your chest.

Seeming to sense your distress, he shoves your hips back down when you try to squirm away.

His authoritative voice booms across the room, unnatural, multiplied. Everywhere at once. 

“Do not move, beloved. Let me fill you up. Make you mine in every way.”

Your breaths settle down. Your worries disappear. You look into Paul’s loving gaze. A smile unfans on his lips as you ride him with abandon again.

“What are you doing?”

You pivot at the abrupt sound of Paul’s voice. You pause above the bag you’re packing. You peer at him, mulling over an appropriate answer to his question. You do not find one. You only know that you stirred awake that morning, feeling strange, sore…Lost. The urge to collect your meager belongings and leave the Arrakeen Keep seared inside you since then. A hollow, distant voice rings inside your head.

Return to Sietch Tabr.

“I have to go. Something…Something isn’t feeling right.”

The muscles of Paul’s jaw flare, his tone as ice as he states, “You want to leave me.”

Discarding your bag, you rush to him. You take his hands in yours.

“No. I made you a promise. I just need time to think…I can’t think anymore, Paul.”

It’s true. Every day feels like trudging through a Coriolis storm, your thoughts scattering as dust in the wind the minute they form.

Everything that was solid before is now sand slipping through your fingers.

Paul’s gaze corrals yours.

“You don’t need to,” he says, gripping your face. His tone dips to a soft lilt that penetrates your senses. “Who are you?”

You search his eyes. A breeze blows away every single doubt you had.

The answer to every inquiry you had is right there. In Paul’s fond stare.

The persistent little voice in your head, that pesky plea begging to be heard suddenly falls quiet. The truth echoes in your head, Paul’s powerful voice filling your mind.

You are right where you belong. 

“I’m yours,” you utter with certainty.

His face softens. “That is correct, my love,” he says, stroking your cheek.

“Now, why don’t you settle down, beloved?” You let him escort you to the bed, coaxing you to take a seat on the sheets. “Agitating yourself as such isn’t good for you.”

He sinks to the floor and drops a gentle kiss over your round belly.

“And it’s not good for the baby either.”

[aeth-eris]

★ aries moon: burnt sienna feels like desert sands at dusk, rugged and warm, with a raw intensity that draws you in. it carries the energy of clay pots hardened in fire, bold and unbreakable, yet shaped by the hands that mold it. aries moons reflect this untamed aesthetic, their emotions erupting with the fierce vitality of something freshly forged. their love burns hot and immediate, like the glow of embers in the dark, and their anger is primal, quick to ignite but just as quick to cool. burnt sienna inspires action—a charge forward, unafraid of the scars that passion leaves.

★ taurus moon: rose gold is the quiet luxury of a soft-lit room, glowing with warmth and understated elegance. it’s the sheen of polished metal, the gentle curve of something crafted with care, timeless and grounding. taurus moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions wrapped in a soothing steadiness that feels like home. their love is rich and tangible, like velvet under fingertips or the scent of fresh roses. they crave beauty that endures, a life touched by comfort and stability. rose gold whispers of devotion that lingers, of love that doesn’t shout but instead holds you gently, unshaken by chaos.

★ gemini moon: periwinkle is the pastel buzz of ideas, soft and curious, flitting between lavender clouds and pale blue skies. it feels like delicate notebooks filled with sketches, like laughter drifting across a summer breeze. gemini moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions light and playful, shifting like watercolors blending on paper. their love is full of questions, their heart a kaleidoscope of wonder, always seeking new connections. periwinkle reminds us that emotions don’t need to be heavy to be meaningful—they can dance lightly, like petals falling from a tree, leaving beauty in their wake without needing to stay.

★ cancer moon: seafoam green feels like the pull of tides under a silver moon, gentle yet immense, quiet yet infinite. it’s the shimmer of waves against soft sand, the cool embrace of ocean foam lapping at your ankles. cancer moons carry this aesthetic in their hearts, their emotions vast and ever-shifting, like the sea in all its moods. their love is a haven, protective and nurturing, like driftwood washed ashore—a reminder of safety after the storm. seafoam green whispers of connection that runs deep, of feelings that ebb and flow but never truly leave, anchoring us in their rhythm.

★ leo moon: goldenrod is sunlight spilling through open windows, radiant and bold, filling every corner with life. it’s the brilliance of gilded frames and the warmth of golden hour, a color that exudes confidence and charm. leo moons wear this aesthetic in their emotions, their love bright and unapologetic, their joy contagious. they live for moments that shine, for affection that feels like applause, for connections that make their heart blaze like the sun. goldenrod is a reminder that love, when shared freely, becomes something luminous—a source of warmth and inspiration for everyone who stands in its light.

★ virgo moon: moss green is the quiet perfection of dew-laden leaves, soft and grounding, a color steeped in the serenity of nature. it’s the texture of moss between stones, the scent of earth after rain, unassuming but rich with life. virgo moons reflect this aesthetic in their emotions, careful and deliberate, tending to feelings like a gardener nurturing fragile blooms. their love is shown in small, thoughtful acts, steady as ivy climbing a wall. moss green teaches us that growth is often quiet, that strength can be soft, and that emotions, like the earth, are most powerful when rooted deeply.

★ libra moon: blush pink feels like the soft sweep of a silk scarf, delicate and refined, with a grace that lingers. it’s the glow of twilight skies fading into pastel hues, the gentle charm of petals falling from a flower. libra moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions flowing like brushstrokes on a canvas, always seeking balance and beauty. their love feels effortless, a harmony that soothes and inspires. blush pink reminds us of the power in subtlety—how emotions can be tender yet transformative, quiet yet deeply felt. it’s the elegance of connection, the warmth of a heart longing for peace.

★ scorpio moon: black cherry is velvet cloaked in shadow, a rich and moody red that whispers of mystery. it’s the sheen of dark wine in a glass, the depth of candlelight flickering against crimson curtains. scorpio moons carry this aesthetic in their emotions, raw and intense, like secrets waiting to be revealed. their love is transformative, a force that pulls you into their depths, where passion and vulnerability intertwine. black cherry reminds us that beauty often lies in darkness, that the most profound emotions are found in the shadows. it’s a color that captivates, much like the scorpio moon’s soul.

★ sagittarius moon: amber glows like resin catching the light, warm and golden, infused with ancient energy. it’s the warmth of lanterns strung in the night, the firelight reflected in curious eyes. sagittarius moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions burning with a restless optimism, always seeking the next horizon. their love is expansive, radiating joy and laughter, their heart untethered and alive. amber teaches us that emotions don’t need to be confined—they are meant to be explored, celebrated, and shared. it’s a color of hope, of adventure, a reminder that the journey is as important as the destination.

★ capricorn moon: slate gray is the polished elegance of stone, cool and timeless, a color that stands unshaken. it’s the stillness of mountain peaks cloaked in mist, the quiet resilience of marble weathered by time. capricorn moons wear this aesthetic in their hearts, their emotions steady and reserved, their love enduring and practical. they don’t express feelings with grandeur but through actions that speak louder than words. slate gray reminds us that strength is often quiet, that emotions can be profound without being loud. it’s the beauty of constancy, the comfort of knowing some things remain solid and true.

★ aquarius moon: electric teal hums with energy, vivid and magnetic, a color that feels like it’s always on the verge of transformation. it’s the glow of neon lights against a dark cityscape, the shimmer of holograms that feel just out of reach. aquarius moons carry this aesthetic in their emotions, their feelings charged with creativity and innovation. their love is unconventional, valuing freedom and individuality, their heart sparking with ideas that change the world around them. electric teal reminds us that emotions can be futuristic, that they don’t need to fit into traditional molds to be meaningful and powerful.

★ pisces moon: lavender mist drifts like a dream, soft and ethereal, a color that feels like moonlight wrapped in haze. it’s the shimmer of starlight on still waters, the quiet magic of dawn breaking through the clouds. pisces moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions boundless and fluid, like waves dissolving into the horizon. their love is empathetic and transcendent, weaving itself into the hearts of others like a whispered melody. lavender mist teaches us that emotions don’t need to be fully understood to be beautiful. it’s the quiet wonder of feeling deeply, of connecting with something greater than ourselves.

★ book a reading ★ ★ masterlist 1 ★ ★ masterlist 2 ★

[aestheticanimegirl15]

You want to know someone who would be an absolute menace in the kitchen? No its not Johnny who always is sneaking palmfulls of flour to throw at you or leaving flour marks on your tits or ass. No, it's not Simon who is always hovering around you and manages to stand directly in the way of every counter or ingredient you need. Kyle is actually pretty helpful, handing you what you need or taste testing it in-between wandering touches.

It's Price. Not because of anything that he does but because of what he doesn't do. He just stands there watching every move you make with crossed arms as he smokes a cigar by the only open window in the kitchen. Needless to say, it's irritating. You always tell him that if he is gonna be in the kitchen, the lest he could do is help. But he never dose, he just stands there or sits down at the dining room table like some sort of king and just watches.

Not only does it irritate you, but it's the way that he looks at you that is the real menace of the whole situation. Staring at you like you are a better meal than the one you're preparing. He keeps raking his eyes over you in a way that makes you squirm because you know exactly what he's looking at. It makes you feel like some sort of meek housewife whose only purpose in life is to serve her husband. Which at times doesn't seem like such a bad idea, until it's like this.

The way he just watches you makes a heat bloom in your core, as another one blooms in your cheeks. It makes you squirm as you stir the sizzling vegetables in the cast iron, thighs pressing together underneath the (his) shirt you were wearing. He knows what he's doing too, wearing such a cocky smirk on his lips that makes you not able to decide if you want to smack him or kiss him. But he never acts on the way he's making you feel. Oh no, he waits until after the two of you are done eating.

He knows you won't fight it when he pulls you into his lap once you finish cleaning the table off. The bastard knows how worked up he made you from all his staring. He'll mumble something about desert, and if you actually made one, he'll shake his head

"Not the desert. I'm wanting, sweetheart." He'll reply, and then next thing you know he's got, you splayed out on the kitchen table with his head absolutely buried in your thighs. If it weren't for the fact you just fed him a full meal, you would have thought he was starving with the way he was devouring you, moaning and groaning like he was the one on the receiving end. Mumbling praises about both you and your cooking skills, no matter how good or bad they are. And he won't stop until your conculsing under him while stars dance across your vision. Then you hear the fumbling of a belt buckle and a scrape of a chair across the floor

"Now that I'm full, let's have some fun yea?"

So yea. Out of every one of them, he's the biggest menance, always making sure you're waking up the next day with a sore body and a limp.

[heritageposts]

Harris has been a staunch supporter of Israel for years. In 2017 she addressed the American Israel Public Affairs Committee’s (AIPAC) annual conference and reminded attendees that the first resolution she co-sponsored as a senator was aimed at combating “anti-Israel bias” at the United Nations. “Let me be clear about what I believe. I stand with Israel because of our shared values, which are so fundamental to the founding of both our nations,” she told the crowd. In 2018 she gave an off-the-record speech to the organization, but eventually released her comments. In that speech she claimed that she raised money for the Jewish National Fund as a Girl Scout. “Having grown up in the Bay area, I fondly remember those Jewish National Fund boxes that we would use to collect donations to plant trees for Israel,” she told the audience. “Years later, when I visited Israel for the first time, I saw the fruits of that effort and the Israeli ingenuity that has truly made a desert bloom.”

For those unfamiliar with the Jewish National Fund (JNF), they're a Zionist organization that has been instrumental in the ethnic cleansing of Palestine.

See Stop the JNF for more information on their history, the way they operate, and their decades-long campaign of greenwashing (i.e. destroying native plants, crops, and agriculture under the banner of 'making the desert bloom').

Continuing, the Mondoweiss article goes:

“The vast majority of people understand the importance of the State of Israel,” she added later. “Both in terms of its history and its present in terms of being a source of inspiration on so many issues, which I hope we will talk about, and also what it means in terms of the values of the United States and those values that are shared values with Israel, and the importance of fighting to make sure that we protect and respect a friend, one of the best friends we could possibly have.” While running for President in 2019, Harris was praised by the lobbying group Democratic Majority for Israel (DMFI) for running to the right of Obama on the Iran deal. On the campaign trail Harris told Kat Wellman, a voter affiliated with DMFI, that she would reenter the agreement but “strengthen it” by “extending the sunset provisions, including ballistic missile testing, and also increasing oversight.” “I was very impressed with her. I thought she gave an excellent speech, she gave a very detailed, responsive answer to my question,” Wellman told a local paper after the exchange. “I’m pro-Israel, so I was I was very concerned and all about making sure we limit nuclear missiles in any country that could possibly destroy us all. I thought her answer was very good.” Harris has condemned the BDS movement and claimed that is “based on the mistaken assumption that Israel is solely to blame for the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.” However, she voted against an anti-BDS bill in 2019 citing First Amendment concerns.

For the full article, which includes Kamala's response to Israel post Al-Aqsa Flood, see Mondoweiss (July 22, 2024)

[legalmente-loca]

Wet Dreams

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Summary: Dean dreams of you... And pie.

Word Count: 1,370

Tags/Warnings: +18, smut, food play.

Dean found himself sitting on a couch in the middle of a room in which the colors of the walls didn’t matter because in front of him he had you.

You were naked, your visible skin stood out and he could already feel its softness on his fingertips. He looked you up and down slowly, with interest. But he noticed that in front of each of your breasts and your pussy was a portion of cherry pie. He also didn’t care that it didn’t make sense because, again, it was about you, naked.

“Hey, beautiful.” His eyes never left your body and your exposed skin, clearly enjoying the view.

You smiled, one of those smiles that lights up the room, that cheers up the saddest person or makes flowers bloom in the desert, just how Dean would describe it. It was at that moment that he noticed that you had both hands behind your back, hiding something as you walked towards him.

“I did something to you.” You pulled out a peach pie, placing it in front of Dean, a portion already cut.

“Oh, wow.” He said with emotion. “Did you do this for me?

He reached out to grab the slice, but before he could even touch it, you slapped his hand and grabbed the slice before bringing it to his lips.

“Come on, have a bite.” You murmured seductively.

He took a bite, licking the tips of your fingers in the process. He chewed under your careful observation and you ran your hands up and down his arms. The pie seemed to have disappeared as if by magic.

“Now, I have other pies you can eat.” You smiled sideways as you brought a finger under his chin.

Dean raised an eyebrow, looking you up and down.

“I’m going to devour them, honey.”

He kept his hands on the armrests, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dying to touch you. You sat astride him, running your hands over his chest, which was bare. But now that he saw better, he was all naked. His cock was getting harder by the second, rising between them, and the chair he was sitting on became a bed.

You bit your bottom lip mischievously and gave him a push, causing him to lie down on the bed, the springs making noise under the sudden movement.

“Do you want me, Dean?”

“Of course I want you, darling.” He murmured without even thinking, moving his hands to your hips.

You brought your face closer to his, Dean looking down briefly at your lips. You weren’t wearing lipstick, but they were red as cherries. He could imagine himself nibbling on them endlessly to see how red they could get.

“I want you too.” You whispered before closing the space between the two of you and kissing him.

He took the opportunity to feel you with his hands, running them along your lower back and down your legs again, your skin being as soft and perfect as he knew it would be.

The kiss was passionate, almost desperate as you ran your hands down his arms. Dean moved his mouth away and then placed it on your neck, lightly nibbling and licking your skin as if you were a human pie.

“God, you’re so good, Dean.” You moaned, placing one hand on his chest while you moved the other to his member, vaguely stroking it. "So good."

He moaned lowly, moving his hands down to your ass and giving it a squeeze.

“Yes, come on, honey, be a good girl and put it in.”

You stood up slightly, lining him up towards your center. Dean noticed how the pie that rested in front of your pussy had a hole for his cock and watched in wonder as it passed perfectly, entering you slowly to feel each sensation intensely.

“Oh, fuck-” He searched your gaze, moving a hand to the back of your neck. “Yeah, go on, doll, you can do it.”

You sat up fully, letting out a low moan and resting your forehead on his. You quickly settled into a steady, desperate pace, as if you had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

“That’s it, baby.” He groaned, closing his eyes for a moment to enjoy it better.

He moved his hands to your lower back, caressing it with his thumbs as he moved his head away from yours, trailing his lips down your neck to one of your breasts, licking his lips at the pie in front of him and beginning to eat it.

“Oh, God, Dean.” You moaned, closing your eyes and stroking his hair as you continued to lean forward, practically bouncing on him.

But he continued eating, revealing your breast with each bite taken. His mouth was stained with remains of the pie just like your skin, the cherry around his mouth as he sank into you. Dean just couldn’t take it, he needed everything from you.

The moans of both filled the room plus the sounds that came from the union of their bodies. The touch of the cake around its base and the comforting warmth from your insides were enough to bring him closer to the limit much sooner than desired.

“Dean, Dean, Dean…” you repeated over and over again.

“Baby…” Starting to move his hips upwards and hugging you tighter as he let out a grunt.

“Dean… Dean… Hey, Dean!”

Dean raised his head suddenly, making you jump and moving your hand away from his shoulder that you were moving.

“Are you OK?” You asked, watching him carefully.

He looked around, realizing that he was in the library, sitting. He looked at himself and, unfortunately, he had clothes on. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

“I…” he returned his gaze to you and did not let the disappointment show on his face when he noticed that you were dressed. “Yes, I… I just closed my eyes for a moment.”

One side of his face still had the mark of his arm from sleeping on it and he could obviously feel that he was rock hard under his jeans. He shifted slightly in discomfort.

You had taken off your headphones to wake him up and Dean could hear the low sound of the music. Cherry Pie. A song that he himself had recommended to you some time ago, and he felt a tingle in his lower abdomen at the memory of the dream.

“Sure you’re okay?” You wanted to make sure. “You look a little… Taken aback.”

“I-I’m great.” He tried to smile and gave you a thumbs up.

“Okay…” You nodded your head slowly and sighed. “Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I did something for you.”

“Oh, yeah? For me?”

“Of course. I made you a pie.” You smiled.

Dean choked on his own saliva at that point and started coughing.

“Well, I think that’s a bit of an exaggerated reaction, don’t you think?” You tried to laugh, but something about his attitude was strange to you.

He cleared his throat and took a few moments to breathe before returning his attention to you.

“A pie.”

“Yep, a pie.”

“Like… A pie, pie?”

“As the only kind of pie that my knowledge reaches.” You raised an eyebrow. You didn’t know what was happening to him, maybe he had had a nightmare.

He nodded and ran a hand through his hair.

“Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll go in a moment.”

You stared at him carefully for a few seconds before nodding your head.

“I’ll be waiting for you.” You turned to leave.

“By the way, not that it matters, but… What flavor of pie is it?”

You turned around to look at him.

“Cherry.”

“Oh…”

“Come on, hurry up before it gets cold.” You left the room.

“Yes, would never miss it.” He muttered to himself.

He ran his hands over his face and shook his head.

“Son of a bitch…”

If Dean concentrated hard enough, he could still feel the taste of your pie in his mouth and the feel of your fingers on his lips.

He stood up and stretched, rattling some bones.

“Well… Time to eat.” He rubbed his hands and headed to the kitchen, where you were waiting for him with a smile and the cherry pie in front of you.

“Come on, have a bite.” You said with emotion, but Dean couldn’t stop remembering the dream and that he would do everything possible to replicate it.

Dean Winchester One Shots

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