#more people need to be drawing him with spurs i think

[justbelievinginmagic]

omg literally was kicking my feet reading your comments!!! i sincerely appreciate and enjoyed it!!!!

i'll place my response under a read more bc i got so much to say hehe

im so flattered you fell asleep while reading!!! its mean you really wanted to read it!! ive fallen asleep to my fave fics so it really made me smile!!

and yes!!! i've been waiting to see if someone noticed hehe. I was so happy you did! the pineapple scent fits him too i feel! ive actually looked into their real perfumes/colognes (from what google says is their perfumes/scents) and referenced what they actually wear! apparently hongjoong does have a pineapple undertone perfume o_o <3 i love him. hes the sweet tangy boy lol. im happy you like their scents!!

SAN IS SO SOFT. i love big strong men who are soft sweethearts. he isssss so soft for all his loves. youll see how the others want to wrap him up in pillows and blankies soon! ateez loves him.

and omg everytime i write san drinking im just like hes a lightweight. hes giggling. hes blushing. hes just keeping it under control. hes gotta be Cool.

Alleyway Scene!! Mingi is right!! but if its hwa or joong.... that'll have to be seen.

i do have to say i thought about yn remembering their voices. For both jongho and the alley scene men. but i eventually was like ehhhh lets have drama lol.

JONGHO IS BABY. he deserves a meetcute. and im happy that the maknae whisper was a good leeway!! I didnt want him to give away his name for a while but eventually thought JH would introduce himself.

I wanted her to freak out - i think she was kinda in her head so she was more ready to get out of there. but i wanted her to notice that he knew her name before she gave it!! spooooky.

woo is just so downbad in love. hes like ill do anything swanette. i really liked that angel between two demons line too!! i also think its fun bc hongjoong's lil nickname for her will be angel (like we saw in the chpt 3 flash to the future bit)

aw im happy you like her fidgeting! i try to make them feel as real as possible. people fidget and self soothe and have tells for when they lie. body language is hard to get across in writing imo but i hope these help to show how she is feeling to the people around her too.

san icing her legs will be pEAK. it was a spur of a moment idea and i was liek i gotta write this or else ill go insane!

thats an interesting point!! do they want her to need them - want them?? i feel like its definitely good and toxic. bc they are totally pushing limits to see what she is comfy with.

i read yandere fics and im like this is fine, knowing like no its not lol. right now there are totally red flags from all of the boys but woosan feels sweet rn still. so much is still blurred i feel that i dont blame yn for being swoonful.

wooyo is a softie jokester. he wants to live life comfy, casual, worryfree.

tall and taller, my boysssss!! its totally yungi! theyre planning something that definitely is setting butterfly effects off.

wooyoung being just a tease is my fave thing. he wants attention from everyone lol.

ooo s rings for seonghwa is a fun idea but i will reveal the story behind this one lol. this was to allude to it being mingi. i took inspo from the S/$ necklace he wears in the MV and the line that says "Draw a line on the name and take the won and dollars" for his name sake S/$ and M/₩. i thought an $ necklace would be a bit tacky lolol so i made it a ring instead to imply Song Mingi.... though there is more to this story i'll keep quiet for now haha.

BUT CLAIMING THINGS FROM SEONGHWA IS A BIG EYES IDEA.

Jongho loves the arts! he wanted to see what was up!! hes just a bit more suave - he knows she'd be checking out the box if he sat there.

Julia is definitely showing the more give and take of the boudoir. she wants to be more than the system she is locked into but was mean about it for sure to yn. its good advice but said badly i think. and for sure yn thinks woosan and her are different!

aaa i like that you noticed that about introvert/extrovert/outings/privacy! and also wy loves yn he loves that shes clever and caring and listening!! hes really whipped.

jooongie will make it known for sure one day! and its an interesting idea! hes been very private so far in the story - canonically he hasnt even been to the show yet (if im remembering my own writing correctly lol). why would he give her a coat? is it just a coat or is it more? why is he letting all of the boys be so captivated by her?

the necklace being tugged was a comment reply!! someone said it made them think of a collar which was not the initial implication - but then ...

i was hooked on the idea and had to add it!

I really love reading the comments you are sharing!! im literally giggling and clapping my hands!! it made my night!! i appreciate it so much!!

«hes mine just as wooyoung and you are mine» that is the dream. oh to be sans and be wrapped up in his big ol chest.

yeosang is going to be featured more heavily next chapter and im like metaphorically glaring at him likes hes a bad cat rn haha. hes unhinged but also same. i need a soft hug from good cat yeosang.

and gosh this is so sweet im so happy you are enjoying!!!!!!!!!!

san is Gentleman. He likes the glitz and glamour and pretty things on his arms.

YN just wants to be star

i love love love strong yeosang, doberman yeosang. hes got an aura around him even if he is soft boy

like hes got an intensity even if hes gentle/cutesy/demur

yeahhhhhhh san wishes it was an easier answer than prima.

she is very innocent. i try to balance it so people arent annoyed or think of her as a mary sue. BUT i dont think she'd assume mafia first and foremost. there isnt really that in this town. small town gangs, rich conglomerates, ateez is a new force.

lolol about the newspaper guy!

ys just wants to spend time with heeeeeerrrrrrrrr and it got all messed up later. he will spend more time with her for sure!! like i said hes wild in the next chapter imo.

mingi my shaylllaaaaaaa. hes soooo alrfafgvafnvlnaflv i want to squeeze him. i LOVE cute mingi. i love bashful kind silly smile mingi beneath his sexy aura!!!

matz my loves. i wanted to include them in little ways this chapter. next chapter might not feature them yet depending on pacing but i love and miss them. im a matz girlie through and through.

aaaa oh my gawddddd thats all im saying about the tooth gems hehe!!!

everything reminds me of him. i love mv san.

i loved throwing in the kitty hehe. its just a strange thing in the mv to have this kitty prowling about imo. shes jongho!!

oooo im excited for an ask if you are still curious!!!

Yeosangs flower outfit!!! hes so cuteee and soft boy. i wanted him super soft before we see him ever in his sharp pinstriped suit.

i take a lot of things from the mv lol or the behind the scenes or the teasers!! they give me so much inspo!! im happy you are spotting them!!

wy and mg's scene in front of the desk is totally derived from mingi's moment at the desk in the mv!! a lot of people got confused thinking mingi was yunho/seonghwa since they've been delegated as higher in power buttttt mingi is at a desk in the mv... mingi has his ring kissed in the mv.....

hongjoong in iomt was first goofy looking and then I LOCKED THE FUCK IN. hes so fine. i love the hair. i love his cocky vibe. i love him FLOATING LIKE AN ANGEL. i just have to try to include those vibes from him and i thought a portrait painted in a Renaissance style would fit that!

im glad!! that gives me the ick too!! another ick that i get is when wooyo blows smoke in the butlers' faces as theyre walking in the foyer. i wanted to show that they really dgaf with other ppl.

he did say that >:((( he keeps calling her a doll and nows he like liking her. wooyo and san will tease yu haha. though i will note 1910s/20s doll was common for a girl as a nickname. i think he did mean it like "this doll, this broad *raised eyebrows*" though so the growls are warranted still.

yunho is the guard dog totally. hes here to sniff out trouble and set records straight! we can trust him...right?

i love yeowoosani! i love them theyre babies!!!!!!!

mingis just a boy, surrounded by boys. hes like "shit a lady is here and now i said shit oh shit i said it again D:<"

kitty z is precious and has done no wrong yn is just going through it.

im hoping to get another chapter out faster (even if my brain is like sludge with writing rn). these comments really inspire to me keep writing and get it out faster so thank you so much!! it really brightened my day!!!

like a waltz⎯ part 4: piqué.

pairing(s): ateez ot8 x fem!reader; this chapter focuses on all the boys & reader except my beloved matz :(( (their time is coming.) series summary: when 8 mysterious bachelors arrive to town and fall for your charms, will you be able to reach your goal to be prima ballerina or be dragged into a selfish waltz between love and obsession? glimpse: As trouble arises and your patrons spend more time with you, more attention gets locked on you. Their interest is thoroughly piqued by you. warnings/tags: inspired by Ateez’s Ice on my Teeth MV & Teasers, Mafia AU, Ballet AU, early 1900’s AU with some divergences in tech advancements (i.e rule of cool), 3rd person POV, use of YN, mxm, polyteez, MATURE topics, canon typical violence (choking, fighting, punching, etc), canon typical gore, blood, death, guns, explicit language, stalking, alcohol, smoking, bribery, lack of privacy, allusions to exploitation in ballet, implied sexual themes, suggestive themes, kissing, intimacy, angst, fluff, voyeurism sort of, obsession, infatuation, sugar daddy themes, unequal power dynamics, food descriptions, missing people, polyamory, pain, medical drug usage, traumatic injury, injuries, reader discretion advised & 18+ readers only! Let me know if I should tag anything else! word count: 20.4k previous chapter <- -> next chapter series masterlist

piqué ; french pronunciation: [piːk], ‘pricked’… or to stimulate interest or curiosity.

Creeping out of the stage-door hours after a performance was a normal thing for ballerinas. The alley way was something all the girls were familiar with just as they were with the foyer de la danse. Its damp cobblestone, nearby rotting trashcans, and the barely lit path was their red-carpet entrance. They were not allowed the luxury of entering through the grand doors of the opera house with its tall columns, brightly lit lamps, and the many steps towards its shiny, gold-painted extravagance The only days they were allowed to enter through the front doors were when the opera house was closed and they were rehearsing. The petit rats were only welcomed with glamour when the rich weren’t nearby. They had the back-entrance. This was the ugly underbelly of the pretty façade.

Dressed in her pretty coat and her warmest layers, she had said goodbye to San and Wooyoung ages ago. But then, the Madame had spoken to her and a few ballerinas in her office, relaying some notes, insisting on the girls performing the rectifications immediately. So, there they stood in the rehearsal room, satin-ribboned shoes laced up over thick winter stockings and their day-dresses on. The ballerinas repeated their motions: turning in pirouettes, performing jetes, and piquing across the hall. It was only after the city’s clock tolled twelve times that the Madame allowed them to stop with a slam of her cane into the wooden floorboards. Then, after confirming each dancer had paid their weekly bill (YN smiled, wiping sweat from her brow as she was told her patrons paid once more), they were allowed to leave. The other ballerinas had all scurried home by the time she had gathered her bag and coat once more.

It was late into the early hours, past midnight and not yet morning when she finally left the opera house and crept out into the alley.

Pushing the heavy door open with her shoulder, the chill of night soaked into her bones with a whoosh. Shivering a bit, she adjusted her pretty coat closer to her body and prepared herself for the walk home. Her boots click clacked on the icy pavement as she exited the mouth of the alley. Looking this way and that, the streets were abandoned. Seemingly abandoned. Some of the candle-lit lamps even had fizzled out in the evening with no leeries about to relight them. She continued to walk along, humming softly until she heard the noise. Loud panicked whispers. A crackling fire. The crinkling of a tin-barrel. The smell of smoke. Ahead of her, dark smoke was tumbling out of a nearby alleyway, firelight lighting the brick-walls. She paused, her foot-steps slowed.

Click. Clack.

“You fucked up the deal?” It was frightened.

Click, clank.

“I didn’t mean to; I didn’t mean to. Johnny stole some cash from them, and then-“

“I don’t care! We needed this deal – the money, before he arrives – before we all lose –“

There was the squealing of car wheels and the smell of hot gasoline in the air. YN froze, her footsteps stopping. A car door slammed open, and there was a new click-clank of boots. A startled yell, a shuffle of footsteps, voices overlapping; there was a thud of a body hitting the icy ground with a yell. YN held her breath.

“Gentlemen,” the newcomer’s voice was gravely. There were heavy footfalls and a scrambling sound of someone walking backwards. Something hit a tin-can.

“B-B-Boss.”

“Where is it?”

“Oh, about that –“ the other chuckled. 

“My money isn’t no laughing matter.” There was a thud like someone being shoved into a wall violently. The man groaned in pain. “You think I’m someone to be crossed? Where. Is. It?” the intimidating deep voice asked, lowly.

YN swallowed, frozen at the alley way’s entrance just out of view. When would she be able to pass? She needed to get out of here quiet and without being noticed. Or else… she was scared what would happen. This wasn’t the usual gang-dealings. Gangs would fight back, fist with fist. These men were scared.

“We can get it to you- We can- just give me some time, boss!”

“This is the second time,” the graveled voice grumbled; there was a low whistle, sharp and piercing.

And then it was quiet. There wasn’t even pleading, no whimpering.

Silence.

YN’s breath was held as she tentatively peered out from her spot. A sliver of her face was visible against the brickwork wall of the alley way. Smoke hazed the figures, but she could just make out the broad shoulders of the deep-voiced man, cornering another man to the brick wall. The man’s hand scratched at the many-ringed fingers that grasped his throat mercilessly. A gagging sound was heard. Not one of the gang-member’s allies moved to help them. Instead, they were all staring at the automobile.

A truck was reversed into the alley way. Black and large, it shined and flickered in the firelight. Its back-doors pushed open with a click, and men in dark masks tumbled out. Large, intimidating suited figures held bulky guns she had never seen before. YN had seen muskets, shotguns, and even a revolver once. These weren’t that. These were heavy, mechanical, and dangerous-looking. They piled into the alley, the metal of their weapons glinting in the firelight of the makeshift-barrel fire. The frightened figures strewn about the alley way were frozen-still; a few on the ground pleaded, praying. The masked men pointed their weapons at them warningly.

Her heart rate jumped.

This was more than just a gang fight – this seemed methodical. Frightened, her eyes darted to the other side of the alley, her path home just a few steps away. But she’d have to reveal herself… While they were distracted, she’d run. She would. She needed to get out of here quick. Like a mouse, she’d escape when the cats played with their prey.

There was the clink of a car door opening and a metallic thunk of it shutting firmly. A sigh echoed out into the air, disappointed.  

“Please, boss.” The figure held to the wall managed to splutter out.

His captor pushed him up the wall with a violent thud before finally letting go. The man gasped and gaped like a fish as the dark figure took a step backwards to look towards his accomplice. The figure exiting the car didn’t have the dark masks like the others. In this light and smoke, she could only make out the shape of him. Clean cut short hair, the trail of cigarette smoke, the gleam of his teeth. He tossed the cigarette to the icy floor.

Click, clack.

Click, clack.

Click, clack, BANG.

A gunshot went off. His hand was outstretched in a flash; the pistol in his grasp smoking. A man on the ground let out a yelp of pain; his blood splattered against ice and stone. His hand grasped at his leg helplessly in agony.

“Shall we send a message to your pals?” the new man insisted, cocking his red-hot gun again and aiming it at the man his companion had just released from a chokehold.

There was pleading; names babbled over one another until they were unrecognizable. “Sir! Mercy please!”

“I think we should,” the deep-voiced man commented, nearly growling out his words. “We knew you scum thought this was some game. And here you made it all messy.”

His teeth gleamed and glinted with his snarl.

“Let’s make it messy in return.” He finished, nodding at the other.

There was a signal, and the men fired at the others at the two tall figures��� command. Gunfire, loud, fast, and hot, blazed out across the alley way. Her voice escaped her, screaming out. Hiding quickly out of danger, YN jumped back.

“What’s that?” a voice bit out. “You got some dame in this? Find her. Get her!”

They had heard her. Ice flooded her veins. She turned to run, only to run face first into a broad chest. She screeched out again, her hand raising to muffle it. By the looks of his attire, he wasn’t one of the gang members from the alley way. No, this gentleman was dressed nicely in a midnight-black tuxedo with a black cummerbund sash around his waist like he had been at the opera house. His face was firm, almost furrow browed as he righted her with a careful hand on her shoulder. He couldn’t be in this mess; he looked so polished and unaware.

“Mis—” He didn’t get to finish his statement as she interrupted him. Her hands shoved unlady-like against his sturdy chest, wrinkling what had been previously a fine-pressed white button-up.

“We’ve got to get out of here.” She hushed. “Now!”

Her eyes dripped of innocence, of protectiveness. Her fear was palpable. His intense brown orbs met hers and, without hesitation, he nodded. Surprisingly, despite his height and stature, he let her push and pull him away from the alley way and back towards the front of the now-abandoned opera house. She tugged him by the hand up the stairs, so they could stand hidden by the columns. 

Her boots click clacked with each step of the stairs. More gunshots rang out; footsteps followed after them. She stumbled a bit, yelping; the mystery man’s free hand reached out to support her waist before he pulled her into the cover of the tall columns.

She could hear gunfire echo through the street, and she jumped with each bang, bang, bang. The stranger’s hand rose to duck her closer to the column rather than hide against it himself. Curling into herself, into the man’s side, the column, her eyes shut tight. This was a nightmare. The masked figures would surely come after them. They’d pull him away and then her, and what would happen next? She was shaking. There was yelling, shouting. She flinched. A loud whisper.

“Maknae?”

No reply. There was a crunching of snow, the moaning of men in pain. There was a long pause; she didn’t dare open her eyes. And then, there was the sound of footsteps walking away, heaving and thuds of something, and finally the squeal of car wheels going far away from the scene. The smell of gun-smoke and burnt rubber and gardenias (her rescuer’s cologne she realized) was all that was left.

A silence tumbled over the square like the cold water of an ocean’s tide, overwhelming and discombobulating. She stayed frozen for a long until a single finger poked at her shoulder.

“Miss?” he prompted softly; he shook her shoulder firmly then.

His tone sounded nervous, almost afraid. Of course he would be; she was afraid! It was frightening to almost be caught up in trouble. They had been so very close to being looped into a gang fight. She swore she’d never go down that alley or any alley again - ever. Shortcuts home be damned.

“It’s okay. You can open your eyes.” His voice was melodic, soft. Warm in this icy cold.

Her eyes opened tentatively, and she took in the sight of the gentleman in front of her.

He looked down at her with those intense deep-brown eyes, his dark hair mussed over his forehead. She could see his brows furrow at her in concern; his tongue peeked out to swipe over his top lip. His clothes, presumably for the ballet, were wrinkled by her man-handling.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, glancing her over with a quick look.

He didn’t let his gaze linger, but he hadn’t let his hand up from her shoulder either. She swallowed and shook her head as she shifted her shoulders, physically gathering herself as she replied.

“I’m okay, sir. Are you?” she asked politely. Her voice trembled still.

His face smoothed into something she’d almost call relief before he nodded. “I am.” He glanced out at the road. “They’re gone.”

He spoke to reassure her, the tone firm and resolute.

“Do you want to go to the police?” he asked slowly.

He seemed not too disheveled as he took a few steps away from her. His eyes remained on the nearby street, monitoring it. There was no sounds of moaning or pain. What had happened to the gang members? The gun fire was horrible; she hadn’t seen much. Except for red, red, red. No. No! She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want any reason for those men to come find her! They heard her. They had. Her hands rubbed over face; hours old makeup and sweat was sticky against her palms. It felt like blood for a moment.

It sent chills up her spine.

“Miss YN?” her rescuer prompted again, dragging her attention to him.

“No, sorry,” she babbled out. “No.” she confirmed firmly. Her arms wrapped around herself, tugging her coat closer.

“Are you sure?” the man’s brow raised.

“It’s easier to ignore these things,” she muttered out. “Safer. To not get involved.”

The man hummed low in his throat, melodically.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment, trying to shake off her fear. “For shielding me up here. And running away.”

“You warned me. You saved me I guess,” he chuckled. “Thank you.”

She smiled shakily before glancing back at the now-quiet streets. Her hands clutched her coat closer.

“Will you be alright, Miss YN?” he asked.

Her nod was preoccupied.

“I will be,” she told him, glancing up at him. He fit right in with the glamour of the opera house. She wondered why she had never seen him before. He was memorable. His face was handsome; his form strong in a different way to San’s but still imposing.

“I’ll be on my way. It’s late and I don’t want trouble. I’m glad that we are both aliv-okay.” she corrected.

“I understand,” he said. “You don’t want a chaperone?”

She didn’t even know him. She wished Wooyoung or San was here. She shook her head, and she took a step away, fiddling with her coat.

“I’ll be okay. Good night…”

“Jongho,” he answered, even if she wasn’t asking. “My name is Jongho.”

“Jongho,” she repeated. “Thank you again.”

He nodded, bowing at the waist.

“Good night, YN.”

He’d whisper, “stay safe,” but he knew he’d be following after her in just a little while. After all, her designated shadow was busy tonight, too busy taking care of business to watch over her. So, the once-street-mutt Jongho had been sent in his stead to watch over his lady. And Jongho couldn’t help but be curious about her. Even more now that he had held her in his arms and seen the sweetness of her soul in her eyes.

YN was safe in her bed that night when she realized she had never told him her name.

And yet he had said it.

-

Her motions were sloppy. Her pointe was weak. And her mind lost. She plied.

“Are you alright, honey?” San asked.

It was the next night - before showtime. San and Wooyoung somehow weaseled themselves into the boudoir before any other patrons could. Sometimes she wondered how much coin that costed them. The Madame had been strict with no patrons before shows – allowing the fragile privacy to warm up and prepare for the shows. It was so easily broken by the two men, but their eyes were only locked on her. And when she turned away to shimmy into a costume or fix a corset or a loose ribbon, they’d respect her. Glancing aside no matter how much temptation itched at their hands.

Wooyoung had offered once to lace her up, and he was met with a look of sharp disbelief – even if it was shadowed by a sweet blush. He hadn’t asked again, but he looked forward to the day he would be able to lace her up… and unlace her.

Tonight, they stood leaning against the barre as she continued to warm up. But, of course, San had caught her shakiness, her focus weaning.

His hand slide across her waist slowly, thumb caressing up and down.

“I’m okay,” she said honestly, leaning into his support as she lowered her leg off the barre. She flexed her feet and rose up on to a pointe for a moment before sighing out and turning to face the two men.

San’s hand ghosted after her waist, guiding her close as she came to settle between her patrons. She rested her bum on the barre between San and Wooyoung. Her pristine white costume made her look like an angel between two black-suited demons. Wooyoung flicked his cigarette bud into an ash tray he’d stolen taken from the front lobby of the opera house.

“I’m sensing a but,” Wooyoung teased. His fingers trailed lower that they had before, grazing over her the small of her back closer and closer ‘til… San slapped his hand, albeit lightly. She didn’t chuckle at his joke. In fact, it was almost like he didn’t joke at all. He frowned.

“Hm, swanette?” he encouraged again.

“It’s—things have been different around town recently. I just got scared last night,” she admitted, fingers trailing back and forth over the barre pole supporting them. Restlessly. “I think its just shaking me up today.”

“How so?” San asked inquiringly.

“I don’t know. I’ve seen two gun fights in the past month while walking home. That’s not normal. There’s all sorts of kidnappings or disappearances. It’s just,” she shivered, thinking of the fear that had clung to her bones since last night. “Scary.” Her arms wrapped around herself.

Wooyoung frowned, his thumb going to rub at her arm soothingly. He didn’t like her fear. He liked her smiling far more.

“You didn’t go to the police, honey?” San asked, brow pursing. Wooyoung glanced over at San.

“No,” she admitted. “It’s—not my business.” She shook her head a bit, not agreeing completely with her phrasing. “I mean, that’s how it’s always been. Ignore, walk faster, try to get away before being seen. If you mind your business, they’ll mind yours… unless you’re involved. I’m not. Never have been. But… there have never been gun fights. I’ve seen fist fights, even switchblades being pulled.” She shook her head again. “I sound silly. But I know there were gangs around town – I know the familiar faces of troublemakers, their tells – and they’re afraid. And if the monsters are afraid--”

She trailed uncertain. She sighed out again before her hands went to squeeze both of their hands that rested on the barre.

“Sorry, I’m just shaken up, that’s all. I’m spiraling a bit,” she reconciled. “Sorry.”

Wooyoung was first to cut her off. “No, no, pretty girl. Don’t apologize.” He soothed. “We don’t want you scared.”  

“You weren’t hurt,” San clarified. It didn’t even sound like a question but still he said it.

She nodded in agreement. “Nope,” she showed her bare arms and twisted this way and that. As if it’d prove she was unharmed.

“Someone helped me,” she admitted.

San raised his brow at Wooyoung before the shorter began to fuss over her.

“My scared swanette,” Wooyoung pouted, huddling close. He pressed a kiss to her cheek as he wrapped her in his arms. “Shall we walk you home from now?” he murmured. “San and I will be your personal bodyguards.”

“Uh, huh,” she teased lightly. “I’m sure you will.”

They’ve only walked her home on occasion. She knew it was in the opposite direction of the Ateez House. She didn’t expect them to walk her home. She wanted them to.

“Trust me, you’ll never get hurt around me if I walked by your side,” San promised, pressing a kiss to her cheek as well.

“I’ll make the ground you walk and dance sacred.” Wooyoung whispered. “Drench it in holy water for you.”

She laughed at that.

“Stop teasing me,” she giggled. “You’re being mean.”

“We’re not teasing, honey.” San pressed another kiss to her cheek.

“I’m sure.”

“Shall I carry you home instead? Like a damsel.” Wooyoung teased, arms sweeping underneath her legs.

Wooyoung was growing bolder by the day, and it made her cheeks flush. She let out a shriek of laughter, dragging the eyes of the other ballerinas their way. San raised his brow at them. Unbeknownst to YN, San seemed to harden when looking at anyone other than Wooyoung or her. He spun her playfully. Her mind rightfully distracted from her fear finally.

“You’ll never step foot on ground again while I’m around, Miss Swanette.”

-

It was dark in the restaurant’s backroom. Smokey and lowlight with flickering candlelight. The servers, the cooks, everyone had been pushed out, locked out. The long table was bare of any meal. Water in crystal glasses sat in front of each man. At the head of the table, there was a decanter of amber liquid with two empty pristine glasses. It was quiet, so quiet that the squeaking of rats could be heard in the floor board. Nervous eyes looked this way and that; bodies shifted and fidgeted. The door opened, and all eyes were sucked to into their orbit.

Two figures stood side by side. Matching Rolexes glimmered on their wrists as they both adjust their suits. One shoved their gold-lined, midnight-black suit’s sleeves up with little finesse while the other took his time, slowly peeling off his suit jacket before rolling his white button-up sleeves up. Slinging his discarded jacket across one of his broad shoulders, he then adjusted his black tie, a long silver ring encompassed his pointer finger of his dominant hand. It almost looked like a claw. The other rolled his neck, the glimmer of multiple gold and pearl necklaces matching his sneer. 

Tall and taller glanced down the long table. Young and old sat there; most didn’t look like they had much. Fake luxurious hats with feathers, rings that didn’t sparkle quite right, and sweat-stained pinstriped suits. Some did have money. Their fat fingers rubbing their gold necklaces nervously. All of them shifted in their seats as the duo approached. One on each side of the table, they prowled.

“Gentlemen,” the one who spoke out first nearly growled his words in a snarl.

Rather than walk with his chin high like his companion, he tilted his chin to glare down the table. Dark eyes made darker still by anger. There was a laziness in his swagger as he walked behind one row of chairs; a hand trailed over each leathered chair.

“We have some… requests,” the taller one stated, a smile coming to his glimmering mouth.

 -

YN watched as Imara grab Dohyun’s hand. Her words were hushed in the loud boudoir, unreadable. But she could see the panic, the tears twinkling on her lash line.

‘Don’t do this please.’

She could read the pretty dancer’s lips.

The bank owner yanked his arm away, harshly. As if they hadn’t touched Imara’s body up and down like it was his for over a year. He glanced about as he spoke, mouth moving too quick for her to catch any words.

He shook his head again as he turned and left the boudoir.

Imara had to pay for her dues the next day for the first time in over a year.

-

Wooyoung stood by his promise. Each night since, he or San walked YN home, winding through the streets with their fingers interlaced. Most nights it was him. He liked the shared time for just them he said. Sometimes, he grew daring and would wrap his arms around her waist, chin on her shoulder. Like two lovers taking a stroll.

The following nights had been relatively calm; there were no gun fights, no gangsters. In fact, the streets seemed boring. Not a soul was seen around them except for, of course, her loyal following shadow. Not that she’d know. He was like a ghost, sneaking around the corners and alleys to keep them in his sight.

From the darkened corners of the streets, the figure followed after them night after night. His annoyance only growing as Wooyoung’s touches grew bolder in the solitude of night. With no one there, the idea of public decency was lost to the second-youngest. It wasn’t anything explicit. He just was touchy. Touchier than if it were daylight. Holding her closer, his touches longer, longing.

Longingly, he wanted to hold her; he wanted her to curl into his arms. Her shadow-man scowled deeply. Wooyoung truly was a brat he decided. Still, he continued to trail them from far away. But every now and then, Wooyoung would turn and give him a wink over his Swanette’s head. His hand sliding up her back, slow and teasing; his fingers tickled and trailed lower and lower on her waist. He whispered something in her ear, and she giggled.

Wooyoung’s smirk was triumphant as his eyes flickered over to the shadow in the alleyway. Wooyoung was teasing. Teasing both of them.

She’d huddle closer after, and the stalking figure would whisper out a curse. Jealousy itched at his stomach, and he was sure to return home with a scowl. He wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted, and, while he was a gentleman, his thoughts felt not-so gentle. He wanted to hold her. Kiss her. Have her love him. He’d give her anything she wanted. He was already so weak for her, and they hadn’t even met.

He buried himself in the work that was piled on his desk, thanks to Hongjoong. Still, he’d get distracted, imagining fantasies of him and her. He spun a ring on the desk, the ‘S’ emblem on it taunting him.

Would he be able to see her perform soon? Seonghwa and Yeosang had visited. Even Jongho had. Maybe he’d convince Hongjoong to let him go to the foyer de la danse like Wooyoung and San were able to. Why couldn’t he?

The young man knew the answer like a bitter liquor.

Later that evening, Wooyoung and him would meet face-to-face. A smirk on his kiss-swollen lips as he popped his head into the higher-rank’s office.

“Had a nice stroll?”

-

It was a Friday, and Julia with the red hair had been given a private dressing room. That was all anyone could whisper and gossip about.

It wasn’t large. It didn’t even have a mirror or dressing table yet. It was a small closet of a space. But it was hers - exclusively. Her name on a golden plaque had been placed on the door with the title ‘Featured Ballerina’ etched below it. There was space for more.  

The entire ballet troupe knew it had been paid for by her patron and wasn’t a result of any promotion amongst the troupe. She wasn’t prima; there was no way for her to achieve higher with no new show to audition for. It was all an act. It wasn’t talent. It was money and favoritism.

Meanwhile, Imara was despondent, cold as ice to anyone that gave her a pitying look.

Patrons came and went like the seasons – even if one thought they’d last forever, winter always came.

It made talking to either woman difficult. Julia was high on her excitement. The way she walked was like she owned the world. She would run off to her closet the moment she came off stage, even if there was hardly room for two people in the space, let alone warming up or staying warm. But, as YN exited stage left, she and the red head stumbled into one another with a clank.

They both yelped, flinching at the pain that radiated up their shoulders.

“Sorry,” YN apologized before her gaze rose and realized who it was.

“Hey Julia.” Her tone was sharper, less friendly than. Almost icy.

The red-head rubbed her shoulder scowling at the other before her own face dropped into an attitude of sorts.

“YN.”

It wasn’t said fond or with blooming respect like it had been before. Where was the respect that had been trickling down with San and Wooyoung’s support? Was it because Julia was still ever-higher than her? Was it because she had a dressing room now?

Maybe it was because they spotted one another outside of the ballet with their patrons by their side.

“Why did you lie to me?” YN spouted out, brows furrowing.

The other ballerina laughed out, too loud. She was almost heard over the orchestra playing a lofty tune as the White Swan jete’ed about on stage nearby.

“What are you talking about?” the other replied, dramatically hushing her tone.

“You said your patron never invited you out of the ballet.” YN stated. “But I saw you at the tennis match.”

There was a condescending tut that escaped the other, and it made YN’s eyes fall into slits.

“Oh, honey,” it was said cruelly. “You need to catch up. If you want to be like them, not be theirs, you must play like them.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve gone on plenty of outings with my patron.” She stated, fixing her hair.

“So, you lied,” YN clarified again, simply. What wasn’t clicking? She lied to her.

“I’m not invited; I’m expected,” she said. “I go where I want.”  

Semantics. It made her roll her eyes.

“He pays for you just as mine pay for me,” YN commented. “Why didn’t you just tell me it was normal? I was worried.”

Julia finally sighed out.

“Listen, YN. Liars are the only thing that fill those rich homes. Even your boys.” She bit out. “You better learn the game, how to play it, and how to tell if someone is lying to you if you want to be upper-class so badly, YN. Otherwise, you’ll just keep playing pretend, and nobody wants a pretender.”

Then, without another word, the red head pushed past her with a huff.

-

The game. Julia had called it a game.

YN had always looked at the boudoir as a show. A performance between patron and protégé. Usually explicit. But Julia saw it as a game. What type of game YN wondered?

Was it chess? A game of wits? A game of checkers? A game of hopping to the next best thing?

Wooyoung and San didn’t see her as a game. This she knew in her bones. Their sweet words were too sweet. Their genuine excitement and care were a balm to her. But then, she glanced aside at Imara who was like a lost sock without her patron, use ambiguous and left lonely in the corner of the busied boudoir. She had thought the same thing about her patron.  

Doubt crawled in. Trickled in her veins. Even as the pair of men strode into the boudoir after the show per usual. San fixed his vest, the white button up loosened and less appropriate, but pleasing to the eye. Wooyoung finished his drink, handed to him by the bulkier man obediently as they walked.

“Hello you two,” YN greeted.

“Hi, pretty lady,” Wooyoung replied. “How was your evening? You were lovely as always.”

“It was good.” she said.

Wooyoung presented his cheek to her, expectedly. With their increase in dates and walks home, he’d become openly affectionate now. Not that she fought against it. If she didn’t press a kiss, he’d pout but when she did a pleased hum would reverberate through his chest like a cat’s purr. It made her beam; his happiness became her pleasure.

She pecked his cheek, quick. He grinned and quickly engulfed her in an embrace. His lips danced over her face. Tiny millions of butterfly kisses were pressed over her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. Giggles consumed her; his quirking lips hummed as he worked his way down to her jaw, underneath it, her neck, to her collarbone, before he was pressing fond kisses over her pearl necklace and up the column of her throat. Each one sent a tingle running through her.

“No pain?” San questioned, aware of how easily she bruised and ached.

She shook her head distractedly.

“Only a few more shows left anyways if so.” She commented. He gave her a scolding look. “Training will be less strenuous than performing. Surprisingly.” She chuckled, gasping out as Wooyoung pressed a deep kiss to the spot beneath her jaw. Not quite a hickey but close.

“Good,” the man replied. She needed a break San thought. He saw how her toes were a bright red through her tights.

“It’ll be nice to dance something new soon – but it’s bittersweet.” She just managed to get out.

San hummed out in agreement, pressing his own kiss to her forehead as he wriggled Wooyoung away from his honey to let her begin to dress into every-day clothing once more. She gave him a thankful look as she quickly went to change nearby. Her face was flushed, and her heart raced. How was her hair even more mussed from her bun? He hadn’t even touched it.

“I know,” San replied. “You must be excited?”

She smiled as she shed out of her feathers.

“Closing night is always such an experience,” she taunted.

It was. Full of celebrations, champagne, and influx of patrons spending their last pennies of the season.

“Will you be there?”

“Of course, baby,” Wooyoung cooed from San’s arms. She saw him ghost a kiss across his neck.

“We’ll be there for every closing and opening from now on.”

-

Wooyoung sat by her side, her hand in his as he gestured to the menu about this tea and that americano and this croissant. Their spread was already far more than either of them could finish. Large oozy cookies, steaming croissants with chocolate fillings, savory bite-sized tarts, and a large sandwich Wooyoung had already cut in half. One for him and one for her.

They had begun to have more dates like this; Wooyoung favored more intimate places such as cafes where they could cozy up close and share treats and talk while San liked to show her off at tennis matches and outings of public attention. She had liked it – but she couldn’t help but hear Julia’s voice in the back of her head.

Did she know her patrons?

Wooyoung smiled brightly and talked easily with her now; an air of comfortability was palpable as his fingers played with hers.

“Wooyo,” she prompted tentatively, interrupting his yapping.

“Hm?” he looked up from the menu, his face inquiring. Brows raised, and mouth squeezed shut.

“I have a question.”

“Ask away, swanette.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly before letting go and flexing his arms to resettle his sitting form to look at her more attentively.

“Why is it you introduced yourself as a Jung? And not a Kim?” she asked.

“Force of habit, really,” he admitted. “Hongjoong insists on us sharing his name.” He raised his coffee to his lips, taking a sip.

“Because he helped you when you needed him?” she recalled.

His grin grew wide, amused. “Yeah.” He paused, biting his lip for a moment before he scooted closer. “He took me in basically. Which is why I consider him family, close as thieves just like Yeosangie and Sannie.”

“He’s at Ateez House?” she queried, fingering a cookie. Tearing it up but not really eating as she thought.

How many were at that mansion? Yeosang, San, Wooyoung… Hongjoong and Seonghwa as well?

“There’s a lot of you there.”

He nodded as he picked up one of the crumbs she was making and pressed it to her lips. His fingertips were warm from the hot ceramic of his coffee cup. He smiled fondly as she nibbled at it. Before raising the rest of the crumb to his mouth, licking at the chocolate melting on his fingertips.

She licked her lips as she watched, chocolate fragrant on her tongue.

“There are eight of us,” he told her. “Eight men in one house, you can imagine the chaos.”

He spoke as if they shared an apartment and not a grand ‘haunted’ mansion.

“What does he do?” she mumbled, half focusing on her attempt to solve the mysteries that had plagued Ateez House’s occupants.

“Eh, a lot of things,” he sucked at the crumbs on his thumb before reaching out a wiping a smudge at the corner of her lips. “This and that. Loves art and shows and spectacle. Is a bit of a collector, more than Sannie is – you know, San loves pretty things.”

She already knew where this was going.

“Like me, Wooyoung?” she teased, beating him to his flirt.

“Just like you, Swanette.” He nudged her tea her way, urging her to drink before it went cold. “C’mon, try this too.”

And like that, her mind was sucked into his fancies as he fed her a warm tartlet that tasted richer than any food she had ever had.

-

It was the first night Wooyoung and San would be unable to walk her home. Wooyoung was good at keeping his promise; he walked her home for many many nights. His babbling softened with his sleepiness which was cute. It was worth it to press a kiss to her lips before she went inside, and even more worth it when he caught the shadow of a figure watching them. He’d blow him a kiss – behind her back that is.

She was anxious to walk alone. Her stomach churned at the though. Wooyoung had apologized as they rushed off to something that needed their attention – him and San. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, promising she’d be okay. He’d see her tomorrow. Walk in the light and you’ll be fine, little bird. As if she walked anywhere else anymore – all her shortcuts scared her now.

It was too late to call for a carriage or a buggy to take her home, so it was the only way. Unless she wanted to sleep on the uncomfortable settee in the boudoir (and most likely be kicked out by the janitor early in the morning. She could hear the Madame already. “This isn’t an orphanage, Miss YN.” Despite the selection of orphans that made up their ranks.)

So, YN hugged her jacket around herself and began her trek home.

And it was so peaceful. Not a whisper, not a fight, nothing. The streets were abandoned – even the men who were stumbling home drunk were absent. It was absolutely empty. Except for her.

And her stalker, of course.

-

San was early at the opera house the next day– so early the doors to the boudoir weren’t unlocked yet. Instead, he lingered out front, pacing this way and that.

“Sannie,” she exclaimed at the sight of him.

How did he know she was going to practice early today? The question was quickly forgotten as she hugged him. His arms wrapped around her in a warm bear hug before he pulled back to press a kiss to her nose.

Sweet, that’s what San was.

“What’re you doing here?” she asked, smiling affectionately up at him.

They hadn’t shifted in their embrace; San kept her close to him as he looked down at her. There was clear fondness there. His fingers rubbed up and down her back, over her warm winter coat.

“I wanted to see you,” he admitted. “You look so cute in your coat.”

His words brought a flush to her cheeks. This was what she imagined when she thought of Julia’s words. No way could this be false. He was cooing over her, his touch reverent. It was different.

“I love it,” she replied. “It keeps me warm. Just like you.”

He laughed, warmly. He brought her close to his chest again, hugging her. It was funny. For as much as he claimed Wooyoung was touchy, San loved skinship. He liked to keep her close.

“I got you something,” he whispered after a moment, shifting one arm to reach into his pocket.

“What’s this?”

In his small hand (well, small compared to his broad form) sat a beautiful bracelet, teardrop-cut diamonds were linked together into a delicate yet unbelievably expensive gift.

“For you.”

San smiled like a content cat as he watched her fiddle with the pretty diamond bracelet. His dimples were deep in his cheeks. Her fingers brushed over the jewels admiringly. He loved pretty things and seeing her openly awe made him buzz with excitement. Carefully, he linked the clasp over her wrist and turned her hand over in his, watching the gems glimmer and shimmer in the gas light. He grinned.

“What’s this for?” she asked, brows crinkling curiously.

It wasn’t like Wooyoung’s gift – a month anniversary gift – or even San’s gift of the coat, something she had needed in all honesty. This was sudden. Strange.

His fingers brushed over the jewels before he spoke again.

“I was jealous that Wooyo had this pretty necklace around your throat.”

He leaned forward, fingering the pearls around her throat before tugging experimentally at them like it was a leash. They tightened with the pressure, choking her lightly and forcing her to lean closer to her patron. YN’s breath stolen, not in pain but in a flicker of excitement, surprise, pleasure. Her head tilted back to smile up at him. His fingers tightened around the pearls ever so.

“Oh, honey,” San cooed soft and sweet as he continued to tug her up by the collar of her necklace to capture her lips in a kiss. One kiss that devolved into many as he pushed her up against the door to the boudoir, lifting her lightly into his arms. Pressed against the door, her bejeweled hand tangled in his hair, tugging him ever closer.

They were lucky no one passed by as they devoured one another.

San may have been a gentleman, but his greed and power revealed itself slowly but surely.

-

Another man was missing. He had been a regular in the boudoir. A young man who spent his spare pennies to leer at them. He wasn’t missed by any of the ballerinas, but it was frightening. Too many people were disappearing or getting into trouble.

Her mother and the other ladies at the factory walked together now. To and from work, in case trouble arose. She had even pushed for YN to walk with someone to the Opera House for once.

“Your boy is a good one,” she appraised. “That Wooyoung walks you here every night now. Like a gentleman. Stick around him.”

-

San had invited her out to another tennis match. Wooyoung had been caught up in business (business she still didn’t know of, she lamented as they walked along the cobblestone streets. San had whispered in her ear that it was boring. Wooyoung was unlucky to not be here with her. And he, in turn, was ever lucky.)

She wore his pretty diamond bracelet on her wrist, and, every time he stole a glance, his face curled up into a pleasant happy grin. He looked sweet like a kitten.

His arm wrapped around her waist as they sat and watch Yeosang’s match. Drinking champagne, he’d offer her his flute every so often, and she’d sip away. It was an expensive brand, far more easy to drink than the piss-poor alcohol the ballerinas could afford for their own celebrations away from the leering men of the opera. Drinking the expensive liquor the men offered was never a good idea – it led to worser things.

Yeosang looked as pretty as ever. He reminded her of a ballerino the way he danced about the court.  Somehow both pretty and masculine as his form bent and stretched. Muscles rippled, leaner than San’s but not any less bulging. His arms flexed and she held onto the shared flue of champagne tighter.

San’s fingers stroked over her hip.

“You’re staring, honey,” he teased.

It wasn’t the tone of a jealous lover or a scolding of a respectable man. It was lilting, gentle. Her eyes looked away from Yeosang and rested on her date. He sipped his champagne, lips pursing and brows dancing. San’s lids were heavy as he grinned. Just as cat-like as earlier but more cheshire. Like he knew a secret.

He glanced away from her and looked over the athlete. His gaze mirrored hers, she realized. A fondness… no, an attracted air radiated in his deep brown orbs.

Was he teasing her? Was he genuine?

“Now, you’re staring,” she teased in return.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” he replied coyly. He glanced back at her as he leaned in. “He’s handsome, hm?”

Her cheeks flushed at that and she looked away.

“San!” she exclaimed.

His laughter rumbled in his chest as he held her closer. His lips pressed to her ear intimately. 

“It’s alright, honey. He’s mine. Just as Wooyoung’s mine.” He replied easily. “Just as you are mine.” His lips kissed her skin before he pulled away. Her hand shifted to grasp his in hers. His thumb grazed over her bracelet lovingly.

-

Yeosang greeted them after his victory; the zing of celebratory champagne on his breath stinging her nose as he leaned forward to wrap her into an eager hug. Daring for a second-meeting. It made her worry she had been too obvious with her friendliness, her intrigue… her interest in the athlete. She did like him after all.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he beamed.

The smell of his cologne mingled with his sweat. Masculinity mixed with the soft thyme and tea of his perfume. It made her want to hug him closer. He pulled back, his eyes burning with the same intensity beforehand. A straightforwardness. He wasn’t afraid to meet her gaze. His honeyed eyes were sweet and inquiring. Taking in every feature of her – the dark coat, the pearls, the diamonds. He smiled.

“Hello Yeosang. Congratulations,” she returned.

The man nodded respectfully before he glanced over her shoulder at the tall muscled man, eyeing Yeosang with clear adoration.

“San,” he greeted.

“Yeosangie,” San replied with a fond grin. His cheeks were blushed, maybe from the champagne they shared?

The athlete rolled his eyes lightly, playfully, before he settled his gaze on the lady.

“Did you make any bets?” he asked curiously, leaning into her with intrigue.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, no,” she exclaimed. She hadnt even thought of that; she was a guest after all.

“You know what? Yeosang’s right,” San retorted. His hand squeezed her waist. “Next time, you should bet some coin. We do all the time.”

Her brows crinkled, doubtfully. Not because she doubted Yeosang’s abilities. He was a powerful athlete. But betting… she swallowed a bit. She didn’t have much money to risk in general. She had just gotten used to having extra coins in her coinpurse. Her embarrassment burned at her ears.

“I’m not sure,” she said softly.

Yeosang eyed her before he hummed lightly. His gaze settled back on San, firmly.

“I’ll do it for you,” San said instead, downing the rest of his drink. His eyes reopened from the gulp and he shrugged. “I’ll buy you anything, honey. Everything.”

Yeosang laughed, lips curling. Pleased. He leaned in to whisper close. 

“You’ve got our San, sweetheart. Wrapped around your pretty finger.”

The athlete’s fingers were close by still, and they tickled her fingertips playfully. If he was any bolder, he’d be holding her hand. But instead, like a tease, he pulled back. Licking his lower lip and flashing a charming smile that only a socialite had. Easy and well-practiced.

“I’ll buy you anything, too, baby,” San purred towards Yeosang. He looked at the buff man with a raised brow. He always looked so sharp, in a delicate way despite his rippling muscles.

“I know,” he teased.

Yeosang raised a hand to squeeze the younger’s cheeks fondly. San smiled, pleased, a mirror of the grin he gave her earlier. His cheeks looked plump in the other’s lean long fingers. Yeosang chuckled, squeezing them again before his hand dropped and he turned.

“Come with me,” he nodded over his shoulder. “We can talk in the shade – the weather is horrid.”

He was right; the clouds were whirling and swirling into what was sure to be a downpour soon. They walked further into the tennis court’s shaded areas – the betting shop in the corner with a long line. People, mostly men, were cashing in their rewards. San’s hands went to rest on the small of her back; if she had glanced aside, she’d see he did the same to Yeosang, guiding the pair of them this way and that.

A rush of reporters, dressed for the weather with raincoats and large brimmed hats, flooded towards the winner. Yeosang slung his black tennis racket over his shoulder, smiling and waving at the flashing paparazzi’s cameras. Her eyes shut at the bright lights. San’s hand squeezed her waist and tugged her closer.

“Sir, congratulations!” There were cries of celebration and excitement. “Good show! Good show!”

YN wasn’t used to such fanfare, and it made her fantasize of the flashing lights she was hopeful for. One day… she glanced over at Yeosang. She’d be like him. Successful. In his own right. He grinned politely at a reporter, waving with a tight structured wave.

“Mr. Kim! Is it true you know Kim Yunho?” she heard over the chatter.

Yunho… she had heard that name before. But where? She didn’t have time to think as San guided them throughout the crowd, his hand curling over her hip to keep her closer with the writhing crowd jostling them this way and that.

The athlete didn’t reply, and he let his friend guide him through the swarm until they entered a tented area. Once the tent’s curtains were tied together, Yeosang huffed.

“I despise paparazzi,” he admitted, scuffing his feet against the concrete as he walked.

The space wasn’t special, but it was private. Scattered about were a few folding chairs, a wrought-wire bench, and a grey-green locker. Yeosang went to it, and opened it with ease. Within it wasn’t much. A folded assortment of clothes, a letter plastered to the locker’s interior, an extra racket, and a water jug. He placed his dark racket within and picked up the water jug. Raising the glass jug to his mouth, he took a big gulp. San patted her hip encouragingly as he moved away going to sit on the nearby bench. YN tentatively took a seat in a folding chair.

“Your performances of Swan Lake are coming to an end, are they not?” Yeosang queried.

“Oh, yes. They are; will you be able to attend closing night… or any show anytime soon? I’d love to see you there.” she admitted.

Yeosang’s lips quirked against the water jug’s rim before he pulled it away. Swallowing, he nodded. “I would love to see you once more, Miss YN. In your element.”

“You must encourage him to come backstage,” she turned to San. Less asking and more pressing.

He nodded in agreement. Easily swayed by his lovers, he leaned back in his seat casually.

“Is it like this?” Yeosang asked; a hand went to push back his locks, sweatied and damp.

The sight of his sharp brows quirking in curiosity sent a flare of excitement through her. He was so handsome; she couldn’t help but awe. San chuckled at her ogling.

“It isn’t, Yeo.” San admitted. “The backstage is grand and too open with too many girls running about half-dressed and men staring at them.”

Yeosang’s eyes flickered to him. “Even our girl?”

San glanced at her, head tilting. “Not as of late.”

He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and placed it in between his lips. The look he gave Yeosang confused her – sharp, dark, and biting as he bit down on the cigarette before fiddling with a silver lighter. Yeosang hummed lowly.

“San and Wooyoung are polite,” she said, as if that would help the conversation. As if that was the topic at hand. “They’re the best gentleman in the boudoir. Honest.”

San grinned around his cigarette as he finally lit it. He knew she spoke the truth. She always did around him now. It made him happy to know she was so comfortable around them that she didn’t even notice the glares he sent the way of any man that dared eye her as she switched costumes.

Little did she know what would happen to one if they did. 

He puffed out smoke.

“I’d rather see you outside this boudoir then,” Yeosang commented, closing the locker’s door. “I don’t wish to see you improperly, sweetheart. I wouldn’t put you in that situation.”

“We don’t mean to either,” San coughed out, the smoke scattering about bashfully. He turned to look at her with the gentlest of eyes. “You’re painting me to be a villain, Yeo.”

“No, I know,” she interrupted. “I know San and Woo mean well.”

They had said so since the beginning. Wooyoung claimed he didn’t even know he was playing as potential patron until San said so. And now, well, she felt safe around them. When she was with them, when she was introduced to Yeosang, it made her feel permanent. Not a doll on a music box to show off around the right clientele.

Imara never had this.

“Still,” Yeosang tutted. “I’d hate that. If I had those reporters watching every little move I made back here.” He bared his teeth. “I’m sorry you have to suffer that, sweetheart.”

-

“Do you want diamonds?” San asked.

This was the fifth time he had asked if she wanted some grand gift as they walked home. The umbrella San had kept them mostly dry in the drizzle. YN knew he felt bad about the boudoir. Especially at Yeosang’s commentary.

“No,” she let out a chuckle.

“More pearls?” Not his favorite thing, but they looked pretty around her neck and they were useful.

“No,” she giggled, swinging their conjoined hands.

“Then what, honey?” he whined a bit, sounding childlike as he squeezed onto her hand.

She was surprised this bulky beefy man was acting so openly whiney in public. He didn’t need the illusion of masculinity to cling to; there was an element of strength in him deeper than attitude. Even if he was acting like a child.

“I’m okay,” she said. 

He licked the back of his lips. Doubtful. He frowned before stopping in the streets. The lamplighters were out and about, lighting the last remaining candle lights amongst the new gas-line lamps. He didn’t falter. He didn’t care if they were intimately close. His hand around her wrist as he pulled her close in the wet setting sun.

“What do you truly want, honey?”

What did she truly want? She smiled up at him. All her life she had only wanted and yearned for one thing – til Wooyoung and him and Yeosang all tumbled into her life that is.

“I want to be a ballerina. The ballerina prima,” she told him sincerely. Her hand rose to pat his cheek softly. “You are helping me get it.”

His lips pouted as he looked down at her. He didn’t like that answer. That was a harder request. But he wouldn’t tell her that. Instead, he leaned forward to press a sweet kiss to her lips, so quick one would’ve missed it if it hadn’t tasted of champagne and cigarette smoke. His sweetened coffee cologne wafted over her soothingly like a chaser.

-

“Extra edition!” a newsboy cried out.

YN had been walking towards the newest restaurant that San and Wooyoung insisted on trying. It was expensive. Far too expensive for her, but San insisted per usual and Wooyoung pouted that without her he’d be bored. So, here she was walking the streets towards the richer side of town. The richer side of town where all the newsies made their routes; the rich had money to spare.

“Star tennis player Kim Yeosang associated with Kim Yunho, the man released on 1 million coin for murder in broad-daylight! Shocking details revealed.”

Now, that caught her attention. Her feet slowed until she came to a stop. For once, it felt like the newsies had given just enough information to lure her in. Her coin purse pressed against her thigh was heavy. Heavy enough to spare a few coins to buy the paper.

“I’ll take one, Jack,” she told him, digging into her pocket to hand him the necessary amount.

The younger grinned up at her. “Thank you, Miss YN.” He shuffled the heavy stack around, untying the twine to present the fresh-printed and warm newspaper her way.

She nodded in thanks as she unraveled it and began to read.

-

San and Wooyoung sat in the corner of a restaurant, talking lowly in the shadows as they waited. Only to be interrupted by a newspaper being plopped down on the table. Their eyes shifted from one another to the newspaper. Doubtful, almost darkened looks were engrained in their faces before they glanced upward to see their swanette. Haloed by the light pouring into the café, her arms were crossed; brow raised. Their expressions softened immediately like butter.

“Hello, honey,” San rumbled. He tugged the chair out for her.

“What’s wrong?” Wooyoung added.

They hadnt looked at the paper yet.

“What the fuck is this?” she murmured, taking the seat easily as she shoved the headline their way.

Wooyoung licked his lips at her expletive. She didn’t curse much in the boudoir. Hearing it made his cell burn, biting at his lower lip after a moment. He glanced down at the paper; that hot feeling fizzled at the headline. He sighed, head rolling back, before he glanced San’s way. San’s expression hadn’t shifted; not even a twitch of his brow as he looked over his glasses at his partner.

“It’s a long story,” Wooyoung replied.

“I’ve got time,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “Start with the part where Kim Yunho is living in your mansion. Kim Yunho, the man who shot a near-billionaire, dead, in broad-daylight after a supposed bet gone wrong.”

Her voice raised as she retold what the inky print said. She didn’t look intimidating in their eyes. Especially with her pout. San wanted to kiss it off her. Instead, he offered, “Yunho’s got a complicated past, but he only acted in self-defense.”

“He shot a man in broad daylight. Is Yeosang safe? Are you?” she worried. “Hongjoong?”

Wooyoung scooted close at that, hating the way her voice accelerated. San chuckled lowly, shaking his head.

“Oh, little bird,” Wooyoung hummed, taking her hand. “We are safe. We are safe. You don’t need to worry – is that why you are so upset?”

She frowned at them, her furrowed brow deepening. Wooyoung cooed.

“You are, oh, baby,” he hugged her, nearly joining her on her chair. “You are sweet, YN.”

“I’m worried; you are with a criminal,” she mumbled out, making sure her words were too loud. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Wooyoung stole a kiss. “You really are a doll, an angel. We are okay I promise.”

“You can’t just kiss me and tell me it’s okay. How? How is it okay?”

“Yunho is a free-man,” San reminded. “He didn’t break out of jail; he served his time; he paid his fees; he was let go. But apparently caught the attention of the press while doing so.”

“Poor Yeosang,” YN lamented suddenly. “He hated the paparazzi and now-“ she buried her head into Wooyoung’s shoulder.

The younger cooed. His hand going to pet at her back as he glanced over at San while her back was turned. There was a rustling of the newspaper, the crinkling paper being folded over.

“Yeosang will live. He’s been reported on his entire life. Yunho will not hurt us, promise, honey.” San replied. “You’re working yourself up. I’ll get you tea.”

There was a snapping sound of his fingers. A waiter obediently came. The man whispered his order as Wooyoung murmured to YN.

“It’s alright. It really is. You’ll see.”

San and Wooyoung’s eyes met once more.

They should’ve let Yunho meet her before this all happened; their shared grimaces said so.

-

Not even a day later, there were rumors about town. That night whispers about her patrons were all about the boudoir. The Ateez House truly was haunted some said. It had a killer living there. It made her scoff. There were seven others in that house – how could you build a house to be broken and haunted by one person?

The next day, a man from the newspaper company, the Cromer Chronicle, was missing. He had disappeared in the night without a trace. Or well, there was a trace. A letter saying he was going on vacation for a while. But few believed it.

Gossip roared. What was even more interesting, was that the newspaper headlines the next day were completely free of any mentions of Kim Yeosang or Kim Yunho.

But on her vanity, a letter rested with her name in an elaborate script signed by a certain man. The seal was the same ‘A’ emblem that both San and Wooyoung wore on a gold ring.

Miss YN.

You are cordially invited to join Kim Yeosang at the Ateez House estate for a night of fine dining. Casual attire permitted. I am so excited to see you again – if you will join me!  

Yours,

Kim Yeosang

“Did you place this on the vanity?” she asked the two men who sat side by side on a sofa. Sometimes they looked too close for comfort; tonight was one of those nights. Wooyoung was nearly draped across San’s chest, his head cradled on his muscular shoulder as he stared up at her.

“No, swanette,” Wooyoung claimed. “Our hands are clean in this.”

He raised his hands in surrender, wiggling his fingers playfully at her.

“Yeosangie must’ve liked you,” San added with a smirk.

“You’d know,” Wooyoung muttered; San grasped the other’s hip warningly.

Wooyoung giggled out almost like a hyena, head tilting back in mischief.

“You should’ve seen how he looked at her, Wooyo,” San continued, his gaze flickering towards YN from over his spectacles.

“I know,” the other giggled.

“Will you be there?” she asked tentatively.

Her fingers fiddled with the corner of the thick cardstock Yeosang’s handwriting graced. She was used to their presence. They felt safe to her. They glanced at one another. San’s fingers trailed up and down Wooyoung’s waist. Wooyoung went to interlace their fingers smoothly. Squeezing it once and then twice.

“I’m not sure, honey,” San said. “We have business to attend to this weekend.”

“Sorry, pretty,” Wooyoung pouted at her. “We may see you in passing? If you miss us so much, we can meet you here early the next day. I want to hear all about you and Yeosangie.”

She smiled sweetly at them, flushing at the idea that the pair of them encouraged her to dine and possible flirt with another. It was strange but not… unfavorable. Yeosang was handsome. He was delicate but strong. Eloquent and interesting. Understanding. She liked his company. Despite the company he kept… her mind flickered back to the elephant in the room… or yesterday’s newspaper in the nearby waste basket.

“Is… Yunho –“ she asked, shifting this way and that. San couldn’t help but think she looked so sweet, so innocent, so naïve in her little feather tutu, all virginal white. “Is it safe for me - with Yunho there?”

They didn’t even need to look at one another. Wooyoung’s hand held San’s tighter as he shifted his gaze to simmer on her.

“Yunho would never hurt a lady, honey,” San replied, sincerely and instantaneously.

His hand outstretched for her to take. Which she did. It was San after all. Secure, sweet, strong San. He’s been so straightforward. She trusted him. His fingers caressed over her knuckles, “Especially you.”

“Okay,” she breathed. “I believe you.”

“Yeosang will be excited.” San promised, raising her hand for him to press a kiss to her knuckles. “We can deliver the news to him when we get home.”

He pressed a peck to each knuckle before continuing up her hand to press kisses over his bracelet. He placed a final sweet kiss to her pulse before pulling away, and pulling her towards their embrace. San could hold both of them in his lap after all. Wooyoung slid further down on the settee until his head rested on one of San’s thighs. His lips curled.

“I will send a car for you, swanette. You won’t have to lift a foot,” Wooyoung promised, reaching a hand up to tuck hair aside as she sat on San’s rippling thigh. “Easy-peasy.”

-

It was her first time in an automobile. She had traveled in carriages and open buggies but never something so expensive as a brand-new automobile. Something so polished and metallic and rich. Her excitement was almost like a child’s; her smile was bright at the sight of the car sitting curbside. Its lacquer was a deep-olive color, gleaming in the golden sunlight peeking out of the rain-heavy clouds. The chill that nipped at her heels and the rain that itched at the sky made her thankful that Wooyoung had sent a car for her – even if every single one of her neighbors were being nosey. She could see their faces pressed to their windows with curtains shoved aside haphazardly. No cars came here. And certainly, no car like this.

The driver was tall and handsome, his dark brown hair styled sharply across his forehead. A multi-layered suit with shimmering gold detailing looked expensive on his form, a long-coat making his appearance look clean cut and sleek. Just like the car.

His entrancing eyes were dark, siren-like as they locked onto her form as she hopped gracefully down the icy steps. He felt his breath catch. A mix of excitement and fear tumbled through his stomach. She looked so pretty. Her hair was done nicely and modern. Her day-dress was a pretty (if a bit washed out) green color, complimenting the car’s hue perfectly. The sparkle of her pearls around her throat and her diamond bracelet peeking from beneath the sleeve of the dark fur coat made him smile. His full lips quirked into a smirk of a close-lipped smile.

His eyes haven’t left her form yet. Not even when her mother stepped out to awe at the car and the man waiting for her on the curb.

“Hello, doll.” He greeted her, polite with a deep-voice.

His hand, covered in multiple rings, opened the passenger door for her.

“Hi,” she smiled at him, and he wanted to swoon then and there. But he stayed firm, icy, tall. It wasn’t his turn. He wasn’t even supposed to be here. But he knew the way to her house; he had a car. And he was higher than Wooyoung or San in the hierarchy. He’d do what he wanted to do… as long as the Captain allowed that is.

His eyes didn’t leave her as she entered the automobile, tucking her dresses beneath her lady-like. He closed the door behind her and circled around the car to enter the driver’s seat. He took a shaky breath before entering; he felt like a school boy. When was that a feeling he’s felt recently? (The Ateez House would say every time he whined and pouted at them like a princess.)

The interior of the car smelt expensive, too. The well-taken care of leather, the wiped down metal accessories, everything reeked of rich maintenance. Her eyes ate up the new machine, looking at the gearshift, the polished controls. There was even a record player in the dash.

She never realized how rich they were. It surprised her. He ate up how her eyes widened, and she sat so delicate, hands in her lap as if touching something would bite her. She was so cute. His lips curled into a smirk as he turned the key in the ignition. The car rumbled to life, and she let out a little sound of surprise.

He chuckled low, the sound reverberating around her. She glanced over at her driver. He looked casual in the driver’s seat. One hand was on the wheel; the gleam of an expensive watch shone at her. He was leaning back, his hand cupping the back of her car seat carefully as he began to pull the car away into the street.

He didn’t want to intimidate her. Wooyoung had said she was already so nervous about Yunho. So, he didn’t speak, didn’t tease, didn’t do much except drive. He enjoyed her gaze on him though. He watched her so many times that it made the back of his neck and the tips of his ears burn pleasantly. He tongued at his canines, hiding his smirk. His plush lips pursed instead.

Her awe shifted as he sped up, her eyes flickering to the streets that passed by, faster, faster, faster. Faster than any carriage or bike or trolley. It sent a whirl of excitement in her stomach.

“This is my first time in an automobile,” she admitted into the silence.

“It is?” his voice was deep as honey, and it made her spine tingle.

He glanced over at her. He wanted to show her so many new things. He was glad to have one of her firsts. Wooyoung had stolen so many. Her first date, her first kiss, her first embrace. He’d at least be her first car ride – one of many. He’d take her in any of his cars – if they were in the countryside rather than the city, he’d show her how fast these automobiles can go. He’d impress her. They’d go one day, he imagined. They’d go all sorts of places together. He’d show her the world if she wished it.

She hummed out in agreement, pulling him from his daydream.

“It’s nice,” she complimented, shifting her seat.

A flood of rose-petal aroma consumed him. Her perfumed skin. She put so much care into this; into them. It was intoxicating. His eyes locked on the road, his fingers trembling lightly. He flexed his hand and gripped the leather of the wheel tighter.

“Thank you, darling.”

The car ride was a quick one. Ateez House was on the outskirts of the city but not too far away to be a long journey. Just far enough to be private amongst the trees and rolling hills. It looked more alive than it had ever been in all the years she lived in Cromer. While the estate was sprawling and the mansion itself large and imposing with a complicated layout, it always looked abandoned. But now, there were crystal windows gleaming with light, gardeners trimming bushes, and luxury cars pulling into a nearby car garage. People tended to the large fountain in the center of the roundabout driveway, despite the threatening rain that rumbled in the sky. The mansion’s greyness seemed to fade with the orange-light the windows poured into the evening.

It was a phantom resurrected; the flame of life was burning within the house once more.

Mingi cleared his throat. “Welcome to Ateez House, YN.”

Her eyes were locked on his home; winding over the overlapping rooftops, grazing the glowing windows to see if anyone was looking out at them. Two figures, dark silhouettes at most, stood on the upper floor, one short and the other tall.

Her head tilted in curiosity before they walked off.

“Thank you,” she smiled at him before going to open her door. “And thank you for the drive.”

There was a squeak of leather as he shifted closer suddenly. His arm outstretched over her, bracing over her chest. Her gasp was all the sound that filled the air between them. Her head turned and they were nearly nose-to-nose.

He was so close. The blood-orange of his cologne licked at her senses, mingling with the polished leather so refreshingly. He smelled intoxicating and sharp. His face was only inches away; the fabric of his long-coat brushed against her. His hand closed around the metal handle of the car door, gently nudging hers aside. He laughed out nervously. His eyes were wide and gentle. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he flashed the sweetest grin she had ever seen, all toothy and bright. It sparkled… wait, he had diamonds on his teeth. His canines were adorned with gems that gleamed in the setting sun.

“Let me,” he bumbled out. He opened the door from within, before pulling his arm back. His cheeks were painted a rosy color that only made his flustered appearance look more sweet.

“Thank you,” she said, offering him a grin of her own.

She hoped he wasn’t too surprised by her own initial surprise. He was just trying to be a gentleman she realized. Bowing her head, she quickly ducked out of the car, closing the door behind her with care.

The only thought that filled his brain – besides the intoxicating smell of YN – was ‘damn you for winning, Yunho.’ After a long moment of breathing the remains of her deep into his lungs and watching her form walk towards his house, Mingi restarted the automobile with a rumble to guide it back to their private car garage. 

-

Everything reeked of extravagance. Tall walls with recess ceilings and wainscotting details. Gilded gold and glowing gas-lamps. Italian-Renaissance inspired tiles of saints, angels, and the Heavens were inlayed in the ceiling. The floor was patterned, a rich expensive textile making up the carpet.

There were butlers lining the walls of the foyer; all in matching midnight pin-striped suits. It was almost eerie. They were like statues, repeating over and over and over. Expressionless. Each face was stoney, eyes ahead. It reminded her of when the ballet troupe lined up in their matching leotards and were separated by height; row after row. Slicked back hair, delicate body lines, starving ribs. Identical and indistinguishable until they reached prima title.

None of them acknowledged her except for one, a rogue, that walked up and nodded at her politely.

“Welcome to the mansion, Miss YN. Please, come.” He outstretched his hand to encourage her further into the lavish space.

She curtsied, uncertainly. One of the many ghostly butlers took her coat as she walked down the foyer’s hall. Her kitten heels were soft against the carpet flooring until they rounded a corner. They click-clacked across marble flooring, polished ‘til she could see her reflection.

“Mr. Yeosang has requested a meal to be prepared at the West Wing. Please follow me.” The same butler spoke once more before he turned to lead the way.

Following after him, she was awed by the space. The very place that had been teased and taunted and ghost storied about was a gleaming jewel. As they walked, she realized how each hallway, each living space was opulent. The current path had walls that were painted an ice-cold baby-blue. Yet there were touches of warmth everywhere. Fine art in gold-leafed frames, elaborate trims around columns and the floor were the same shining gold. The art was all heavenly. Literally. Gods, angels, and disciples portrayed in blurred brush strokes, painted with colors that ached of softness. Everything was all gold, fluff, and magnificence.

The ceiling had multiple heavy hanging chandeliers of pure jewels. Diamonds dripped from its wire frame and sparkled in the gas-light. Everywhere was gaslit; she was surprised. No one had notice workers here and yet it was modern. Not a speck of dust or age present anywhere – besides the ancient art she supposed.

She slowed as she passed a large Renaissance-esque painting full of cherubs with feathered wings and glowing haloes. Squinting, she saw one figure wearing a ski mask. Huh? A cat meowed nearby. Her attention was caught, her head turning to the sound.  She stilled as she glanced down a nearby hall, one that seemed darker than the others. Doors lined each wall; all shut except for one at the end of that hall. It was opened just a crack, the siren call of a piano trickled out, and a little cat peered around its corner. The sweet cat was a midnight-black, almost blue-ish in tone; her tail twisted behind her as she meowed out again.

YN’s eyes lit up at the sight; the cat meowed again as it wiggled itself out of the doorway. Its paws and claws clinked against the tile, almost in rhythm with the piano music playing. Large green eyes peered up at her curiously as the cat approached; the collar around its throat was expensive – a leather thing with jewels, pearls, and a large silver bell that jingled out the closer it got.

She meowed at her again.

The piano stopped; the reverb humming out discordantly.

“Z?” a voice called out before a gentle melodic whistle chimed out.

The kitty’s attention was caught again, its ears perking up and meowing as if answering the call of its owner. It began to stroll back where it came from.

“Miss YN,” the butler’s monotonic called out.

Her head snapped towards him, answering his call immediately. She stood from the slight crouch she had taken for the kitten’s approach. Her butler stood some feet away, arms behind his back. She expected a disapproving look, but he provided none.

“Please follow me, Miss. We wouldn’t want you disappearing.”

That was almost worse! It sounded so ominous coming from his stone-faced mouth. She swallowed.

“Sorry,” she apologized before she quickened her pace to catch up to him.

“We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

They continued to walk down this hallway and that hallway. Someone could easily get lost here. It was like a grand castle. Finally, after crossing some carpeted stairs, they were in front of a grand hallway of windows. As they passed, she could see a dreary exterior. Rain had begun to pour, fogging the outside in grey. But she could distantly see a maze of hedges, rose bushes, apple trees, and all sorts of gardens awaiting. She awed at the sight as they continued down the carpeted hall to come to a set of dark oak doors.

“One moment, Miss,” the butler warned as he entered the room quickly.

“Boss, er, sir – “

The doors shut behind him before she could hear any more. She was left alone. YN glanced aside at the wall opposite of the windows. There were inlayed gas lamps, glowing a soft yellow. A portrait hung nearby, painted in a similar style as the painting she saw before.

It was of a young man, a handsome one at that. His inky-black hair was slicked back in shiny waves, a singular strand curled over his forehead daintily. He was in all white, soft silken tunic and oversized bowtie of virginal white. Despite the softness of his attire and of the atmosphere surrounding him (he was almost painted with his own divine halo as if he was an apostle), there was sharpness to his midnight-black eyes and the smirk of his mischievous smile. His ears were pierced up and down, pearls and fine metals looping them in sparkles. A twinkle was shining at the corner of his grin as if his teeth gleamed in the heavenly light around him. He was beautiful, but she couldn’t help but feel like his dark eyes were staring her down.

The tall doors opened behind her suddenly. YN turned to see the reveal of a dining hall as luxurious as the rest of the mansion. But the aroma that wafted from its interior was far more intoxicating.

“Enter, Miss YN.” The butler encouraged, beside the door.

He held them open for her as she took a stride inside. Her lips widening into a smile as she prepared to greet Yeosang at the head of the table. But this was no Yeosang she realized as she gazed down the long, lavish table to meet the dark gaze of a stranger.

With a calculated look, he stared at her from the head of a ten-chaired, decadent table of hot food. It was more than she had eaten in months even with San and Wooyoung: sizzling side dishes, steaks covered in thick luscious sauces, cracked fruits that had a sweet nectar gleaming on them, chocolate-oozing pastries. An open bottle of red wine rested in a frosted chest of ice; eight crystal glasses sat upside down. One glass of red wine sat in front of her spot; the other in the grasp of the man’s hand. The ruby liquid gleamed like blood. A sea of lit-candles decorated the spare space of the table; the chandelier above keeping the candles instead of trading them for their gas-lit counterpart. The orange glow illuminated the intimate room in a hazy feel. Smoke trailed out of his mouth in a long plume, perfuming the delicious air with the heady scent of tobacco.

“Hello.”

His voice was a soft drawl. His close-lip smile was the same. Soft, slow, and confident. His eyes were illuminated by the flickering candles, making the darkness there look like a night sky spattered with stars rather than with blood. He tapped his cigarette into a crystal ash tray with his long fingers. Rings after rings curled over his knuckles; some sharp and some with the emblem ‘A’ just like San and Wooyoung shared. He raised the cigarette back to his lips to take another drag into his lungs.

“YN.” The smoke billowed from his lips as he spoke her name tenderly.

She should’ve left then, knowing it was different from what she had agreed to. She should’ve asked him where Yeosang was immediately – and who was he? But she already knew, didn’t she? She had worried about this man since she read the newsprint that bore his name.

She shifted, fingers tugging at her skirt as she heard the heavy wood doors shut behind her. The butler that led her here disappearing, leaving her with him. Her fingers pressed into the door behind her, tentatively. It didn’t budge beneath her. In the shadows of the room, she saw there were men lining the wall. Like ghosts, they didn’t speak or move – they simply stood like gargoyles surrounding a castle. One broke the line to pull out her chair opposite of her dining companion. Her eyes flickered back to the man at the head of the table.

“Hello,” she said instead. “Yunho.”

It wasn’t a stutter, but there was a pause in her words. Yunho’s laughter was almost fond as he chuckled out a plume of smoke before she was urged forward with a flick of his hand. Ashes splattered across the white dining cloth, sizzling burns into the fabric. She sat down in the chair pulled out for her; the servant pushed her in towards the table with a screech of the wooden legs against the wood.

The silverware in front of her was polished, gleaming in the candle-light. A perfectly folded napkin rested on the center of her gold-lined plate. The initial ‘A’ in a circle was embroidered fancifully in shiny black thread on the pristine white fabric.

Her fingers flexed against the wood arm rests of her chair as she looked down the table, over candles, meats, cheese, and vegetables at the intimidating man. He was far away, but perhaps that was the safest option for her.

“I like you already,” he proclaimed, his words solid and confident. His smile simmered.

“Please,” Yunho gestured to the piles of food in front of them with a hand, swinging the cigarette and a trailing path of smoke about. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Her stomach felt tight with nerves, but even so it grumbled at the sight before her. Everything smelt so nice and rich and oily. Decadent. She licked her rosy lips, dragging her eyes up to look at him once more.

“Where’s Yeosang?” she asked finally.

He smiled, a peak of glimmering teeth shining in the candlelight. No, it wasn’t his teeth that shined – it was the inlayed diamonds on his canines that twinkled. Just like the driver. Just like the painting.

“He’ll join us,” Yunho reassured. “He’s running late from a previous engagement. I promise.”

Her gaze was doubtful. Why didn’t he just tell the driver to alert her? She could wait. She was used to waiting upon rich men.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I was curious of you.” He stated as he raised his cigarette to his mouth once more. As he breathed out, he gestured again at the food. “Please help yourself. Wooyoung told me some of your favorites.”

There were her favorites; steaming and hot. Some tartlets from their recent date sat on a pearlescent serving tray. Tempting. Her stomach grumbled. Watching him carefully, she reached out a fork to stab into a piece of meat and plating it.

“I’m just a ballerina,” she claimed, eyes flashing to look at him as she picked up her utensils to cut at the singular item on her plate.

Yunho’s lips quirked up on one side before he glanced aside at a man. He nodded towards her and she couldn’t help but jump as a suited butler approached. Yunho’s gaze took in the small tension that rippled through her.

The butler began to pile up her plate with this and that. Steaming vegetables, savory pastries, fluffy mashed potatoes scented with garlic, sticky soy-sauce braised meats, pasta with a rich cream sauce, seafood with clarified butter. It was more food than she could finish. The amount of food laid out was enough to feed eight men.

“You’ve entranced my brothers for being more than just a dancer,” Yunho commented. “I wanted to see what was so special about their swanette.”

She swallowed, her throat dry. She felt like a trapped bird in a zoo being observed. She tried to imagine the boudoir around her rather than the intimacy of a dining table.

“I’m a good dancer,” she told him boldly. They like bold, an older ballerina’s voice was in her ear once more.

Yunho smiled. “I heard. I apologize for never attending a performance.” He said.

“You’ve been… busy,” she said. But not too bold. Another ballerina warned.

It was a dig, and Yunho knew it. She knew it too with how wide her eyes became. And still, his lips curled into a smile, his eyes simmered.

“Its no wonder Wooyoung took to you,” he breathed.

He raised his glass of wine to his lips and took a long sip. At the mention of Wooyoung, he saw the way the muscles in her face flickered. Lightening. Interesting. Placing the glass down, he leaned forwards, hand resting under his chin as he stared at her, intrigued.

She was intriguing. She had four members of the family wrapped around her little finger and here she was in his sticky webs. Yunho ached to figure her out, dive deeper. The vein in his forehead bulged a bit with his intensity.

His eyes felt magnetic. She had cut up her slice of steak into tiny bites at this point, but all he had done was stare at her. He had not a lick of food on his own plate. It felt more like an interrogation than a meal at this point.

So, she stared back. Her eyes met his, swallowing down her fear. The twisted mangled amalgamation of fear, intrigue, and something else. She was safe, she chanted internally. Wooyoung promised. San promised. He hadn’t done anything to her…yet.

She took in his appearance. While his eyes were a hypnotizing thing, his entire face was like one of a siren’s. Handsome with chiseled features. Sharp cupid’s bowed lips, sharp brows, sharp clean lines of his suit. A pair of glasses were tucked into his pocket… he needed glasses just like her Sannie. Her eyes darted up the line of his throat. His hand rose to bring his cigarette back to his lips. He tilted his head, the midnight-black hair swaying over one eyebrow smartly.

How were all these men so handsome? The driver, her patrons, Yeosang, Yunho. All breathtaking compared to the oil-grubby handed rich men of Cromer. It made her soften just a smidge, guard walls lowering as he breathed out smoke once more. Lips pursing delicately. Cheeks soft, she noticed. It was quiet. The clinking of her utensils against her meal was the only sound in the hall.

“Do you like dancing?” she asked. Dancing was safe. Dancing was all she knew.

“Enough,” he said. “My brothers like it more than myself.”

Brothers he said again. It was strange. Wooyoung spoke of the others as friends, dear ones – explained that the shared last name was something pushed upon them. Yunho embraced it.

“Then, sports?” she countered. “Tennis perhaps?”

Yunho chuckled lowly, and it felt like a tiger’s rumble. “No,” he laughed. “Not particularly – though, I have good hand-eye coordination.”

Her mind flashed to the shooting the newspaper relayed – a fictionalized imagining in her head bloomed. Him and his gun aiming and firing with ease, just like that man in the alley way.

“Oh,” she breathed.

He wondered if she knew how blatant her face revealed things. Her fear, her thoughts, her soul. It was strange though. Yunho didn’t want her frightened.

“I play against Yeosang often,” he clarified.

“Oh,” she repeated, a different tone trickling into her exclamation. Her knife scraped against the plate’s china, screeching out suddenly like a soprano at an opera house. Her gaze turned to it, surprised.

Her meat was completely shredded now. Almost inedible with how much she had sawed into it over and over.

Yunho laughed again, the sound warm and full. “Darling,” he cooed out, soft. “Please relax and eat. I insist. Yeosang won’t mind.”

Yeosang. Of course, that’s why she was prolonging it. Her smile was bashful and Yunho’s eyes swallowed it up just like she bit into a piece of her meal finally.

“Will you not eat?” she asked.

Innocent, sweet. Yunho’s eyes simmered as he reached out to grasp a fruit from an intricately weaved wired basket. He bit into a red apple, sharp and vicious. Juice dripped over his fingers, down his chin. He raised a black napkin to the corner of his lips wiping it away. His eye contact never ceased. Did he just wink?

“How long have you lived in Cromer?” he asked.

“My entire life,” she admitted.

He hummed out. “And the ballet almost as long I suppose?”

“Ballerinas are taught young,” she said.

“The best way to shape someone.” He snubbed his cigarette out in his ash tray.

“I suppose,” she admitted. “But I love dancing. Truly.”

It was spoken sincerely, passionately. He nodded. “It’s been mentioned. They say one can tell by just the way you breath. You are full of it.”

“D-dancing?” she queried.

“Love.” he countered. “Passion.”

Her eyes blinked owlishly. “Oh.”

“Do you love them?” he asked directly. His head tilted curiously.

The topic had shifted in tone dramatically suddenly. Her heart raced to its hummingbird speed once more. Her face blushed. Yunho drank it all in like the wine in his glass.

There was a clambering down the hall way, muffled by the oak doors. Her gaze broken from his, and she looked over her shoulder at the doorway.

“Here he comes now,” Yunho whispered.

As predicted, Yeosang came busting through the doors. His hair askew, his eyes burning with the cruel fury she had only seen on the court. His elegant clothes looked rumpled; the softness of his sweater that cut into a deep v revealed more skin that she had seen of the sportsman yet. A rose was pinned on his chest, gentlemanly, and yet somehow tempting her to stare at his chiseled chest more. A decorative scarf wrapped around his throat, disheveled.

He glared at Yunho with such contempt before it was washed away at the sight of her. He glanced her up and down, quickly as if his lingering gaze would be scolded. Appropriately for such an inappropriate action. His lips parted gently; his rounded face soft with a gentle blush.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he immediately apologized, head bowing.

The long strands of russet-brown hair that framed his face swooped over his cheeks. His hand rose to tuck one strand back. “I was caught up with something unexpectedly.”

With little show, she stood, discarding her utensils to greet him. Her smile was soft, reassuring, genuine. She ducked her own head to catch his gaze – he was still glaring through his lashes at the man at the head of the table she noticed. But when he saw her own face come into view he straightened sweetly, awkwardly. But in such a charming way somehow. Yeosang was so charming even in his anger and discomfort. She didn’t want him to be in discomfort.

“Its alright,” she reassured him.

“We’ve just been chatting,” Yunho chimed from the end of the table. Unhelpfully.

Yeosang adjusted his leather gloves nervously, tugging them off finger by finger.

“I see that.” Yeosang rumbled.

His eyes settled back on her like she was his seas’ moon.

“You look lovely, YN,” he complimented. Her smile lit up the room, he swore.

He licked his lips, deep voice humming out as he looked over the table.

“I-I,” he gestured to the table, the meal he had ordered the chef to prepare, “I have those tarts you liked at the café on Riverfield Street.”

She smiled at him; he was so cute.

“Thank you,” she grinned. “And I saw. They look perfect.”

He breathed out a little, fixing his clothes once he tucked his gloves into his back pocket.

“It’s been perfect,” she tried to reassure him, sensing his anxieties. His blooming nerves. Her hand reached out to squeeze his.

He jolted at her touch, just enough for her to catch it. His ears were red. Yunho’s grin was wide, sparkling.

“Thank you for the invite.”

“Of course, I wanted –” he glanced at Yunho’s leering gaze. “I wanted to get to know you better, sweetheart.”

“And we shall,” Yunho agreed. “Sit, Sangie. Let’s eat.”

A butler appeared to pull out a seat for him. It wasn’t near either of them, in fact. It was the third seat to the left side of the table. Yeosang glanced at the butler silently before pulling out the chair directly beside YN and seating himself.

He was served a selection of the meal, silently. She went to break the silence.

“How are you?” The headline still brandished itself in her mind. His words about paparazzi left a lasting impact.

Yeosang huffed out. “Well,” he replied. “News articles come and go. I’ll remain on top of my game regardless.”

Yunho nodded steadfastly from across the table. “It’ll be nothing by the next game.”

Yeosang offered her a smile. “Thank you for worrying about me. I’ve survived worse.”

She nodded solemnly. “I don’t like it still.” Yunho watched the interaction carefully. His brow quirked.

“How are you liking Cromer?” she asked. She was used to asking men how they enjoyed the show… but that wasn’t an option here when the room lulled into silence.

“It’s different. But I’ve seen places as beautiful as Aurora, as desolate as the Strictlands, and as rural as Paradise. Cromer reminds me of Aurora in a different way.” Yeosang explained. “It feels homely.”

She smiled. “Ateez House is yours, correct?”

“Its in the family,” Yeosang replied.

“What do you think of it?” Yunho queried.

“Its very nice,” she politely said.

Yeosang tilted his head fondly at her. “Meaning?”

Her brows crinkled in surprise. “Its—nice?” she repeated.

“Shall I remind you what San encourages you to do, sweetheart?”

To be honest. How did he know about that? Her neck and ears became a soft pink in the candlelight. Swallowing, she glanced to the side.

“It is genuinely nice – its just… this house has been called haunted my whole life,” she told them. “There are ghost stories linked to this mansion. It’s strange being here and seeing that it is, in fact, not rotting or some supernatural force of nature.”

Yeosang chuckled out, smiling sweet.

“There are stories?” he leaned in. “Do tell!”

“I love a good gruesome story,” Yunho commented.

But for some reason, the way the words lilted in his tone didn’t make her flinch like before… in fact, was he teasing her? Her eyes flickered from Yeosang’s open form to Yunho. His cheek rested on his hand; elbow pressed into the table as he eyed her with Yeosang.

He smirked at her as they met one another’s eyes. He nodded, urging her. And so, YN went into the ghost story she had been told as a little girl, sitting among the tutu’ed training ballerinas while her mother did alterations on the prima’s show-stopping costume.

“The story goes that this house was home to a Captain,” she started, twirling pasta about her fork as she spoke.

Yunho and Yeosang’s eyes locked.

“The Captain was no ordinary captain; he was the fiercest pirate king of all. With his crew, the Black Pirates, they terrorized the seas and reaped countless treasures. When he grew old and hoarding like a dragon, he docked at Cromer under a false name. Ateez House was built upon blood-soaked jewels and coins; they say the pirate captain passed in his vault, hidden deep in the mansion’s basements. His bones are still there, unrested. His ghost terrorizes the house and refuses to let any soul except his pirates’ prowl.” She dramatically told.

Her fingers wiggled sensationally. “Or that the treasure was haunted by those they robbed and killed mercilessly. Their ghosts remain and haunt these halls.” She shrugged her hands landing back in her lap. “The story changes every so often.”

“What a story,” Yunho breathed. “Do you believe it?”

“It’s just a story. Maybe there are some real parts but… ghosts aren’t real. I’m not that silly of a girl.”

“You aren’t,” Yeosang commented immediately.

“But everyone in town knows it, so it sticks,” she told them, reaching out for the glass of wine in front of her and taking a sip.

“Cromer loves its gossip.” Yeosang commented.

“They’re stuck in their ways,” Yunho added.

“What do you think of Cromer?” she redirected to Yunho.

He took a small breath in. His previous grimace faded and his brow crinkled as he looked at her thoughtfully. His lips pressed together before replying.

“At first,” Yunho said, tilting his chin. “I did not like it… but now…”

His gaze felt hot, ever present. There wasn’t a barrier of modesty she often felt with other men. Yeosang’s was intense. San’s was careful, observant. Wooyoung’s eager and challenging. Yunho’s was steadfast. Confident. Even the men in the boudoir knew there were limits. They had their wives. They had their image with the other men within the boudoir itself. Here she felt both hunted and examined. Admired but equal. He was looking at her soul.

“Now, I like it.” Yunho purred. “Very much, darling.”

He placed his silverware down with a clink. He leaned forwards, hands pressing into the table.

“There’s more to you that meets the eye,” Yunho commented. “I see that, so now I will let you speak your mind, truthfully.”

Her heart nearly stopped. Was he going to ask her about her love again? In front of Yeosang?! Her eyes remained on him steadily. Her ears burned.

“You’re frightened of me, yes?” he said.

It was strange to feel relief at the confirmation of something so horrible. Because she was still nervous around him, for his boldness frightened her just as much as his previous actions. Yeosang’s eyes shifted to her, widening as he watched her nod.

“Sweetheart,” he reached out for her hand, petting her phalanges but not grabbing it. He simply wished to reassure her. Just as she had done for him earlier.

“San and Wooyoung said I didn’t have to be,” she replied. She licked her lips.

“Ask me what you want to know.” He stretched back into his chair, neck flexing as he met her gaze.

“Is it true? Should I be frightened?”

“That’s not it,” he laughed a bit, lip curling almost scornfully, scoldingly. He raised a brow, head tilting as if weighing his options. “But no, you don’t need to be frightened. Ask another.”

“I don’t have another question.” She countered, only to state simply and firmly. “You shot a man.”

And he smiled. “I did.” Yunho confirmed.

“On purpose?” she asked.

“Yes, darling.”

Her blood felt cold. She hadn’t met someone like him and it sent her stomach into a cramping mess. Yeosang did take her hand now. Interlacing his fingers softly. He glanced over at his elder as he rose from his chair. Oh, Yunho was tall. Very tall, in fact. With them sitting, he looked giant. His heels thudded against the floor.

“Why?” she asked. Yeosang felt her hand tighten in his grasp.

“He tried to fool me, steal from me,” Yunho stated, walking towards them. “Lied to me. I don’t like being played.”

There wasn’t a moment for the words to sink in for YN. Instead, like a game of tennis, she shot back.

“So, you shot him? Just like that?”

“For your information, yes.”  

“That’s frightening.”

“Yes.” Yunho was beside Yeosang now.

“But!” Yeosang was the next to interrupt. “If you must know… Yunho isn’t some cruel man, sweetheart. It was done in self-defense.”

“Self-defense?” she asked doubtfully. Wooyoung and San said so themselves as well.

The air that Yunho carried seemed to be more than that. He wasn’t exactly proud, but he was at peace with what he did. Yunho’s face pulled into a tight thing as he rested a hand on Yeosang’s shoulder. They both looked at her inquiringly.

“He pulled a blade on Yunho,” Yeosang interjected. His gaze flashed to her. “He has the scars to prove it.”

They had an answer to everything. It was self-defense. Not a thing of violence. Of necessity.

She stared at them

“It wasn’t… he struck first?” she repeated slowly.

They glanced at one another before smiling at her with dual grins. Yunho tapped his fingers on Yeosang’s shoulder before he pulled back. A hand went to his chest, gentlemanly and earnest in nature.

“Yes.” He ensured.

Her eyes flickered to Yeosang. He had been a sensible figure – likeable, nothing formidable. If he trusted him, if her Wooyoung and San did. Yunho spoke with such authority. He valued truth just like San did.

Her defensiveness, something she didn’t even see in her body language, softened. Yunho’s sigh was one of understanding as he walked back to his seat, stealing a glance at her. He smiled again, his teeth gleaming in the cande light.

“YN.” He spoke her name luxuriously. “If there is one thing you should know about me. I don’t do mess.”

He plucked a dessert from his plate, biting into the chocolate with slowness. Calculated. He kept her gaze. It sent a thrill through her; he sent a thrill through her. Swallowing together, the corner of his lip curled. He raised a napkin to his lips, gentlemanly.

He was a gentleman, straightforward and powerful. He had to be telling the truth.

“I’m not a messy man, darling-doll.”

The dinner didn’t last much longer. Yeosang encouraged conversation; Yunho threw in some topics, mostly of things she had mentioned to San and Wooyoung. It struck her then that they shared many stories about her. They must’ve talked about her a lot. It made her cheeks flush as red as the chocolate strawberries Yunho ate.

Their eyes were hot on her; it felt like they were captivated and it made her heart race. Like she was on the stage.

She liked it.

Surprisingly, her two patrons made an appearance at the end of the meal. Wooyoung, of course, was the one to pop his head into the grand dining room.

“Swanette!” he beamed at the sight of her.

Yunho took in how her shoulders softened and her chest heaved at the sight of Wooyoung, at his voice. He smiled, softer and truer than any other smile he shared tonight so far.

Wooyoung was dressed the most casual she had ever seen him. A fashionable patterned white-and-black button-up shirt was barely buttoned, revealing a black ribbed tank-top beneath it. His hair was pushed back casually and messy; a rolled cigarette was behind his ear. His slacks were a deep black, loose and flowy rather than a structured fabric.

“Woo,” she barely got out, her mouth dropping at the sight of him.

He smirked, arms slinking over the chair and over her shoulders.

“Hello hyungs,” he greeted the others, barely glancing at them before ducking his head and pressing a less-than-decent kiss to her mouth. Smothering and all consuming. She squeaked into it. A ringed hand rose to cup her guide her head in the kiss, icy cold against her flushed red cheek.

Yeosang and Yunho chuckled out. The sound was a mixture of fondness and annoyance. Yunho’s brow twitched. Yeosang’s hand held hers tighter… he hadn’t let go, of course. But YN hadn’t noticed the entire dinner and dessert. ‘Til now. Her fingers flexed in his as Wooyoung swiped his tongue across the seam of her lips.

“Alright,” San scolded Wooyoung, his hand going to the back of the shorter’s neck. He nearly pried him off her. “Wooyoung!”

“I missed her,” Wooyoung said simply, flushed face and breathless.

His hot breath fanned over her rosy face; his lips were spicy and left hers burning. Mischief twinkled in his eyes as he stole another kiss from her lips. San pulled him back again with a harsher hand.

It was then she got a glance of her other patron. San had freshly washed hair, the locks combed out and dripping over his forehead. He wore a similar tank top to Wooyoung, but in a white shade. Shockingly, he had a pair of workman’s light-washed blue jeans hugging his thighs. Thick thighs, muscular shoulders, tawny honey skin. It was tantalizing, tempting. But when she looked over his face, her mouth dropped in surprise. A bruise kissed at the corner of his lips; his sweet smile tarnished with a purple-red watercolor splotch.   

She couldn’t help stand immediately, half in the clutches of Wooyoung. Her hand rose to cup San’s cheek.

“Honey!” he exclaimed out in surprise.

He didn’t shift away, actually bending at the knee for her height, but San was certainly surprised. He had taken the lead between them often. YN rarely made the first move with either of her patrons. But what he had mistaken for sexual tension only led to pain. He was shocked when her thumb’s brush against his lips made pain radiate up his face.

“Ow,” he whimpered, frowning. His brow furrowed.

Yeosang laughed nearby. “He forgot he’s hurt,” the athlete commented.

“It’s been a while,” Yunho added, finishing his drink as he watched the interaction play out.

San’s lips pressed together, blinking rapidly before taking in the concern look on her face.

“Oh, honey, I’m okay,” San tried to reassure. His hand rose to cup her hand that was pressed to his jaw, thumb brushing over it soothingly. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“You just said ow, you liar,” she scolded him, brows furrowing. “What the hell happened?”

“I’m fine,” he swore, tilting his head to press a kiss that stung his mouth to her palm. “Promise.”

“This town is getting more and more dangerous,” she breathed out.

Her thumb brushed over his cheek softly. His pretty face marred. Without his glasses on, she could see how his eyes sparkled in the chandelier’s candlelight. Soft and starry, as if she hung the world.

“You are an angel,” he murmured. “I’m okay. I’ll live.”

“Wooyoung, will you tell me what happened?” she prompted, not moving. Wooyoung pressed to her side made a humming sound.

“The streets are rough around here,” he said. “Someone really ought to fix that.”

Yunho huffed from across the long table.

San smiled at her again, eyes falling into half-moons. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. His lips stung to do so, but she was worth it. “Thank you for worrying.” He told her. His stomach did somersaults at the thought of her jumping to his aid.

“Shall we walk you out, swanette?” Wooyoung directed instead, head tucking over her shoulder to look at the table. “Yunho has a meeting to attend unfortunately.”

Yunho hissed in through his sparkling diamond-inlayed teeth. “Does the—”

San nodded.

He breathed in through his nose before offering YN a simmering smile. Full of warmth. “It was lovely meeting you, Miss YN. I hope to see you very soon.” He bowed politely before with long-legged strides left the room. Wooyoung winked at him as he passed.

“I’ll join you,” Yeosang offered YN. “You must come visit again soon – in the spring, the gardens are beautiful. We could have tea or -”

“Yeosang likes to take long strolls through the gardens – even if it’s raining,” Wooyoung revealed, finally peeling himself off her back to look at the selection of food laid out. He plucked a grape from a platter.

“You gossip like the upper-class now,” Yeosang commented, raising a brow.

Wooyoung laughed brightly at his friend before popping the fruit into his mouth. “Eh, they rub off on you – I had to keep up with you, Sangie.”

Hmm, it was an interesting interaction. Playful but also… strange. She knew their pasts implied they hadn’t always been wealthy… Yeosang had been a protégé tennis player at a young age but how did he meet Wooyoung? Was it all because of Hongjoong?

San’s hands squeezed her waist. When had both of his hands shifted there? “You sleepy, honey?” he asked.

“Too filling of a meal,” Yeosang complained as he rose to his feet.

As if the food was her reason to getting lost in her head.

“It was perfect,” she countered, taking a step back. “Thank you again for the invitation.”

“Thank you for gracing us,” Yeosang replied, offering her his hand. She took it, and he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. A picture of a gentleman. But he was quick to wrap her arm up into his, pulling her into his side now. Surprisingly daring for the Yeosang she knew.

“Shall we?”

Their exit seemed to take forever just as before. Yeosang lead her down hallway after hallway after hallway. It almost felt like they were navigating a maze. San and Wooyoung framed the two in; Wooyoung on her side and San on Yeosang’s.

“How was Yunho?” San prompted, tentatively. “He didn’t scare you?”

“Did he frighten you – when you were alone with him?” Yeosang repeated, arm tightening around her.

“No, no, he wasn’t frightening,” she reassured them. “He was a surprise certainly.”

“Ah, Yunho was sneaky. He doesn’t like the opera, so he found his own way to meet you,” Yeosang sighed. “I feel like he caused the trouble for me on purpose, so I’d run late. You’re popular around here, sweetheart.” He squeezed her arm teasingly.

“Who else here?” she chuckled. Seonghwa? Hongjoong? She hadnt yet to see either of them – like they were ghosts.

“You’d be surprised,” Yeosang commented before leaning in and admitting. “I quite like you, too.”

He made her cheeks burn red, and Wooyoung giggled.

“She likes you too, Sangie,” he crowed out, fingers reaching to tickle her waist. “I’ve seen her blush over San, over you… Do you like Yunho as well?” Wooyoung queried, his words becoming less and less playful. They were almost inquisitive, as if testing the waters instead.

There was a crack as he lit a match across a gold-leafed frame. He placed the cigarette that was behind his ear to his lips and lit it.

“I did,” YN told him, honestly, as they continued through the foyer. Wooyoung chuckled out, smoke puffing out in front of his face in surprise. He wasn’t expecting her to admit it so fast.

“Not like that,” she interrupt his giggles, face burning. “I just—”

Looking down another hall they, she made out Yunho’s form, tall and slim walking down the hall with purpose. His back to her as they turned into the foyer finally.

“He was kind. Even if he was a bit intimidating… he wasn’t cruel or harsh. Just… confident.”

Yeosang smiled close-lipped. Wooyoung blew out his smoke to the side, the plume passing over the butlers’ faces. Not one flinched or coughed.

The smell of expensive tabacoo wafted over her face warmly as Wooyoung walked in front of them to push open the large heavy doors of the mansion.

“So he wasn’t so scary after all?” he teased. “Wait ‘til you meet Hongjoong and Hwa-hyung. They’re properly-”

“Wooyoung, don’t tease her,” Yeosang defended.

The younger raised one of his hands in defense as he held open the door for them. “I’m just saying – she got pass the guard dog.”

“She hasn’t met Jongho yet,” Yeosang giggled lightly. “He’s truly got a bad case of looking gruffer than he is. He’s our baby.”

Jongho. She had only heard that name once, and it was that night. Her ears rang.

“Jongho?” she queried softly.  

He had been at the opera! He was one of their ‘brothers’.

“Or Mingi--Ah, here he is now,” San commented, smiling over at the man standing in front of the green-painted car.

“Hello,” the driver greeted, voice as deep as earlier. His eyes flickered to her arm in Yeosang’s.

Wooyoung smirked at him. “Mingi, I didn’t know you were driving today,” he said.

“I thought you and San were doing business today.”

“It was a fast deal.”

Mingi looked unamused, his siren-eyes looking him and San up and down. “Uh huh.

“You know a Jongho?” she turned to Yeosang as they spoke.

“Jongho is the youngest of us. You’ll meet him soon, sweetheart,” he reassured, squeezing her arm. “He’s busy too often. I think they overwork him; he’s just a boy.”

“He’s only a year younger than us,” Wooyoung commented with a pout.

“He’s a baby,” San agreed offhandedly.

“I think I—"

“Is she going the hell home or not?” Mingi bit out. Before looking bashfully at her. “Sorry, doll,” he apologized for his gruffness. “I’m not used to a dame being around.”

“Its okay,” she mumbled out. Her mind was preoccupied with trying to figure out why Jongho was at the opera… without his supposed family knowing.

Mingi pouted at that. “No, its not.” He admitted. “Don’t take disrespect.”

Her distracted gaze rose and nodded softly, not really processing his words.

Wooyoung tsked out. “Here he goes about respect,” he sighed out. “Hurry up, swanette, or else we will be here for hours.”

There was a rumble of chuckles in the group. Yeosang squeezed her arm once more before pressing close to her ear, cheek to cheek. A whispered “next time it’ll be just you and I, hm?” was hushed into her ear before he unwound himself from her and allowed the others to hover about. “I’ll see you next time, Miss YN.”

San pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised. “And again, I promise you, I’m fine.” He pressed another kiss to her hairline before guiding her into Wooyoung’s arms.

He was warm and smelt of smoke. His grin was playful, wolfish as he leaned down and stole her lips into a kiss. He was getting bolder and bolder. His kiss was hot, a lick of his tongue into her mouth this time. She squeaked and he chuckled deeply.

“Mmm,” he moaned as he pulled away just a fraction. Wooyoung smiled as if he was innocent but his teases were devilishly. “Perhaps I should call you little mouse instead of swanette.”

She pushed at his chest, playfully. Wooyoung tugged her closer, grinning. Her face was akin to a rose.

“Let her go, Wooyoung,” Mingi said from the side. His face was sharp as he glared at the other. He didn’t appreciate the teasing. “She must be tired.”

Wooyoung heaved a sigh as if this was the hardest thing to do. He pouted at her before stealing a kiss, pressing a peck to her nose. “Fine,” he relented, unwinding her from his spider web embrace.

“See you soon, pretty. Mingi will make sure you get home safely.”

Mingi nodded steadfast before he offered her his hand.

“Shall we, baby-doll?”

-

Next time, when she woke, it was to a cat’s sandpaper-esque tongue licking her cheek. Little tiny licks with the familiar nuzzle of her wet nose, Z investigated her like any other day. The little more-blue-grey-than-black cat sniffed at her, the talkative pet meowing loudly. Her green eyes blinked slowly at her before she nudged her cheek with her forehead once more.

Her body didn’t burn. It didn’t ache. It didn’t feel like anything. Whatever drugs she was on, they were good. She blinked at the kitten, slow to do anything once more.

She was still in Yeosang’s room. The smell of him was all around her, Jongho’s familiar gardenia aroma mingling in the sheets. YN tried to move. Pushing herself upwards was easier than before but the slightest shift in her legs reminded her of the heavy casts that wrapped her ankles. The pain nothing like before but there was still the zing up her knees that made her pause. Her breath caught as she stared at her limbs before her.

Her reality. Bedbound, grounded. It was a depressing thought. Even more depressing when she realized she wasn’t sure what day it was nor what hour. How many shows had she missed? Did her mother know she wasn’t well? Was she just the same as those folk written about in the papers? Missing and forgotten.

She let out a shuddering breath as she laid back into the fluffy luxurious pillows, contemplating what to do. Should she cry out for them? Hongjoong was the last face she remembered but she didn’t want to see him. Or Seonghwa. Or any of them. Really. Anger burned her throat like the nearby fire place. Z’s whiskers dusted over her arm, nudging at her for attention as she let out another inquisitive meow.

“Leave me alone, Z,” she mumbled into her pillow. The little tongue peaked out to lick her again. “Stop, Z; go away.”

Her tone was raising with her rising grief. That was the only way to describe what she was feeling grief – a mixture of hoping, pleading, that everything had been a dream only to be reawaken to reality. Anger and sorrow clashed like cymbals in her head.

The cat nuzzled her again, and she snapped this time.

“Z, go!” Her hands shifted the quilts aside in a huff, making the little cat hop away, back arched.

“Z, come here,” a voice, melodic as it was masculine, called. The doorway creaked open, the gaslight in the hallway illuminated his figure, bulky in the best way. “Love isn’t in the mood to play.”

She frowned over at him, even if Z hopped off the bed and went towards Jongho eagerly. Her little body pressed against his leg as she passed him, purring softly. He smiled after his kitten before his gaze settled back on his love bed ridden.

“Hi love,” he greeted. “How are you feeling?”

“Angry,” she told him.

“But not in pain,” he smiled.

The youngest crawled up onto the bed, sheets rustling and ruffling as he settled beside her. Jongho wasn’t one to be silenced by a glare or dirty look. He was made for this world – his hyungs’ beloved aegi was used to getting what he wanted. And she was his baby. His love. He wanted her.

She turned her rageful eyes his way. He simply smiled just like the others. “I know,” he hummed. “I tried to warn you.”

He had. He cried to her last night… or a few nights ago? Her anger was quenched by those tears now. Her eyes softened just a smidge, and Jongho took a mile. He pressed his lips to her forehead in a soft kiss. His arms wrapped around her ‘til she was caught in his embrace, warm and coddled.

He indulged in the way she didn’t pull away or yell. He had heard her shouts at Yeosang’s attempts at affection.

“What happened? I remember waking up in pain – why?” she murmured into his chest. Trying to gather information from when she was asleep.

Even now, she felt safe in his embrace. It caused a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach.

He heaved out, her head rising and falling with his chest. “You had an infection – the doctor said it was possible dirt from that alley way. It entered your injury for too long. He fixed it.”

“Is he alive?” she mumbled.

“By Yunho’s grace.”

She felt the ebbing and flowing rage, the despair rush over her again. Almost as if sensing it, Jongho shifted, his chin tilting into his chest to look down at her. He moved to tilt her own chin to meet his gaze. Fiery passion burned there. He liked it better when her passion burned for her dancing… but he supposed it had to go somewhere while she was incapable.

“It’s the way things are,” he told her. “Stop fighting it.”

Stop fighting and give in. Look what fighting did. Just let them control her…

YN scoffed. “I’m not some doll,” she bit back. “Or some—"She wriggled like a worm on a hook. Jongho’s eyes ached, and he reached for her hands. He cupped them in his. His bloodstained ones. How many time had he scrubbed away ichor? Dug it from under his nails? Her hands were dainty.

“It’ll never touch your hands,” he interrupted earnestly. “You’ll never bear it. Our work. Our lifestyles. If that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m bearing it now,” she whispered to him, voice breaking. “I’m afraid of you.”

He frowned, his face firm and thoughtful. He was always thinking her Jongho. He never stopped. His thumbs brushed over her palms, his forehead pressing to hers intimately.

“You tried to leave,” he said. “I didn’t want this. None of us did. If you hadn’t, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You understand what that means – I’m just something you control like your butlers and your members and your-.”

“No.” Jongho interrupted soft and earnestly.

“You are no pawn, my love. You are our priority… our treasure. Always.”

[triptychofvoids]

halloooo mein freund engineer from team fortress two ^^!!

[moonsaver]

Almost a kiss, Always a breath

How close life is unto death. Almost a kiss, but always a breath.

With only about a month left to live – your previous guardian angel, Robin, has been replaced, as The Family decide to assign you one that's more "suitable" to your need. Guardian Angel!Sunday x gn!reader CW/TW: reader is chronically ill, and there's descriptions of how painful it is (a little gruesome) but the actual illness is left vague for self insert purposes. Mentions + implications of childhood abuse, death (reader), lesbians because i just wanted it A/n: As much as I'd have loved to make it Seraphin x reader, Sunday is just a guardian angel who has a more biblically accurate appearance. also it's about just a bit over 11k words. sorry for the delays! ______

"You can stay out here."

You turn halfway to face Sunday, the pair of wings over his eyes firmly shut, the other two pairs slightly bristling at your words.

“I have been assigned to you for a reason.”

You glance at the bright entryway of the boutique in front of you. People would definitely notice something was off. No one can ignore someone like him. At least, they’d sense something would be off.

You turn back to face him. Your hesitant silence seems to spur him to continue,

“I shan't interfere.”

He smiles. You don't think it's genuine. You look up at the various eyes embedded across his halo and wings like jewels. They stare back.

Have they ever blinked?

You shake your head,

“No. Stay out here. You'll scare people.”

You stand your ground firmly, your body facing him entirely now. He hums, his smile vanishing from his face.

“Is that so?”

“It is so.”

You reply, and it's followed by silence.

The corners of his mouth perk up slightly, before it's met with lesser and lesser resistance, eventually letting out a wholehearted chuckle.

“I can promise, truly, I won't interfere, nor draw attention. Nothing like the scene at the hospital.”

You sigh.

—

“Sweet mother of..”

You keep Xipe's name out of your mouth, sitting up on your hospital bed as fast as you can, ignoring the jolt of pain in your body from the sudden movement, as your eyes train on the figure in front of you.

The man is clad in white – a suit, to be specific – and seems to have started his day much earlier than you.

“I thought Robin was..”

“The Family has decided otherwise.”

You stare at his covered eyes, only to glance over at the plethora of his.. other eyes blink at you; wide and all-seeing, surrounded by clusters of feathers. A pair of them bristle as you continue to stare, and he clears his throat, drawing your attention back to his (wing-covered) eyes. His halo is golden - just like Robin’s, except.. Bigger. And sharper.

“I'm– I think my intentions were very specific, so why on Earth do I have a Seraphim looking after me?”

“The Family decided the timely course of your fate required an assistance of much.. higher capability.”

You scoff, the covers crumpled under your hands as they clench.

“Robin was adequate– no, more than adequate.”

“I would be aware. I expect nothing less of my sister.”

“Your–?!”

This day couldn't get any more confusing in the mere 15 minutes of it's starting, really. A Seraphim. Sent to be your guardian angel. And he has a sister by some biological miracle.

As if he senses the question you are about to ask, he says,

“Let's focus on a more dire topic.”

He neatly sets down his cup of finished tea on a surface – you don't care enough to check; too busy glaring daggers at the man – a few of his other eyes peeking over at the cup in your stead.

“ugh, great.”

 You groan and plop onto the bed on your back with an ‘umpf', then cringe as the pain shoots up from a plethora of nerve endings on your back.

Sunday continues, regardless of your pained expression, an artificial smile plastered on his too human-like features,

“Roughly 2 weeks. That is all.”

He gets up, and walks with measured steps to the side of your hospital bed, his eyes (in multitudes) staring down at your not-so intimidating glare.

You click your tongue, your eyes zoning out for a moment before they settle back on the teacup he'd just placed down.

“Since when did Seraphims like..?”

“Coffee. It helps, I've found.”

“Found?”

He opens his hand towards you. You awkwardly look at his gloved palm before he speaks to clear your hesitance again,

“Let us continue to whichever place you wish to visit.”

You look at his hand again, now with a dull glaze over your eyes, a plethora of thoughts glooming over your mind before another one of his (unsettling, you may add) eyes catch your attention, breaking you out of your saddened trance.

You breathe out, taking his hand,

“Fine.”

—–

And so, that led you here.

You pick out a dress, then shuffle through the stacked hangers to find your size, as Sunday patiently stands beside you, his obnoxiously white suit out of your vision by your request as to “not blind you.” But you can't necessarily explain about that to someone who covers their eyes for.. 90% of the time, you assume. Regardless, he obliges.

You turn to hand him a few of your clothes to hold, but watch as he stares at a distant baby. Their face is red and swollen, presumably from having cried for a while. The tears in their eyes confirm the suspicion. You look back at him, curious as to what he could possibly find fascinating about a red-faced baby.

..what the fuck?

You observed his eyes – the conglomerate of them making a weird sensation bubble under your skin as you watch all of them blink in succession.

You sigh, for the umpteenth time, making him turn to you. You look at Sunday with a strangely confused expression, as Sunday’s cautious hands pry the clothes from yours. You shift your eyes to see the baby look at you two once again with a face as confused and perturbed as yours.

“You’re lucky not many can see you.”

“Yes, it is fortunate.”

You continue browsing through the selection of clothes, politely waving off any staff member that seem to force themselves to help you regardless of the strange aura they felt around you.

“I’m trying these on. You stay right..”

You reposition him, hands on the sides of his arms as he complies.

“Here.”

He stands, in all his glory, in front of a kids’ indoor playground.

“The changing room is too far from here.” Inquisitively, that seems to be the only trouble Sunday faces, and not the curious glances from a few children making weird faces at his eyes on his back.

“It isn’t. It’s just a few picks, I’ll be back soon.”

He seems to stay silent, although his (unsettling) smile is no longer on his face, which reads him as more intimidating instead.

You shake your head, and then turn to walk over to the changing room.

——

A scream.

It rips through the chill, calm atmosphere of the store, warranting concern from a few employees situated around the changing room,

“I-Is everything okay-?”

“Yes-! Sorry, sorry, Im just–”

You hurry, and shuffle the floating eye into your bag, your hands fumbling with the buckles and buttons.

Why was there an eye in your bag in the first place?

Turns out Sunday sent one to stand right dab in front of your stall to ensure your safety in, probably only his opinion – a minimal way. You screamed the moment you opened your door and found a floating eyeball in front of your stall, before realising only that Seraphim was capable of doing such a thing.

You internally let out a beautiful, colourful string of curses, presumably to beat some sense into him, as you wrestle with the bag that's flailing in your bag like an animal caught in a potato sack.

“Stop, stop, Xipe damn it-!”

You bring the bag up to your face, glaring down as the singular eye looks up at you with an unreadable glint from the soft fabrics of your bag,

“If we get caught I swear I will–”

“Uh.. is everything okay?”

You jolt watching the door slightly move ajar as one of the employees gently signal their presence,

Shit, you forgot to lock it!

It wasn't your fault - you were about to step out when you were delightfully greeted by an eyeball, and in your hurry you must have forgotten to lock it.

You throw a sheepish smile towards the door, hiding your bag behind you. You're aware it looks like you've stolen something, so you take a deep breath and pat your bag, careful around the bulge of the eye inside.

“I'm okay, I- I just uh.. saw a cockroach.”

“A cockroach-?!”

The employee gasps, immediate words of apology on the tip of their tongue, but you stop them before they can continue. You swing open the door, having only grabbed a single item as you rush past the employee sputtering on their words, politely dismissing yourself as you beeline to Sunday.

––

You did, thankfully, find Sunday where you left him.

You stood a bit of distance away as he came into your vision, making sure to count the number of his eyes, blinking a few times and recounting to really make sure – who knew staring at his eyes for so long would make you dizzy?

By then, the eye in your bag only nudged a few times, but nothing more than that. On the way you realised there might have been no need for the commotion, considering people can barely see Sunday as is, let alone (one of) his eyes. You sigh tiredly at the thought, but brush it off.

You walked over to the small barricade surrounding the children's indoor playground and observed.

Sunday is crouched down, watching intently as two young girls clack their (very distressed) barbies together, making up drama on a whim. Sunday seems deep in thought, occasionally piping up to add his own additions.

Ookay. You need to stop this.

You sigh, running your hand over your face before calling out,

“Sunday!”

His head turns to look at you, then gets up, unassumingly as though he'd not been getting in on local gossip from girls.

—–

You sigh, pushing off the shoes from your feet as you sit back down on your familiar hospital bed, the door of your room clicking as Sunday ensures your privacy.

“Do you plan on going somewhere?”

“Tomorrow, actually. Since we have enough time, I'll take it easy.”

He hums, merely in acceptance, as he sets down the small bag your recent purchase was in.

“Oh, also, c'mere.”

You motion him to come closer.

“Closer.”

He steps closer, your knee almost grazing against his thigh,

“Closer.”

“Any closer and I-”

You grab his tie and yank him down eye level,

“Do you know what happened in the dressing room-?!”

You sputter out, the embarrassment returning to you as you recall the flustered employee's voice,

“I.. cannot say I do.”

You grab your bag, and out comes bursting an eye.

Ah. He felt something was amiss.

“I was fine on my own! Seriously, if you wanted to check in you could have just walked over! Which guardian angel just casually sends an eyeball of theirs-?!”

“Ah, but I did not want to overbear—”

“I would have preferred that, instead of your eye hanging in front of my stall like a Christmas tree decor!”

…

“Noted.”

You sigh, watching the eye float and join the conglomerate of his, wink at you, making you blink, unimpressed.

——

“I wanna be buried…”

You hum, looking over the green, slightly bumpy landscape, and point to under a tree.

“There. That's perfect.”

Mei seems to take your words in stride, despite the depravity of your humor. She chuckles softly, and turns to you,

“I'm sure it's possible.”

“D'you think I can get one of those colored, glass tombstones?”

“Hm, slightly difficult..”

“Oh please.”

You nudge her shoulder, making her softly chuckle again. Both of you gaze over to the distance, the plot of land sparsely filled with tombstones of other strangers you've yet to know about from Mei.

If the purple haired woman knew anything about you – it was that you adored stories. She never considered herself the best storyteller, but you'd convinced her enough to tell you anyway. Occasionally her companion would join in, greatly elevating the storytelling atmosphere, but for the most part, it was just you two.

Mei, who would tell you of each person she'd buried. Carol, 98, a lovely grandmother. She'd always smell of pie and something herbal – always sure to drop off tea wherever she went, the dull packets that rattled whenever she'd placed them down with her shaky fingers. Only her daughter's side of the family visited. 

Nico, 17. His father comes every weekend to clean his tombstone. He had a green thumb. His gravestone had the most beautiful flowers around him.

Razalina, a mysterious woman who you'd been waiting to hear about from Mei, before Robin was shortly replaced. Your health got worse and Mei urged you to take a break. You miss the flavour of the tea Mei would serve for you two. You wonder how it would feel to drink it for the rest of your life until you'd grow to be 98.

There was a morbid comfort in having a friend as Mei. Acheron – the term suited her. A gentle, sorrowful, but greatly respectful and polite woman who took care of the dead. A mortician you'd gotten familiar with on a whim when you'd bumped into her somewhere. She was going to bury you, and you'd let her with delight. You imagine there was a sort of trust and intimacy in that. She would clean your organs, and lay you to sleep on the naked Earth. There was certainly intimacy in that.

“A wardrobe change, hm?”

She quirks an eyebrow, her words still slightly hushed in caution to not even possibly offend you.

“Thought I'd try something new.”

You kicked a stray rock, looking down at your newly bought clothes, then back up at Mei.

“Went shopping with someone yesterday.”

“Finally let you out of your enclosure?”

“Ugh, for once, thankfully.”

She hums, walking alongside you with a leisurely pace, her gaze drifting over the cloudy sky,

“I'd expected Robin to come with you. I don't think I was able to continue onto the next story with her.”

“Yeah, I did too..”

You look back at Sunday – still following you two a few ways behind, waving as you and Mei observe him for a second.

“quite a character.”

You nod, simply, continuing to look at him as Mei's steady eyes train on you for a moment.

“Scared?”

“No. Never have been.”

…

“Good.”

Mei's assurance was quiet, almost relieved. She turned ahead and continued, and you followed her.

——

The cloudy weather only seemed to thicken with humidity and the threat of rain as the sky dimmed with time, and Mei was kind enough to end the story on a reasonable cliffhanger, making you giggle in your seat.

“There's never enough time, really..”

You say, between your soft chuckling. It always felt like time passed by unfairly fast when you sat with Mei as you used to.

She hums, smiling, her finger circling the rim of her cup,

“Tomorrow will come, so have faith.”

Have faith in a tomorrow. It would have left you breathless had you not heard it from Robin before. You glance back at the Seraphim behind you as if to confirm Robin really wasn't looking after you anymore.

You bit your lip for a moment at the agitation as the thought bubbled in you, before looking back up at Mei and returning her gentle smile.

“Alright. I'll get going. Take care, Mei.”

She nods, getting up with you, as you gather your items and walk up ahead a bit.

Mei turns to Sunday, and mutters something out of earshot.

——

You're tired of this.

You get up once again, in pain. It shoots through you, and pulses in your body. It continues to ebb and intensify with passing moments.

You stifle a groan, biting down on your chapped lips and swallow thickly, a bead of sweat forming over your eyebrow as you clutch yourself in pain. 

No one else is awake.

You zone out in pain, the only sound in your ears of the heart rate monitor beside you picking up slightly. The pain renders you almost still. 

This pain. This all too familiar ache. You despise it, and yet you don't. How many events have you had to skip or leave because of it? How many times have you turned down hanging out with your friends over it? It angers you. It's as though inhabiting a scrawny animal who claws at your insides for nothing. How many hobbies, pastimes, hell even careers, have you missed out on because of this? The all to familiar sight of your friends’ slightly pitiful gazes burns your mind, almost making the pain in your body worse as you squeeze your eyes shut–

A hand.

Your eyes open, suddenly aware of the cold sweat forming on your back as you turn your head to look at the hand on your shoulder.

Sunday. He doesn't seem to be donning any gloves this time.

His hands are pretty. The thought floats through the top of your mind like oil on water, the pain pulsing in you barely letting you cling to the present.

“Are you in pain?”

You lick your lips, shallow breathing carrying the response you wish to say. He hums, the noise almost soothing.

His hand moves and rests on your back, the warmth of his palm more comforting than the sweat making your skin shiver. He doesn't seem to mind the fluid sticking to his own skin.

For a moment, you feel the warmth increase, before it dims. Everything dims. The pain ebbs away, making you breathe out shakily, your tense muscles eventually relaxing. His hand slides to your wrist as you lay back down, fatigued from the midnight bout of pain.

“Better?”

You blink a few times, a futile attempt to appear more alert and less affected from the episode. There's a bit of water in your eyes – you didn't notice, but it's nothing you're concerned about.

You turn your head slightly to him, your eyes looking up at him as you ask with a hoarse voice

“How did you do that?”

Sunday hums, his fingers moving from your wrist to your palm, drawing soothing circles in the middle of it as a comforting gesture.

“We are equipped to absolve a bit of your pain. This is our duty. This is how we become pure.”

“Pure?”

His head isn't turned to you, instead a bit low, as he leans back in his seat. He breathes out.

“Purification happens through only a few means. Absolving you of your pain is a major way to do it.”

“But it hurts.”

“It hurts.”

His hand gently squeezes your hand.

“But you are feeling better.”

“It's not fair.”

His head turns slightly to see you. Your watery eyes only become more teary. Frustration, hurt, sadness, anger. There's a scripture in your face as he scans the furrow of your brows, the tears in your eyes and the chapped, dry blood on your lips.

And the silence settles between you two. A tender sort of hurt in the night air as he folds his fingers around your hand. Your eyes trail to his plethora of wings. Pairs of 3. They're beautiful. You watch the conglomerate of his eyes closing and gently blinking, almost lulled to sleep. His golden halo hangs a little lower than usual – sharp, yet elegantly prudent. The ones on his wings covering his actual eyes stare back at you.

You're beautiful. The words stay choked on your tongue like a regretful prayer. Your eyebrows relax, and your jaw unclenches.

Sunday smiles, watching your tear filled eyes close with sleep.

–—

Your shoes click as you circle around the fountain, watching the carved figure in the middle pour out water from various sources. 

Your padded shoes come to a slow halt, followed by Sunday's polished shoes right behind.

“Do you believe in wishes?’

“Hm..”

You shuffle through your bag, picking out something silvery. A coin.

“Yeah. Like.. a wishbone. A shooting star. An eyelash.”

You hold up the delicate coin, but Sunday's attention is trained on your face.

“We find wishes and stories everywhere. If you could.. what would you wish for?”

You gently grab one of his hands, and press a coin in the middle of his palm. He seems to have forgone his gloves once again.

“I am incapable of–”

“It's hypothetical. Come on.”

He hums, glancing at the coin, and then at the fountain.

“I'd like more coffee. One that is flavorful, deep and complex.”

You chuckle and shake your head,

“Be a little more creative. Just coffee?”

You pick out your own coin.

You suppose you were a bit unfair to him. What would you explain about walking to a whale in it's depths? About flying to a mammal accustomed to it's faithful footing? About crawling to feathery or scaled wings?

You throw your coin.

I wish for freedom.

Sunday hums again, pondering deeply.

“Ah, but if I say it out loud, it won't come true.”

“Aww..”

He chuckles, pocketing the coin.

“Let us proceed.”

He holds out his hand to you, and you eagerly accept, intertwining your fingers around his as you walk alongside and make small talk

“They've been struggling to walk and do basic tasks. Look after them.”

Mei's voice rung out in his head for a while, like a record playing over and over in an empty ballroom.

“You can see me.” He says matter-of-factly, instead of a question, after a moment of contemplative silence.

“I'm intimately familiar with death.”

He stares at her distant look for a moment.

“..I have my duties.”

“Sure. Take care of them. Please.”

–—

“Sunday, it's okay–”

A small gasp escapes you as he yanks you a bit closer,

“Watch out for the pothole.”

“The cover?” You look up at him almost in disbelief. 

What on Earth has gotten into him?

“Careful.”

He pulls you aside again, ‘assisting’ you to dodge a very obvious, very blaringly red fire hydrant.

“Ugh, okay, wait.”

You halt, Sunday stopping in his tracks ahead of you as your limp hand refuses to move with his in grasp.

“you don't have to babysit me. I'm not going to keel over if I step on a rock or something.”

“Nonsense, I'm simply fulfilling my duty.”

He turns to you completely, your hand still firmly grasped in his, as he looks down at your troubled face.

“You weren't this.. protective.”

“Hm, something must have messed with your memories. Here, let me–”

You gently swat away his hand that reaches out to you,

“Sunday, relax.”

You both stay silent for a moment. You breathe out,

“Okay, here,”

You step closer, and shake your hand out of his firm grasp, but loop your arm around his, and gently pat his bicep with your other hand.

“Better?”

He stays silent for a moment,possibly surprised for a moment.

“Better.”

He smiles at you, and you return it, both of you continuing forward.

——

“I want a garden. As big as possible.”

“Is that so?”

You kick around a small pebble, stepping on a slightly raised stone platform before looking up to gawk once again at the priceless view – the field of tulips making you stop for a moment.

“Mhm. I want to grow as big of a garden as I can. I've always wanted to.”

He chuckles softly, following your gaze out into the vast tulip field, before returning back to you.

You almost belonged here.

The entire gorgeous tapestry of you. Blending into the delicate backdrop like a painting. He's seen a few portraits in museums that could at least come close to the vision.

“I want to paint.”

You turn and look at him, Inquisitively, as he says so, almost surprising you.

“Really?”

He fully turns to you, and holds out a flower for you to see.

A carnation.

“What do you want to paint?”

You glance back up at his covered face. He steps a bit closer, and places the flower in your hair, moving a few stray strands from your face as he does so.

“A garden.”

You giggle, and the sound blooms in his heart.

“What kind?”

“A big one. With as many flowers as there can be.”

“Sounds pretty.”

He hums. You are, He thinks.

——

Sunday hates the rain.

There are many things he hates.

Overrun schedules, late appointments, rushed deaths, overbearing contracts, unruly protectees, a bad cup of coffee, bright lights.

And the rain.

Both of you pant and huff – you especially – running to hunt for any cover, the pattering of your feet almost matching the rain's rhythm.

Sunday's hand is tightly grasped around yours as he leads you to a small cover; a small awning, the grip so firm you notice the middle of your palm is still dry when he lets go to check you over.

“Are you alright?”

Sunday scans you over, stepping to the side to examine you more, a supportive hand on your back as you continue to catch your breath. You can predict the next bout of pain is gonna be worse. But you shove that thought aside as you nod, turning to face him, wiping away some of the rainwater dripping from his chin.

“You're soaked.”

He hums, disregarding the obvious nature of your remark, his fingers wrapping around your wrist as he counters,

“You'll get sick.”

He raises his head slightly to glance over you, gauging something.

“We're closeby, let's just run–”

“No.”

Sunday shuts you down firmly. His tone doesn't allow more room for argument.

He sighs, running a hand through his own wet hair as he contemplates on what to do. You try to scrunch up a bit of your clothing to squeeze out the water, and do the same with your hair as you wait for him to continue.

“I'll be fine–”

You try to softly negotiate, but Sunday takes off his blazer, swiftly putting it over your shivering shoulders, before wrapping his arms around you and–

“Ah- Sunday-?”

You breathed out, almost a gasp, as he pulls you in. His shirt is thinner from the water still soaking it, but the warmth of his body (of which you become too aware about) relaxes you almost immediately. You hesitate for a moment, until Sunday quietly sighs into your shoulder. Your arms hesitantly wrap around his waist, tucking your face into his neck as well. Your bodies exchange warmth, and the water seems to help hold the heat better than before.

“I despise the rain.”

Sunday's muffled voice resounds into your clothes and skin, and you giggle at the ticklish sensation of his lips.

“Really?”

He nods

“Why?”

“Alters too many things in the schedule.”

“Ah. I see..”

He sighs again; a puff of breath warming– almost burning your shoulder.

You stay that way for a few moments longer, before you speak again;

“Sunday?”

“Yes?”

“I want to do something.”

He stays silent, as though waiting for your initiative. You loosen your grip, and he pulls away at the indication. You take a moment as you scan his appearance – nothing resembling the once pristine, well kept man you'd seen the first day in your hospital room. Bits of his blue hair stuck to his skin like waves latching onto the shore, the feathers of his wings adorned with raindrops, the blurred effect of his halo under the rain. Your eyes travel a bit lower; his tie is slightly crooked, and his shirt is see through and..

You clear your throat, blinking and turning your gaze away to the pattering rain.

“I've wanted to.. um..”

Sunday's fingers brush against the side of your face, turning your attention back to him.

He brushes away a few strands sticking to your wet skin. His fingers are cold.

Your hands gently grasp his, encasing it, your thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

You slowly turn, and walk backwards, his hand still encased in yours as you step into the rain, watching his hesitant steps follow you.

You both stand under the rain, the water cradling your skin and washing away your previous efforts to dry off. Your hand intertwines with his, and your other hand rests on his shoulder. He places his other hand on your waist.

You smile, but he still seems hesitant. For a moment, you both stand, simply looking at each other. 

As if to reassure himself, Sunday leans down, and gently presses his forehead to yours.

Your smile falters for a moment, your expression replaced by that of surprise, but when Sunday grins, your confusion floats away. His hand squeezes yours as both of you sway and dance in the rain.

–––

“Is everything okay?”

Or at least – that's what the curious look on your face might say.

Sunday retracts his hand from the water of the fountain, gently flicks it, before wiping it with a handkerchief, drying it off. He sits half turned to you on the fountain's edge.

You stand with an umbrella and a (familiar) floating eye in tow, changed into warmer clothes and dried hair, washed of the rain's scent. 

Sunday had temporarily stepped away while you were showering to visit a smaller fountain closer to where you stayed. He was acutely aware the coin you'd tossed wouldn't be here. 

Always standing. Never approaching. That was how he'd describe Gopher Wood.

Right where you are.

Dressed in black like a curse that followed him – ravens in corners of buildings and lurking from above muddied puddles. Always in the distance, fog following him like a haunting widow, the backdrop of the mist etching him further into Sunday's mind. A hollow that spasms like a missing organ.

“These are necessary measures” he'd say. “Are you afraid?” He took delight.

He took delight in it.

“Sunday?”

Your voice, soft and grounding, snapped him out of the small trance he was in.

“My apologies.”

He says, picking up his folded blazer as he stands and walks to you,

“I have to check your temperature and–”

“Stop, stop, stop. Hold on.”

You hand over the umbrella to him, and shuffled through your bag to pull out a warm and fuzzy towel.

Sunday simply observes you for a moment as you hold the towel in your hand. He tries to reach out to take it with his other, but you pull away. He looks at you hesitant and confused, as you motion for him to lean down.

Carefully, your hands bring the towel to his head, and cautious of his wings, you gently dry his damp, blue hair. He hums, his wings shifting and bristling from the contact at first, before relaxing. 

“You could have told me.”

“You wouldn't let me.”

“I wouldn't?”

You huff,

“You talk too much.”

“You're the one who cuts me off quite often.”

“Touchè.”

Your hands stop for a moment, looking over at his ruffled hair half dried by the towel. One of your hands brushes away some of the hair that sticks up onto his face.

You wish he'd let you see his eyes.

“What colour are your eyes?”

His throat tightened a bit. He'd hate to deny you if you asked to see them.

“..gold.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

You stayed quiet, simply looking at the soft feathers of his wings, your hand moving from his face to hover around the pairs behind his ear, you look at him, and he nods, giving you silent permission.

Your hand gently cards through one of the wings’ feathers, careful to not poke any of the eyes, wiping away any wet edges of his feathers.

“..You're pretty.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.”

You back away, your hand retracting and pulling away the towel but Sunday is a bit faster, his hand grabbing your wrist and immediately stilling you. You both stand for a moment, breathless, and silent.

…

“I.. I'll wash the towel.”

“Ah, it's okay..”

He insists, silently, although his originally urgent grip on your wrist loosens a bit.

You end up obliging, letting him take the towel.

He could feel your pulse. Do humans have normally quick heartbeats?

–—

“Brother!”

Robin grins, ear to ear, proud of her handiwork as she holds up her fingers, sticky from the dampness of the water and the sweat of her small, clammy hands. The water dips into the chubby curve of her elbow, threatening to go up further but dripping down into the water instead, rejoining the gentle flow. 

“Robin, that could be dangerous! We don't know what those plants are..”

Sunday cautions his sister, voice untethered but soft with naivety and youth. His feet remain hesitantly restless on the muddy edge of the small river bank.

She only offers him a closed eye grin, before trudging her short, stubby legs in the water, walking back to the soil where she descended from, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth in concentration as she was cautious not to slip.

“It's for you!”

“M-Me?”

Robin's wet hand reaches out to Sunday's, gently prying his soft palm open and placing a soaked flower, making the water drip from his rounded knuckles. Some of the water seeps into the edges of his sleeves, but not more than a few centimetres.

“It's the flower! From the book!”

“But it's not real..”

“It is! That's why it's white!”

Sunday looks down at the flower again. It looked dreadful, in a way. Like a drowned rat – if he knew he could describe it that way. But from the rambunctious effort of Robin's chubby little fingers having wrestled it out of the water, it looked..

perfect.

It was beautiful in a sense. The white petals were (almost) unmarred, the stamens gently swayed with the soft draft that carried with cloudy weather, and the stem was still slightly rigid.

Robin's handiwork was pretty.

“You mustn't run off like that.”

Robin flinches, and clings to Sunday's back, as he turns to the source of the voice.

His eyes first see shoes. Black, polished, unmarred. Never touched by filth. Then crisply ironed pant legs. Then up, up, and up, until his little neck strained.

Father.

Or what was left of him.

Gold rimmed glasses. A rosemary always adorning his neck.

Sunday's original thoughts, back then, had been none of these incriminating feelings. They'd been quiet. So silent and afraid, as though his father would hear if he thought too loudly.

“What do we have here?”

The man leans down, but it does less to make him non-imposing. He might prefer it, that way. Sunday notices the gentle tinker of his rosemary as it moves forward with his father.

Robin's clammy hands now clenched the soft fabrics draped over Sunday's small back, cowering behind him. His loud, messy sister. His determined, bright sister. Dimmed by the clouds and fear his father brought.

If only he reached out to choke his father with his rosemary right then and there.

—–

“I wish u could have made it ://”

You stare at an old text – probably even forgotten by the sender. The tears make the digital screen a bit hard to read momentarily as it fills up your vision, but it gets easier after they settle on your waterline. 

It's these quiet nights you realise how much company you're missing. Like an artist painting the negative spaces in blotches to carve out the image – texts and hidden whispers like these carved out the loneliness you'd fester in yourself.

Something stirred you awake. Maybe it was the constant lingering pain that threatened to push it's usual threshold. Maybe the constant beeping of the heartbeat monitor.

Or that Sunday wasn't here.

Not even his eye. As unsettling as it was – you missed it a little. You sigh, pushing yourself up and sitting on the edge of your familiar hospital bed, careful to not agitate the pain more by accident. You push off the bed, and walk a bit hunched, pulling a shawl over yourself and deciding to go out and search for him for whatever reason.

At least, it's a better way to pass your restlessness than going through old texts. Walking at night didn't seem as bad of an idea – at least within hospital grounds.

––

Sunday remembers the world.

Or what he wishes to remember it as.

Cold, stony alleyways. Unforgiving nights. Merciless fog. A sun that never shines.

Not upon those like him anyway.

His Father – always standing. Never approaching. The fog surrounding him was the same. Always at a standstill.

Until something broke that.

There it was. Blood, seeping through cracks in the broken pavement of the ground. Almost inky from the murkiness and filt that seeped into it.

That was the first time he saw his Father's shoes marred.

“This is necessary, child.”

The Raven perched on his shoulder would bristle a bit, but not more.

No, it wasn't.

“This is our duty.”

It isn't.

“You will have to do what it takes.”

Sunday felt impossibly small that day. Like a fawn's leg caught in a bear trap. As if his surroundings grew a size too big and left him behind like a borrowed sweater. He was always more frailer than the other kids.

He wonders if that's why his father broke him so easily.

His little, golden eyes peered down, lost in thought and terror. He learnt how to ground himself at a tender age.

There was grime under his shoes.

Grime in the cracks of the pavement.

Grime in his father's affections.

He was never pure.

——

You couldn't find Sunday.

Forget that – you couldn't even walk.

Pain shot through you the moment you stood up, making you gasp and breathlessly sit back down onto your bed. Your throat constricted – you couldn't tell if it was from the pain or the frustration.

The frustration that had been ebbing and chipping away at you; second by second, hour by hour.

“I can't make it”, “I'm not feeling well”, “The doctor said..”, “I probably won't.”,..

“It hurts.”

Your lungs tremble, before sucking in a breath. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you hunch forward, glaring through the blur of your festering emotions at the sterile tiles of your hospital room.

The tapered off conversations, friendships fizzled out, disappointed looks.

You weren't blessed. By some being, or some cruel fate, or so on and so forth; it felt like if anything, you were created to be tortured. Like flimsy, rotting meat on a metal rod. Pain was more familiar to you than the crevices of your hand, weak with the trembling in your bones from all the feelings you couldn't even name.

“I wish you could have made it.”

That pulls a sob out of you like a hooked wire piercing and pulling through a fish's throat, making you double over as more continue to bubble past.

You were meant to be tortured; you choke on your spit, and sob past the coughing.

Why? God, just why? Fall to your side and curl up,

Why couldn't you be blessed? What did everyone else have that you didn't? Why weren't you blessed? Why couldn't you be free? What godforsaken sin had your soul committed? What did your fate have in store? What did you do?

Why you?

Burying your screams into the pillow, the ugliness of your reality was softened by it like an interrupted fall from a height.

You cry until your vessel is empty.

Until you feel you've carved a hole out of yourself from the middle.

What it would take to be blessed, you wonder. Your hands clench to your chest, and your heart throbs to live despite.

–

Sunday returns late.

And he returns quietly.

You look up, puffy and tired eyes meeting the wings where his are supposed to be.

He stands idly at the opened door. Blood stains his visage. 

You breathe out, your face warm from your previous bout of sobbing, and don't utter a word. Sunday walks– limps to your side, almost paddling his way, before slumping down into the chair beside you. Some of the eyes besotted on his halo look tiredly at you.

You sniffle. He stays still. You presume he's looking down at the tiled floor.

Your hand comes up to rub away at your sticky face, and soon Sunday's own hand comes up to cup your face when yours retracts.

You lean into his gloved hand, disregarding the grime and the strong, metallic scent. He leans forward, and presses his forehead against yours.

His hair are soft against your forehead. You peer into the deft feathers of the wings that firmly shut over his eyes. Your own hands gently cup his face, closing your eyes. After a moment, he shifts, his face moving to bury itself into your neck, his arms moving to wrap around you, a bit too tightly. He stays tense for a minute, then relaxes into your hold.

You both stay like that for a while.

—–

You woke up feeling under the weather the next day. Which was ironic, because the Dawn has never looked as beautiful as it did that morning.

In fact, you don’t even remember how you managed to sleep. 

You look down emptily at your hand – as though you awoke from a coma induced dream, reminiscent of the warmth that was under it just a night ago.

Just then, your door creaks open. Sunday enters with a small box, and stills for a moment before his face breaks into a gentle smile.

“Ah, you're already awake.”

He says, softly, careful to not disturb the peaceful atmosphere the morning sunlight had casted in your room with you two. He walks over and sets the box on your bedside table.

“What is that..?”

“Paint.”

“Oh. Wait, what?”

He leaves, and a few moments later, you hear a soft grunt in the distance, followed by some wood creaking. Finally, Sunday seems to be able to maneuver whatever he'd been handling and it comes into view as he brings it in;

An easel, and a canvas already set on it.

You smile, at his struggled and awkward movements as he carefully handles the easel inside.

“You wanted to paint.” You recall, propping up your pillows and lazily leaning back onto them.

“I did.” He says, his smile returning to his face after the slightly troubling task. He pulls a chair and sits in front of the canvas, adjusting and pondering over the position of it until he was satisfied.

“What are you going to paint?”

“You.”

“Something more original please.”

“With lots of care.”

“Hm? What?”

You chuckle a bit, Sunday puffing a smile at your seemingly lightened mood.

“You should rest for today. We have a few necessary tasks to look into, aswell.”

You yawn, turning your head to look at the morning sunlight brightening up your room.

“Sure. What are they?”

You hear a clack – the lid of the box having been pried open with a bit of difficulty, as Sunday rustles with the paintbrushes and paints.

“A few things regarding your previous experiences with The Family, reviews, feedback and complaints..”

Ugh. They wanted you to drop a review?

You sigh, stifling a groan as a hand runs down your face. Sunday chuckles, softly,

“I'll take care of the writing part, just answer the questions.”

——

“Hm, how curious.”

The lavender-haired woman stirs her tea with dainty, carefree rhythm, the spoon clicking against the ceramic of the cup as she peers down at the cards on the table.

Mei sighs, her hands folded on her lap as she stares at the golden liquid, occasional vibrations making it ebb the slightest bit.

“He doesn't seem.. angelic, does he?”

Black Swan ponders out loud, her hand picking up and flicking a few tarot cards,

“There's something about him. It feels off.”

“Relative to his sister, even I'd think so.”

The woman smiles lazily, her dawn colored eyes looking up at the purple haired woman in front of her.

“You're quite worried.”

“..I suppose, it's obvious.”

Mei's eyes flit up as she hears movement, followed by a lazy sigh from the woman across her.

Thin, manicured nails faintly brush against her skin as Black Swan holds her hand, her lithe fingers feeling the ridges of her engagement ring,

“And here I’d have thought you’d been more excited to see me back.”

Mei puffs out a prudent chuckle, her hands manoeuvring to hold her lover’s.

“Alright. Care to give me a reading?”

The dawn-eyed woman flicks up a card.

The Hanged Man.

Acheron’s eyes follow the swift movement.

“Let’s see what’s in store.”

——

Sunday thinks he's cursed.

Dirtied, marred. Absolution is in store for the sinners, and exorcism for the cursed like him.

Who dirties the divine? Who damns the dirtied? Whose hands marr purity?

Gopher Wood was not a man of purity. Grime-stricken hands that crawled up from the depths of hell to pull fragile minds into an abyss.

He inlaid a curse upon Sunday – that must have been it.

Why else would he not be able to look at him?

Head down, child.

Sunday's little feet would shuffle together, sweat would stick to the small flicks of his short hair on the back of his neck, eyes fixated on the grimy, cobblestone path under his polished shoes.

Follow my lead. Do not go astray.

His hand would tightly grasp onto a few fingers, barely gripping onto the firmness of the man's hand with his little, clammy ones.

Do not look.

Sunday stops. His heart beats a bit too fast for his tiny body.

Do not ask.

A bead of sweat tickles his skin as it rushes down the side of his temple.

Do not speak.

Tears would bubble at the corners of his eyes, hands red and swollen from being hit for every verse he got wrong. For every word he could not muster out from his throat that was raw from childish blubbering through cries.

He would not speak of him.

“Sunday?”

He holds his breath.

You scrutinize at the pamphlet in your hands, before aiming it towards him and pointing at a word on it.

His hand remains stiffly held in the air, the tip of the brush barely grazing against the painted canvas.

“What does this mean?”

His chair creaks as he leans aside the canvas to take a look at the word you pointed at.

“Ah. Exorbitant. Something unreasonably pricey.”

You make a small ‘o’ shape with your mouth, looking over the sentence again in better understanding.

“How's the painting coming along?”

“It's..”

Sunday takes a moment to glance over the painting.

The sky is barely painted in – it’s embarrassing how much detail he's put into your figure standing among the flowery field, however. The looser ends of your outfit billow among the sunlit garden, a wide smile etched upon your face, flowers adorning your arms in bunches as you try to hold the huge bundle.

“It'll take some more time.”

“Can I see?”

He hesitates. You smile.

“You.. can, however.. I'd like to keep it a surprise.”

You nod, softly,

“Okay. I'll see it when it's done.”

Sunday returns your smile. You continue reading the pamphlet. Sunday takes the time to admire the curve of your lips against the backdrop of sunlight through the window.

–——

You suppose you should have seen this fever coming.

You curl up further on your side, tapping away at a laptop on your hospital bed, putting on a show and huddling further into your additional blankets provided by the hospital. It helps provide background noise in case you want to zone out.

“Hm.. fever of.. 38°C.”

Sunday plucks out the thermometer from your mouth, before placing it on your bedside. His methodical hands mess with various sachets of medicine before neatly presenting a few of them on his open palm.

“You'll need these.”

He hands them over to you, along with a bottle of water. You eat your pills and settle back into your bed with a forlorn, disappointed sigh. Sunday only fixes your covers and tucks you more into bed.

Your eyes trail over to the canvas behind him, covered by a cloth, as Sunday dabs your sweaty forehead with his handkerchief.

“When can I see it?”

He hums, a bit in thought, as his hands continue to gently dab away the sweat on your skin.

“In a bit. I have to add a few details.”

“Okay.”

You close your eyes, your weakened body pulling you into sleep as you feel the sensation of Sunday's lips press on the corner of your brow.

And that was the last you'd seen from Sunday.

Not that you're upset – of course not. He's a Seraphim. He surely has much better things to be doing, really. You can't imagine it must have been easy gaining such a status in the first place. And then having to look after a sickly human in the last days of their life? Work must be drab to him.

That being said, you do wish he'd at least tell you where he is.

Your eyes drift over to the overcast weather outside your window.

You hope he took an umbrella with him.

——

“Sunday.”

“Mr. Wood.”

Sunday's voice is sharp – he doesn't bother coveting the offensive edge.

“You've been astray for too long.”

…

Silence.

His gloves creak in protest as his fingers dig into his palm, curled fists at his side.

His smile remains stiffly on his face as one of his gloved hands pushes up his glasses.

“Surely, do you think such blasphemy is tolerable within the Family?”

“I–”

“Im asking, child.”

Sunday breathes out, strained.

“I didn't mean to–”

“Such excuses do not work–”

“Stop cutting me off.”

Sunday's voice wavers at the end. He feels his heart pushing into his throat. The raven on the man's shoulder only bristles, the smile on his face unwavering under the shadow of his black umbrella.

“..You haven't changed, little sparrow.”

Sunday's jaw clenches more. But before he can speak, thunder cracks in the background. His head snaps to look at the distant skies covered by heavy clouds.

It smells like rain.

––

“Take responsibility. Take responsibility for all you have done!”

Sunday's voice cracks through the strain on it. 

To respond is to acknowledge. He knows that filth won't respond. But he tries anyway.

He and his sister – they weren't sinful. They were children. They weren't filthy, they were confused. They weren't sinners, they were hurt.

They were children.

Through countless tortures and rotting, had Sunday realised his training was nothing but an escapist projection of his Father's own fears.

The fears his Father could not absolve in himself – he would, through the raw, blistered hands of a child that did not know better.

Or perhaps it was enjoyment. Or to fulfill his ego. To bolster his position as the shoe that grinded on dirt like him.

Perhaps all of those reasons.

Children with clammy hands, who plucked flowers and grabbed too tightly onto the swing, with scraped knees and a face that basked in the innocence of an eternal Sun.

Children, who were perfect to hurt, for monsters like him. Monsters like him who revelled in the pain of the innocent in lieu of unproven salvation. 

By the time Sunday yells his throat raw, thunder bellows in the background in equal magnitude, the rushing rain doing little to calm his heated face and drowning out the pattering of your feet as you rush to find him in front of the fountain where you both had made a wish.

“Sunday!”

Your voice calls out in the distance, his head snapping to you.

You shouldn't be out here.

He turns to embrace your approaching figure in the distance, his feet thrumming and moving to meet you in the middle, but before he takes a step–

“Do not move.”

The words still his bones. He breathes out, watching your slowing figure, swaying from the fever. Water sloshes lazily along his polished shoes that leaks out from the overfilled fountain. You'd wished for freedom here.

“Do not defy.”

He bites his lip, his teeth gnawing the flesh and drawing blood. He kept his wish in his pocket.

“I have commanded you, child.”

He will always be a sinner.

A sinner who is undeserving of a salvation as beautiful as yours.

“Your thrall is fizzling out.”

He smiles, and Sunday wishes he could rip his teeth out.

You sway, stopping to catch your breath, feeling yourself almost lose balance before steady arms wrap around your body.

“You're soaked!”

You whisper, feeling the dampness of his suit as he pulls you into a hug.

“We need to leave.”

Sunday leads you back, ignoring the weakening tether of his divinity.

Sunday looks back for the final time – a lonely, black umbrella in front of the fountain, it's owner seemingly vanished.

——

You heave, as Sunday helps you back onto the bed. Somewhere along the way, your body only grew weaker. You feared something worse when you could barely feel your pulse, but the way your legs seemed to almost stop working by the time you reached your room, it was already true.

Your figures shuffle as Sunday paces around the room, trying to find extra blankets and covers provided by the hospital, cursing under his breath as he knocks over a few items, some getting caught in his leg. You try not to pay attention to your failing body, but its hard to ignore how much deja vu you're getting right about now. Only this time – the pain is worse. The chill running up your spine at your spike in fever is nothing compared to the cold that's slowly chipping away at your fingers, and the pain in your body is reaching an all time high, making your breaths come out in labored gasps. It feels like a scrawny animal trying to rip out of your body.

He hurries over to you, swaddling you in blankets and sheets in layers, furiously rubbing your arms as he tries to warm up your body from the biting cold of the rain. Thunder strikes through outside your window, and in your fever haze, you catch a glimpse of the painting Sunday had meticulously made. He must have accidentally pulled the cover while pacing around.

Sunday calls out to you, snapping you momentarily out of your haze, but not completely. You were losing consciousness, and fast. His voice is shaking, despite how much he tries to appear calm. 

He knows.

But you can't bring yourself to pay attention. Things float over your mind like an ephemeral dream, your eyes only focused on the golden sunlight of the painting.

There's Sunday. And you. The garden is beautiful, and the sun illuminates your hands, reaching out to each other.

The gold is beautiful.

“Hey..”

You call out, making his panicked actions stop abruptly. His hand cups the side of your face, so gently, as if you're porcelain under his hand.

“What is it?”

“Sunday..”

Your hands tremble, moving up to hold his face, your fingers brushing away stray droplets from the edges of the wings over his face. The pain ebbs in you, and you recognize the familiar action as you sense it dimming, coupled with the sweat forming above Sunday's scrunched up eyebrows. He's trying to salvage this pain.

“Can I see your eyes?”

Sunday breathes out, leaning more into your hands. His hands move from supporting your back to your shoulders, gently pushing you back onto the bed, but his forehead presses against yours. 

You can feel his trembling, cool breath fan the lower half of your face, his own hands clasping over yours. The pain starts decreasing terrifyingly fast, making you afraid of just how much Sunday is trying to take it from you and into himself.

“Sun..”

Your voice whispers out,

“You don't have to–”

“I love you.”

The words hang between you two. You hear the faint sound of him swallow. There's dried blood on his lips.

“I love you too. The painting is beautiful.”

Sunday sucks in a breath, his wings bristling at your words. You feel your hands slowly lose strength.

His wings move. You see his eyes.

And they hold the most beautiful, striking golden Sun.

You're caught breathless for a moment.

Sunday's hands are still clasped over yours as they loosen and threaten to fall away from his face. You sense the trembling in them as he fosters your pain.

“I'm scared.”

His eyes close, eyebrows scrunched in worry and uncertainty.

“I'm here. I always have been.”

“I don't want to die.”

Sunday shifts, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead,

“Wherever you go, I'll follow you. There is nowhere you will go that I won't reach you.”

You close your eyes, tears roll down the sides, and Sunday kisses them away, continuing to whisper against your skin,

“I promise. I'll find you. In every universe you are painted into.”

You smile, laughing bitterly through your tears, your voice cracking a bit,

“You didn't make a wish, you know..”

Sunday presses his forehead to yours, his hand fishing out the coin he'd kept from his pocket in a hasty manner. He holds your hand, and gently places the coin in the centre of your palm.

“Because this will be a promise. I will follow you unto the borders of fate. Wherever you will lead I shall look to.”

You smile, through your tears,

“It's not fair. It's not your wish.”

“It's mine. And I am yours.”

He kisses you. His lips are soft against yours. You can taste his blood.

“I will always be yours. In death, if not in life.”

His hands encase yours. You feel the ridges of the coin press against the inside of your closed hands. 

You die in love.

He is a curse; a man rotten by the grime of his humanity, and thus he turns to you for the salvation of his divinity. But how insignificant such a thing is to him  – He cannot bless you, so he curses you. You who were never blessed now face the miracle of an angel like him. A miracle crafted by the defiling hands of a sinner that cursed you for love.

And he shall follow you unto death like one.

——

Acheron thrums her fingers against the cool counter of her desk, her eyes trained on the register in front of her.

She doesn't know how to tell a story.

Not yours, anyway.

Black Swan hums in the background, fixing the frame over the wall,

“You doubt yourself too much.”

Mei stays silent for a moment, then sighs. Her office chair creaks as she leans back in it. A few moments of silence, followed by a soft peck on the bridge of her nose. She opens her eyes to see her wife's, the woman slightly leaned over her.

“I'll be home late. I promise I'll spend more time with you soon. I just..”

Black Swan hushes her, her fingers lazily tangling themselves in the woman's violet hair. 

“I know. You have a long day ahead, isn't it?”

Acheron sighs again, closing her eyes, remembering your body in the morgue. Just about a few hours ago, when the rain was hitting it's hardest, she and her wife had taken a relaxed break. Black Swan had drawn some predictions for her, and the sounds of thunder had soothed her troubled mind back to a still pond. 

She opens her eyes again, and watches the precipitation on the window, the gentle sunlight peeking through the breaking clouds, the sound of rain coming to a slow halt. She watched a raindrop sliding off of the leaf of a plant right outside her window. Black Swan has already returned to her own devices behind her.

In just a few hours, you'd been alive. By the time the clouds broke apart and the rain stopped, so had your heart.

And here you were – back with a story of your own, instead. Acheron wishes she was better at storytelling. She hopes her wife can do it justice.

She turns halfway in her seat, looking back at her wife.

“..do you mind.. lending me a hand?”

The lavender haired woman only hums in response, the clicking of her heels as she approaches her again. She places three cards on Mei's desk.

“Which one calls to you?”

Mei takes a minute, analysing the duplicate designs of each card's back. She taps on the one on the left. Black swan picks it up.

“that's good.” She hums, closing her eyes for a moment, before opening them and looking back at Mei,

“But I mean, you. Which one really calls to you?”

Acheron hesitates once again, before tapping the middle one.

“Perfect.”

——

“You were right.”

Mei says, before gently blowing on the hot liquid in her teacup,

Black swan hums, lighter at the end, questioning what Mei was mentioning.

“That painting looks better in the centre.”

At this, the lavender-haired woman's mouth makes an ‘o’ shape, before curling into a smile. She flicks a few cards before gathering and tapping the bundle on the table to even them out.

“It does. Aren't you pleased I'm looking after your office decor?”

Mei only hums in response, looking over to the said painting hanging above her office chair, her face hidden by the sunlight of early morning.

“Someone ought to have helped with such a..”

Black Swan trails off, perturbed by the sterile, clean look of Acheron's office where she has yet to make changes.

Mei only laughs under her breath at her words.

“You're right.”

Black Swan's gaze joins her lover's, as she looks to the painting aswell.

The golden sunlight peers through the tender reach of your hands with a certain, blue-haired angel. The same angel who was buried beside you.

“Ah, look.”

Mei looks down at the table, following her wife's fingers, as they tapped on the table.

“What do these cards mean?”

“Take a guess. Tell me what you feel from these.”

Her hand lands on Mei's – slightly coarse from her line of work. Her lithe fingers trace the band of her engagement ring.

“Something.. new. A fresh start.”

She smiles. Her dawn-colored eyes trail to the sidewalk just outside, watching a pair of lovers walk hand in hand under the newly uncovered Sun after the night's rain.

——

“Morning.”

You whisper, leaning down and gently kissing the corner of your husband's brow. He sighs, and shifts, burying his face further into the pillows. It's soon followed by arms that move under the covers to wrap around your waist, forcing you to stay seated beside him. You simply chuckle.

“Goodmorning.”

He replies, his voice soft with sleep. You ruffle the soft tufts of his blue hair.

“Sleep well?”

“Mm. I..”

He opens his eyes, half lidded and blurry with sleep, looking up at you. You both stay silent for a moment.

“I had a long dream.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

He sighs, before slowly sitting up, and burying his face into your neck, and then leaning his body weight onto yours, making you lay down on the bed.

Hm. So this is how it's going to be.

You know your husband too well to know this is going to turn into a drawn out cuddling session. Your hand raises and brushes through the soft, blue locks. You're giving in anyway, because who are you to deny your lover?

He only holds you impossibly closer at that.

“I made coffee. It'll get cold.”

He hums at that.

“It's 10 in the morning, you dork.”

“Ah, didn't notice.”

You roll your eyes playfully, leaning down to press a chaste kiss on the top of his head. He presses a kiss to your neck in return.

“You haven't shown me your painting yet.”

He stays silent. But then, he shifts, his arms hesitantly letting go of you.

That seems to have gotten him going.

He gets up, and shuffles out of the room. A few moments later, he returns with a small canvas wrapped in a cloth. He hands it to you, then returns to sit beside you, burying his face into your neck once again.

“Wrapped too, hm?”

“It's your birthday.”

You smile. He leans over and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your brow.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“You haven't even seen it yet.”

You unwrap the cloth from the canvas. Your smile only widens at the painting.

There you two are. Your house is behind you two, and there's your garden that you've painstakingly taken care of.

You chuckle, pointing to a few, scattered reds across the greenery,

“You included my carnations.”

His hand comes up to wrap around yours, before bringing it up to his lips, and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Of course I did.”

You set the painting aside, before getting up and stretching, popping a few joints.

“Come on, I'll make you some fresh coffee.”

You reach your hand out, and he takes it, getting up on his feet as he lets you lead to the kitchen.

———

There's a strange shop that you've recently discovered.

It pops up just about whenever, wherever. A strangely elusive personality culminated by the repeated disappearance and the mysterious purpose of the shop tends to pull you in.

You had visited the shop before – but the memory is fuzzy. You don't remember having anything you'd like to buy. Photo Albums, mirrors, tarot cards, polaroid cameras, antique equipment and trinkets, and strange candles. It was when you were on your way home from work that you decided to take such a detour. Perhaps.. that must've been what it was. Regardless, you decided you'd want to visit the shop again with your husband.

The opportunity was pretty perfect; your schedules aligned, the weather was considerably not so miserable, and you managed to find the shop in time.

It's a bit of a chance opportunity, considering how your husband has taken a liking to a bird that recently ended up in your backyard – the poor thing was scuffled. It's wings were broken and it barely survived through the night you two found him.

Ever since, he'd been collecting photos and capturing the little thing's recovery, bit by bit. 

You smiled to yourself, humming in contentment as your arm was looped around his snugly, basking in the warm glow of the early Sun, walking in a leisurely pace as your husband continued to flick through photos on his phone.

The weather was especially nice today – the rains had stopped a while ago and the time window was perfectly in between cold breezes and a warm atmosphere. You eyed the gentle swaying of newly sprouted weeds and grasses, a thicket of flowers and so on, at the edge of the sidewalk connecting to the wall of a barrier.

The wall would end a few ways ahead, replaced by (slightly worn) fences, as the rest of the land came into view the more you two walked ahead. Your husband would occasionally fill in the silence with little facts he would remember of, while you scanned the vast scenery of the green land behind the fence.

It was a cemetery. The tombstones were warmed by the Sun – or you at least think so, the way a cat seems to be lazily draped over one. There's a hugely amassed tree a few ways up the tombstones, and there lay two solitary ones, just enough distance from the tree for the light to reach under and illuminate them. 

You wonder if they're warm. You wonder if the grass is soft, and the dirt is coldly comforting. You wonder who they were – lovers, spouses, friends. Perhaps they were holding hands through their graves. Another cat sprung from behind one of the tombstones, gracefully approaching the one asleep sunbathing, stomping around the little flowers growing beside the specific tombstone.

You see them greet each other. You see the cat lovingly bathe the sun-kissed one. It's tail lazily draped over the tombstone flicks, drawing your attention to the name. Nico. Below it, reads, Have faith in a tomorrow.

The fence cut the sight a little short as you two walked ahead. 

You think for a moment, almost disregarding the smallness of the thought amongst other things in your head.

“Ah, I don't think I've shown you this one.”

Your husband speaks, leaning over to show you a spontaneous photo of you on one of your dates. You both had taken a detour and rested near the fountain. That must have been when, as you smiled, looking at the photo.

But the thought still lingered quietly in your head.

To be woven so delicately and strongly into someone else's tapestry, until the strings frayed long after your deaths.

What it would take, you wonder.

———

Akin to your habits of detours, and keenly aware of your likings, your husband politely guides you to a cafe you two had visited once (he, thankfully, does not mention the audible growling of your stomach. Coffee is not a good, neither a fulling breakfast.)

You two spend a handful of hours there, simply relishing the downtime you two have together. Hushed, soft conversations, hands held over the wooden table that stayed linked as you two finally made your ways to the strange shop.

It was small, but the arrangement of the trinkets (and perhaps the placement of the lighting) made it look more spacious inside. You two talked at the front where, you presume, the owner of the shop was. A lavender haired woman who spoke in a hushed, sweet tone. Nothing else was off about her except her hypnotizing gaze and the knowing look in her eyes. You two would take your time sorting through the shop, and eventually your husband would pick a photo album.

The woman offered to print a few select photos, and you hesitantly agreed. Although technically this was a strange shop in itself, something about it prickled your skin the wrong way.

So, you waited outside for him as he discussed the details, choosing to admire the carefree and relaxed atmosphere of the day outside.

After a moment, your phone buzzed, and that was your signal. You headed inside, and found your husband listening carefully to the lavender-haired woman instructing on how to take care of the album. As soon as you catch her eye, she smiles at you, and waves. You wave back.

“Good to go?” You ask, looking at your lover in blue.

“Sure is. Feel free to drop by anytime you need some more help.” The woman chimes in, smiling lazily at you, her chin cradled on her hands, her elbows propped up on the counter as your husband fiddles around with the album a bit more.

“Alright.” He says, after a moment, satisfied with his inspection. “We can leave.”

You smile at the woman again as a thanks, she simply waves you two off as you leave. The chiming of the little bell over the door resounds for only a moment as she watches you two with a fixed gaze leave and walk away.

“Hm..”

She hums, her fingers grazing over the plethora of cards sprawled in the pop up desk below. Her finger lands on a card.

The Hanged Man.

“Mei was right.” She smiles.

———

[kisseobie]

Can you rank P1harmony on who is most likely to get pussy drunk and why 👀👀

who in p1harmony is most likely to be pussy drunk

pairings: ot6 p1harmony x reader

warnings: nsfw obvi (mdni)

a/n: well yes! this is in mtl, so most to least! (although i can see all of piwon as munches that all get pussy drunk tbh..)

༘⋆₊˚ jongseob

might be a controversial take and might be spurred on by a seob work i am currently drafting out but.. fuck it i’m putting jongseob as the most likely to be pussy drunk! i’m just sooo fixated on the idea of him never experiencing anything before meeting you, and just becoming obsessed when his fingers, lips, and cock all make contact with your cunt for the first time.. so eager to please, and the fact that he’s able to draw out waves from you is enough for him to feel pleasure as well. definitely a service dom that can spend hours analyzing each reaction he can pull from you.. when he’s particularly stressed out in the midst of comeback preparations he’s spending his nights lapping at your pussy until all the worrying thoughts dissipate from his pretty head :3

༘⋆₊˚ intak

just a loser puppy bf obsessed with his girlfriend and her glistening cunt :(( he’s sooo desperate 24/7, is always pulling you away from whatever or whoever you’re currently occupied with, just so he can worship you and your pussy. he’s the typa bf to rut his hips against the bed whilst eating you out, eagerness evident in the way he groans into your cunny .. he’s def begging you afterwards to let him stuff you with his dick .. pleading with big eyes and nasty words like “just the tip? please angel, wanna feel you around me” and you’d never admit it to him, but his never-satiated desire to worship your pretty pussy drives you absolutely crazy :( please please rut your hips onto his face and pull his hair when he’s eating you out.. he deserves it!!

༘⋆₊˚ jiung

another hot take but i think a serious little nerdy introvert like ji would have a crazyyyyy sex drive; and an even crazier need to constantly be inside of you. once the pair of you have sex for the first time, it literally alters jiung’s brain chemistry. he’s particularly obsessed with overstimulating you just to witness the familiar frothy white ring of his and your cum placed around his dick every time he lifts your pelvis up and pulls in and out.. literally takes pictures of your pussy like it’s the finest piece of art he’ll ever see, tucking said photos into a locked folder on his phone that he visits quite frequently. is not as vocal about just how pussy drunk he gets, but his actions and stares make it obvious :DD

༘⋆₊˚ theo

now now.. i know people are gonna say yangie should be higher on the list, but personally, i think theo—whilst very much obsessed with eating you out—would get more drunk off of receiving pillow princess treatment? i know most people write him as a service dom but this man is lowkey the brattiest sub to exist in my eyes lol. can see him being greedy as hell. being fourth on this list and leaning submissive doesn’t mean he’s never pussy drunk tho! but i do think it’s less of a trait during sex, and more of a feeling he gets when he’s needy and missing you. i can see taeyang sniffing your unwashed panties and getting off to that like a little perv hehe

༘⋆₊˚ soul

now this was a bit difficult.. and shota is an enigma so it took me awhile to properly place him where he belongs. kind of like theo, i feel like he isn’t really the type to get pussy drunk during sex or foreplay or anything like that. instead, i think he’s just more obsessed with your other body parts and processes, like the way your tits bounce when he’s rutting into your heat, how you clench around his cock when he’s more vocal with you, how your moans eventually morph into little broken gasps. i think my main impression of being pussy drunk is being so obsessed, dazed, and brainless, but i just think soul would be a lot more aware when intimate, and not so easily lost in the sauce as the others lol

༘⋆₊˚ keeho

i can already hear the disgruntled keeho truthers making their way but before yall kill me.. hear me out.. i think of kyo as a hard dom majority of the time, so i really don’t think he would make it aware to you even if he was pussy drunk. i also think making you feel good would be his priority, and he wouldn’t pay much mind to his own pleasure until his girl was satisfied, so i just don’t think he’s got the time and drive to be pussy drunk! he’s on a mission to have you trembling with want, and he can’t really achieve that if he’s drooling with lust for your cunt :/ maybe it’s just the way i characterize him.. but i just think he and shota are more focused on other things during intimacy

taglist: @woozixo @hearts4chanhee @kyokopi @astro-doll-the-star @soobiary @kyaaramello @t3ssamoodboard @angelcbf @idontknow-1s-world @vivienne-sim @elissasimp @imjustayapper @ihatewreckingballmains @sosaverse @seobing @www90kitsch @khfviq @barbiekh86t @bbyjjunie @taeyangi @fullsunstrawberry @jihnyah @intheemptymirror @watamotee33 @dreamer1299 @jixnnsie @wonootnoot @yukx-x047 @sundancearchives @chuuswifereal @seisyiss @fishsquishh @sunnyyangie

© kisseobie, please do not repost my writing!

༘⋆₊˚

[fandomfics]

Anything for You

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem Reader

Description: undercover jobs are always risky, but when you're caught going against the gang you and Dean have fallen in with, Dean is forced to do something drastic.

Masterlist

A/N: I love Dean. That is all

⚠️Warnings⚠️

18+ MDNI

Past/memories in italics. Canon typical violence, language, use of restraints, alcohol use, drunkenness, dark themes, human trafficking, murder, talk of vamps, no actual vamps appear. unprotected p in v, oral F receiving, angst, fluff, smut. The whole 9 yards. Not proof read.

Smut under the 🔥

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You are on your knees on the hard concrete, sitting on your heels, blindfolded. The rope that binds your wrists behind your back digs into you, the friction burning your sensitive skin. The smell of blood invades your nostrils, you can only hope it's not Dean's.

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"This could take weeks. We need to make sure that we don't blow this before we find the nest. " Dean sighs putting his head in his hands.

"We'll be fine. As fucked up as it is, them using a shelter as a cover will help us. My intel says they mostly pose as volunteers, they just hand the people off, No kidnap or torture at this stage. We pass the info to Sammy when we get it," you gesture to him across the table, "and he'll let the other hunters know the drop point."

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You curse yourself under your breath as you remember those words, you should have been prepared for the unexpected. Your sense of time is distorted, your body is weak, you just want to fall to your side and pass out. You resist the urge and continue straining your ears to hear anything outside of the concrete room you are in. Nothing. Every pair of shoes you have are modified to carry a blade of some sort, You take the silence as your que to remove it and work at the rope. Periodically you stop to listen for any indication of footsteps, when you are satisfied by the silence you continue.

After what feels like an eternity, you're finally able to free yourself. When you draw up the blindfold you see the bare concrete room with a single light dangling from the ceiling and a door in front of you.

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The shelter you stand in front of is quiet and unassuming, the sign above you flickers momentarily, 'Hope's Haven'. Your gut clenches, places like this are supposed to be safe for the less fortunate. You're spurred on to take out this threat and move forward, duffle slung over your shoulder.

Dean is hot on your heels as you enter the building, "We're the new in-house caretakers." You say plainly, looking over the receptionist, wondering if she's part of this whole game.

"Door at the end of the hallway." She considers you and Dean for a moment before returning to her computer.

You pass several doors, every one marked, men's and women's dorms, family dorms, restrooms, showers, cafeteria, rec room. The door at the end of the hallway is marked volunteers only.

Behind the door is a staircase that leads to the small volunteers dorm, a few individual rooms and bathrooms, and a door marked 'Do Not Enter.' each door of the dorms has a white board on it with the names of the occupants, you quickly find the one marked with yours and Dean's chosen alias'.

"I'm surprised you let me pick the names. No protest either. I expected more from you Dean." You chuckle as you start to unpack your things.

His eyes narrow as he realizes he's missed something, "what do you mean?"

"You know," you stiffle a full on giggle before continuing, "Stevie Nicks is a woman right....and Lindsey Buckingham is a dude."

"Really?" Dean says Incredulously. "I guess it's a good thing no one ever thinks twice when we give our cover names..."

You can no longer keep your laughter in, bursting out in a fit as you fall back into the bed. "Right, no one EVER second guesses them." The sarcasm in your voice evident as your laugh dies down.

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You hear footsteps approaching outside the door and reposition yourself to sit against the wall, replacing the blindfold, hands behind your back with your small knife in one.

The creak of the door causes your muscles to tense, but then you hear his voice.

"Fuck, are you okay?" You can hear Dean making his way across the room to you as you quickly bring your hands up to remove the blindfold. He drops to his knees next to you and cups your face in his hands waiting for your reply. When you don't respond quickly enough he lightly taps your cheek with his hand, "Hey!"

"I-I'm fine." You look at him in shock, "Dean...why are you covered in blood?"

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"I told you to fucking wait for me!" Deans exasperation was clear, "You think they really believe that you weren't in that office snooping?"

"Would they let me go if they didn't?" You plop down on the bed in your shared room and start to take off your shoes.

"Maybe not, but you still should have waited dammit." His voice was quiet, almost inaudible. You pause briefly before continuing in a totally different direction.

"Come on, it's the fourth night we've been here, stop sleeping on the floor. I'm not gonna give you cooties." You say playfully trying to change the subject.

"Fine, I guess that's a suitable punishment for making me worry."

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You've barely slept, huddled with your back against the wall, Dean takes up most of the bed. As much as you would love to just cuddle up to him, he's your best friend. You've harbored a bit of a crush on him for years, but you know he doesn't feel the same, you've accepted that.

You're letting your mind wander until he begins to shift beside you and suddenly his face is inches from yours.

"Dean." His name a hoarse whisper. When he doesn't stir you try again, this time louder, "Dean!"

His eyes open slowly, "hmm?" When he is finally able to focus he realizes how close he is. "I told you this was your punishment. I'm not moving." You push his chest trying to get him to move but he doesn't budge.

"I can't sleep, you're taking up the whole fucking bed." You whine, exasperated from your exhaustion.

He wraps his arm around you and pulls you a bit closer as his eyes slowly close again. "Come on. We're friends, you don't have to be afraid to touch me, get some sleep." He turns away from you and gives you a bit more room. You follow suit, turning to your other side to face the wall and finally drift off.

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When the alarm wakes you in the morning you feel the heaviness of Dean's arm draped over your waist. He stirs behind you and swings his arm back to turn the alarm off before leaving it back where it was.

"Mornin'" His voice is groggy

"Dean...what are you doing?"

"Shit, sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable?" He starts to move away but you catch his hand before he can, keeping it firmly planted where it lays on your stomach.

"No, it's nice." You are emboldened by his touch and allow your fingers to trace over his hands.

You feel his hot breath on the shell of your ear, "Yeah..." He quietly agrees before lightly kissing your cheek. Your heart swells and flutters and you have to stop yourself from overthinking this. He isn't confessing his love your you, he's just enjoying cuddle. It doesn't mean anything.

You wait a couple minutes in silence, enjoying a little taste of domestic bliss with Dean before reluctantly pushing his arm away and speaking again, "Come on, we gotta get up." You sit up and stretch, turning to Dean, "Come on!" He turns to lay face down, the pillows muffle his clear rejection at the thought.

"We've got shit to do. Come. On." You stand on your knees and push at his body again, trying to roll him out of bed. When that doesn't work you begin to poke and prod at him.

"I don't wanna." He groans.

As a last resort you stand up and start bouncing up and down, it's childish, but you're having the time of your life annoying Dean until he turns and sits up. You stop your antics, standing above him within arms reach, out of breath and giggling. His face softens and he smiles.

"You're a god damned pest, ya know that?" He chuckles and finally swings his legs over the side of the bed.

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"We can talk about it when we get out of here." Dean says as he helps you up from the concrete floor.

He checks you over before grabbing your hand to make a run for it. Everything is oddly quiet and you meet no resistance on your way to baby. In an instant your on the road making your way out of town in silence.

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You've barely slid out of the bed when you hear the door open. Some of the bigger goons of this operation stand on either side of the door as the woman you assumed to be the receptionist in your time here walks in with a look of disappointment on her face.

"You can't just barge into-" Dean starts protesting before one of the men point a gun at you. He stops and keeps his eye on him with a glare. "What do you want?" Dean says harshly.

"Her." The woman states rather plainly.

"Why?"

"She violated my privacy, caught her snooping through my things."

"What? No I didn't!" You try desperately to lie.

"Honey, I got you on camera."

Deans face drops as he looks to you, his face contorted in surprise and anger.

"Oh," she feigns pity, "you didn't know what she was doing without you? Wonder what else she gets up to behind your back?"

You're both too stunned for words as she turns with one last statement, "lock her up, don't torture her too much. She may still be useful. And Stevie, you'll need to work extra hard around here if you ever want to see her again." She snaps her fingers and the men drag you off to the room.

"Just do what they say, help them finish the job. don't worry about me." You try and tell Dean as he calls after you.

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An eternity passes in silence and night falls. A neon sign in the distance advertises a motel with a 24 hour diner across the street, you sigh in relief knowing he'll stop.

When you've showered and eaten you both lay in your respective beds in the dark. Dean has still barely said a word to you, the tension has made you anxious. You fade in and out of consciousness, your thoughts never ceasing. You remain restless.

You look to the clock on the nightstand. 3:17am. You run a hot bath, hoping it will help to ease your tense muscles, you pour the lavender shampoo in the running water, hoping the calming scent will ease your mind.

You let out a sigh as you sink in, your thoughts still lingering on the question you've pondered since leaving. What did Dean do that would cause him to be so distant?

Your snapped out of your thoughts when you hear a knock on the door. The water has grown cold and you're unsure how long you had been in there. "How much longer you gonna be? I need to piss." You hear Dean's gruff voice from the other side of the door.

"I'll be out in a sec." You quickly dry yourself off and dress allowing Dean the restroom. You sit on his bed, lights on, waiting for him to finish. He doesn't seem surprised, but he still doesn't want to talk.

"Dean, tell me what happened."

"I saved you, end of story." His climbs back into his bed and turns away from you. "Get the lights will ya?"

You scoff, "if it's that fucking simple, why can't you talk to me about it?"

He remains silent, no sign of any change. "Fine." Tears sting your eyes as you move back to your bed, turning the lights off on the way.

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You sit in the kitchen of the bunker with Sam. Same thing you've done a million times before.

"It's been three months Sam. Has barely talks to me. It fucking hurts."

"He still won't tell me anything about it either-"

"Yeah, but at least he doesn't treat you like the worst thing that ever happened to him, like a plague. We used to be so close, now we're practically strangers. I don't know if I can keep living here like this. I don't want to."

You hear footsteps retreating away towards the library and look to Sam.

"Well go tell him that. I don't want you to go, but I don't blame you either."

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You walk into the library to see Dean sitting at a table, hunched over a book, deep in thought.

"I'm leaving, I can't live here anymore." You say matter of factly.

"Okay. Have a nice life." Dean doesn't look up from his reading.

You march over to where he sits and fling everything in front of him off the table in a rage.

"What the fuck happened to you Dean? You have made these last few months an absolute living hell for me. We were best friends, we shared almost everything with each other." Your tears fall freely as you scream, he avoids your eyes.

"You can't even look at me. Like whatever happened is my fucking fault, but you're too chicken shit to say what it was."

You start to pace around as he stands up to leave.

"You're gonna run away from me again?" You stalk forward and shove him back, "Just tell me you hate me, you don't want to be near me, you don't want anything to do with me anymore. Something, anything. Give me some god damn peace Dean Winchester." You try to push him again and he catches your arms before they can make contact with his chest and you struggle to free yourself from his grip.

"I wish you left sooner. I thought maybe you woulda got the hint sooner. You're making this whole thing harder for both of us." He finally looks into your eyes after months, you're clearly in pain. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief of his words, as a sob shakes your body and your legs stop working. He catches you and sits you in the chair he was occupying.

You feel as though the man you thought he was is dead, and you sit in front of a facsimile of him, mourning the loss of someone who was once dear to you.

His hands slam on the table and you flinch at the sudden noise. "You want to know why I don't talk to you? Cause I killed five people. People, not monsters. I didn't think twice about doing it. I did it to save your sorry ass."

You sit in stunned silence as he leaves the room. You're heartbroken, you never would have expected him to be so cruel to you of all people.

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Torture? Absolutely the fuck not. Dean is going to take down every one of them before they can touch a hair on your head. He gets dressed and opens the door to find one of the large men guarding it.

"What? You supposed to follow me around?"

He nods solemnly. Without warning Dean pulls a small knife from his pocket and stabs the man right in the neck. As he begins to fall Dean catches him and drags him into the room before holstering the knife and continuing on.

His rage bubbles in his gut, consuming him entirely, his body moves without a second thought. His mission to rescue you is clear, damn the job, damn these fucking people.

One by one he finds each of the other people and puts them down without hesitation.

Something snaps when he finally releases you and is running for the exits. He just murdered five people. They weren't good people by any mans, but they weren't monsters in the literal sense.

The entire ride to the motel was silent, his mind was overwhelmed with the thoughts of how far he went to rescue you, how much it scares him that he was willing to take these humans out, for you. The fact that he would do it again a hundred times over if it means you're safe.

As much as he doesn't want you to leave, he is afraid of the lengths he will go to, the things he will do for you.

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Sam finds you in the library an hour later, hunched over the desk, still crying. He kneels beside you and puts a hand on your back to sooth you. You immediately turn into him and engulf him in a hug as you explain what happened. Your ever dutiful friend listens to every word as he allows you to cling to him, rubbing your back.

"I'm so sorry," he says as he squeezes you tightly. "I understand if you still want to leave, but you need to rest a bit now." You nod into his shoulder and he helps you up, guiding you to your room and laying you in bed. As he leaves you turn to face the wall and cry yourself to sleep.

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In the middle of the night you find yourself in desperate need of hydration. On your way back from the kitchen you turn a corner and collide hard with Dean. The glass in your hands drops to the floor and shatters sending water and sharp shards across the hallway. You're about to berate Dean, take all your anger out on him until you realize he's been crying.

He turns and makes his way back to his room without a word and you follow close behind.

"What the fuck do you have to cry about Winchester? Huh? You tore me to pieces like I didn't mean a thing and you're crying?" You scoff.

He ignores your words and you keep going. "Still don't want to talk? You killed those people. Not me. I told you to finish the job, not to worry about me. You decided to do all that yourself. So stop taking it out on me you selfish prick. Hate me all you want, but that was your decision."

He stops in his tracks just as he crosses the threshold of his room and finally turns his head to address you. "I don't hate you."

"Unbelievable."

"You're not going to leave me alone are you?" He turns to you fully now, "You aren't getting it. I killed those people because the thought of them touching you in any way was terrifying to me. The thought of losing you forever filled me with blind rage. You were careless and got yourself caught and I couldn't deal with it. The fact that I could do that for you fucking scares me. I was the monster."

His door slams in your face and you are left speechless. You have no idea how you feel, your thoughts are jumbled and you want nothing more than to quiet them down.

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You and a bottle of rum occupy the kitchen for the remainder of the night. You talk to yourself, to the bottle, to imaginary Dean as you play out how future conversations may go. You're emotions are scattered to the winds and you just want to drink until you're numb.

Half the bottle is gone and your head lays on your folded arms at the table. You hear someone walking in but all you can do is groan pitifully. Your vision is blurred and your head is fuzzy but you recognize Dean's voice through it it.

"Jesus Christ," you hear the bottle being picked up and unceremoniously slammed back down. "This isn't going to help."

"Yeronetatalk" your words slur together.

Without another word he lifts you from the chair and takes you to your room. As much as you want to protest, you can't, you're too drunk. He lays you in your bed and leaves for a few minutes. He returns with a gallon jug of water, a cup, a trash can, and some aspirin.

He pulls a chair up next to the bed and puts his head in his hands. He spends hours there with you, mostly asleep, but taking care of you when you're not, holding your hair back, urging you to drink water.

"I'm sorry." You hear him whisper when he thinks your asleep. "I didn't want this."

Your heart hurts. So does everything else. Your eyes open and he urges you to drink more water and take the aspirin.

"Dean," his eyes meet yours. "I'm sorry...for being reckless. I should have waited for you. You're right. But don't you dare blame me for what you did."

"I'm sorry too. I know it wasn't your fault that I did it for you. I just wanted you to leave so I wouldn't have to worry about losing you in the worst ways imaginable. I wanted you to run off and find a nice normal guy to settle down with and live a nice normal life. I've been....selfish. "

Again you're left speechless at the vulnerability that Dean is showing. He's finally talking to you again and dropping his innermost thoughts, it's dizzying.

"You're one of the most important people in my life, my best friend, I love you."

"Dean, I love you too, I never wanted to leave, you just made me feel like trash. Like nothing. I don't know what this means for our friendship, but you really fucking hurt me. Im not going anywhere though."

"I don't just love you as a friend. That's not what I meant." He whispers "but I understand, I wouldn't want to even be my friend after what I've done to you."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The next day him and Sam leave to go take care of a simple haunting. They should only be gone a few days, a week at most with delays. You take the time to try and do things you enjoy. You relax. For the first time in months. Now you know everything, it still hurts, but you aren't in the dark anymore.

You use the time to think about what you want. You think about Dean saying the words you've wanted to hear for so long. Even after all that you are still in love with him too.

You spend the next four days mulling everything over, weighing all of your options, going through every scenario in your head. Every outcome.

This is the first time in the years that you've known him that Dean has ever done anything to purposely upset you. You understand why. Can you forgive him?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

You hear them return and rush to Dean's room to wait for him. You play with your fingers nervously as you sit on the bed, it feels like time slows as you wait.

"Oh, Hey." He says somewhat suspiciously as the door opens.

"Hey," a small smile graces your lips. "Can we talk?"

"Yeah....yeah. " he drops his duffle in the floor and sits next to you on the bed, suddenly finding his hands very interesting.

"I forgive you. You should forgive yourself too. Those were terrible people. They knew what they were sending those people into. They knew they would die."

He looks up to you in surprise, "They were still human though."

"They've led hundreds of people to their deaths, knowingly. Fuck them. I know you Dean. You wouldn't hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it."

"I did though... I hurt you."

"Okay, but you usually don't." You place your hand on his. His eyes meet yours before you continue, "That's why I forgive you."

"I don't deserve it."

"I think you do, so get over it and accept it because I'm in love with you too. You're never getting rid of me now."

"You can't be serious." You cup his face with your hands and pull him in for a gentle kiss which he eagerly returns.

"I am," you say pulling away, "get some rest, you're taking me out on a date later. And I want something fancy. Pick me up at eight."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

At exactly 8pm, Dean knocks on your door. He extends a single red rose when you open the door, a wide goofy grin adorns you face as you look him over in his suit. You take the rose and place it in the glass of water at your bedside before returning to him.

"You look beautiful. You always look beautiful." You look down as a blush comes to your cheeks.

"Thank you," you reach up on tip toes and kiss him on the cheek. "You look handsome as usual." You smile up at him.

"So, where are you taking me Mr. Winchester?" He extends an arm and you take it as he leads you to the garage.

"It's a surprise." He winks and your heart flutters.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Truth or Dare?" Dean asks you, it's your first night at the shelter and you and Dean are passing time with a game.

"Uhhhh, truth."

"What's your ideal date?"

"What an odd question from you," you laugh, "a picnic under the stars, dancing slow in the moonlight, maybe a bit of wine."

"That is so fucking sappy." Dean laughs and you stick your tongue out at him playfully.

"Whatever. Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

"What's your ideal date?" You chuckle maniacally.

"Whatever gets me laid." He laughs heartily and you roll your eyes.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Close your eyes." Dean holds you hand as he drives, after about 15 minutes of driving the car comes to a stop and Dean takes your hand. Your confused when you step out and feel the crunch of gravel beneath your feet, after a short walk it turns to grass.

"Okay, open your eyes." Dean drops your hand and leans down to press play on a. Old boom box and Lady by Styx begins to play. You stand on a hilltop, a tree before you is covered in fairy lights, on the ground is a blanket that's been laid out, he sets a basket on the ground and gestures for you to sit. The moon is full, the sky is littered with stars, everything is perfect.

"I know it's not fancy like you said... But-"

"You remembered." You whisper, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"Of course I did." He smiles. You enjoy a charcuterie board, conversation, wine. You spend a while just enjoying each other's company, laying on the ground staring up at the stars. The tape that was playing finally ends and Dean switches to a new tape before standing up and extending his hand to you.

Can't Help Falling in Love by Elvis Presley begins to play and you take his hand. He helps you up and pulls you close, "dance with me?"

You nod your head, one hand clasped in his as the other rests on his chest. His other hand pulls you by the waiste, impossibly close. You sway slowly, looking up into his eyes. "You're so fucking sappy." You grin.

"Anything for you." He looks deep into your eyes before continuing, "I want to ask you something."

"Yeah?"

"Before I ask, I want to promise that I will always be honest with you from now on. I won't ever hide anything unless it's a really cool surprise for you."

"Okay," you giggle

"Will you be my girl?"

"Abso-fuckin-lutely." You bring him in for a kiss. It's soft and sweet, you feel a warmth flood through your body. "And I promise to try and not be so reckless."

He smiles and plants a quick peck on your lips before pulling away to get a velvety rectangular box out of his jacket pocket. He opens it in front of you and you can't help but laugh boisterously at his cheesy gift.

A dainty silver chain with a "D."

"You hate it." He says looking down.

"No, it's the cheesiest fucking thing and I absolutely adore it. Help me put it on!" He moves behind you and clasps it around your neck before snaking his arms around you and resting his head on your shoulder. You rest one hand on his and cup his face with the other.

"I'm never taking this off." He gives you a little squeeze and sways with you to the next song that plays. "I love you dean." He hums contentedly.

"I love you too." He says softly before kissing your neck. A small moan escapes your lips and you feel him smirk into your neck. You tilt your head and allow him to continue and he takes the invitation with no hesitation. A shiver runs down your spine when he hits your pulse point and you turn in his arms tilting your head up just as his lips crash into yours.

🔥

This kiss is deeper, voracious, his desire is evident in the way he holds you to him, and you're returning it right back to him.

"Dean," you pant after breaking the kiss, "do you think we'd get caught for public indecency out here?"

His eyes widen as he takes your meaning, "Babe, it'd be worth it even if we did."

You giggle as he backs you up against the tree and kisses down your body, when he's on his knees he looks up to you, "Tell me. Tell me what you want."

"I want you. I want to feel you inside of me, I want you to claim me."

"Fuck." He moans out before pushing his hands through the slit in your dress to remove your underwear. He shoves them in his pocket, "Those are mine now." He winks before hiking one leg over his shoulder, displaying your dripping cunt to him.

He immediately dives in, the obscene sounds of him devouring you mixed with both of your moans cut through the silence of the night. His hands gently caress your legs leaving a delightful tingle that causes you to shiver as the bark of the tree digs into your back with a pleasurable pinch of pain. He moves his focus to your clit as he allows a finger to prod your entrance.

"Yes, please, Dean..." You whisper breathlessly. He hums, sending a vibration through you and you can't help but buck into it. Your hands weave into his hair, gently pulling as you continue to roll your hips into him. He fully inserts his finger and curls it right against your sweet spot, eliciting a squeak of surprise from you that quickly turns to a moan.

He adds another finger and continues pumping them into you, moaning every time you pull his hair and grind against his face.

"Dean...fuck, just like that.... I'm gonna cum." Your cunt tightens, pulsing as your release hits and you cum hard on his fingers as he helps you ride it out. He immediately laps it up and removes his fingers. You moan as you watch him lick them clean. The lower half of his face is covered in your slick, igniting your desire to feel him again.

You grab the lapels of his jacket and yank him to you, his mouth finds yours again and you taste yourself on him. Your hand travels down his chest to the hard outline of his cock. You gently run a finger over it, teasing him until he's a shivering mess.

"Babe please." He whispers into your mouth. You make quick work of releasing him, he hikes your leg up, keeping one hand on your thigh as he lines up to your entrance. He slowly rolls his hips until he's fully inside of you.

He continues languidly rolling his hips, his free hand cups your face as his forehead rests against yours, his eyes firmly gazing into yours. The connection you feel is deeper than just the physical way your bodies are melding.

You call out his name in a breathy moan and his hips move a bit faster, "where?"

"Cum inside me, please Dean. I want to feel you."

"Fuck, you drive me wild. Cum with me." Your hand finds your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. Your eyes close involuntarily in bliss, "Eyes on me beautiful."

"Almost...."

Another wave of pleasure washes over you, you pulse and contract around Dean as you both cry out in pleasure. You feel him spill inside you with a few final languid thrusts. He stays there, cradling your face in his hand, catching his breath.

After his breathing steadies, he releases your leg and puts himself away. He takes one of the extra cloth napkins he brought and pours some water on it before getting on one knee in front of you. His hands guide your foot to rest on his leg to open you up to him once more and he cleans you up, lovingly planting kisses to your inner thigh.

[sheriffaxolotl]

Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 1) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Summary:

A hardened outlaw tied to a gang that's as much family as it is trouble, and a drifter searching for something she can’t name, find their paths crossing by chance. As Arthur shoulders the weight of the gang’s choices and the drifter continues to wonder, trust becomes a gamble earned through grit, gunfire, and mistakes neither can outrun. In the end, they’ll have to decide what kind of people they want to be. For now? It’s just bad decisions, sharp words, and worse company.

Chapter 1: How Did I Get Here?

Content Warning: Description of injury and blood      ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The rhythmic pounding of hooves slices through the haze of pain. Your entire body aches, but it’s the jagged, burning sensation in your side that consumes every thought. Each breath comes in shallow bursts, the edges of your vision blurred, but you fight to stay conscious. The air reeks of blood and dirt, the sun searing your skin.

Stay with it, you tell yourself. Don’t fade now.

The wound bites deep, a tether holding you to the world. That, and the steady rhythm of hooves beneath you. The pain is unbearable, each jolt of the horse sending fresh waves of agony ripping through you. But you’re alive. Not dead yet. That grim truth is all you have to cling to.

The rough leather saddle digs into your skin as you slump forward, vision swimming. The world blurs with every move, the edges of consciousness threatening to give way. Blood seeps warm and sticky beneath your clothes, but you can’t dwell on it—not now. Thinking about it will undo you.

Fragments of memory flash through your mind: the campfire, the men, the fight. Gunshots. A trap. You recall the fire of the gun in your hands, the brief surge of triumph as your shot landed true. Then came the pain—searing, all-consuming.

Who did this to you? The thought spirals in your fractured mind. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

The horse stumbles slightly, jolting you back to the present. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, the agony flaring anew. The sound of your own shallow breathing drowns everything else out, until a voice cuts through the noise.

“Stay with me.”

The voice is low, firm, and tinged with urgency. It pulls you back, anchoring you against the pull of oblivion. You turn your head slightly, eyes straining to focus, and catch a fleeting glimpse of him: Arthur Morgan. His familiar drawl grounds you, his steady presence a lifeline in the chaos.

The warmth of his arm braces you as the horse charges forward, his grip firm yet careful. The leather reins creak, and you catch the faint scent of sweat and gunpowder. It brings you an odd comfort.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Arthur murmurs, the strain in his voice unmistakable. “I need you to hang on.”

A weak, bitter laugh escapes your lips, a cruel parody of defiance. “Only ‘cause you asked so nice…” The words tumble out, strained and barely audible.

Arthur spurs the horse onward, his breathing steady but his heartbeat frantic against your back. His urgency is a sharp contrast to the lethargy clawing at your limbs. You’re slipping, and he knows it.

The edges of your consciousness flicker, bright sparks turning to embers before dissolving into the darkness. The world tilts, a chaotic blur of sound and sensation, and for a moment, everything goes black. You lose the shape of his arms around you, the thud of the horse’s hooves beneath you. The pain recedes, leaving behind only the distant, rhythmic pounding of blood in your ears. The wind carries the faint, rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves, a deep, steady thrum that draws you deeper, pulling the last of your thoughts, your memories, your fears, into the void.

                   ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The pounding of hooves slows, the sharp crunch of dirt underfoot stirs you awake once more. Strong hands haul you from the saddle, not gently, but with care born of necessity. Your vision swims, catching fleeting images: the flicker of a campfire, shadowy figures darting in the firelight, voices cutting through the haze.

“Come on, girlie,” a voice whispers, rough and urgent. Arthur. The gravelly tone catches in your ears, thick with exhaustion and a quiet strain. There’s a rawness to it, like the edge of a blade that’s been used too long, but beneath it, there’s something steady—something anchored. A confidence that can’t quite disguise the fear threaded through his words. The words are almost a command, but with a tenderness buried deep, like he’s trying to reassure both you and himself.

“Almost there,” he adds, the drawl of his southern accent seeping into the syllables, giving the words a warmth that contrasts with the urgency. The sound of it is grounding, familiar in a way that makes the world around you feel a little less threatening. It’s almost like he’s talking to himself, trying to believe in his own words.

A moment later.

Voices.

"Careful with her,” someone says sharply. “She’s bleedin’ bad.”

Cool hands press against your side, applying pressure to stem the flow. The pain flares, white-hot, and a strangled cry escapes your lips. Arthur’s voice is a constant thread through the noise.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says, though his tone wavers.

A woman’s voice joins his, sharp and authoritative. “Careful! We need to stop the bleeding before she goes into shock. Someone go get the supplies! Reverend!”

The camp blurs in and out of focus. Cool cloths press against your forehead, the sting of antiseptic cuts through the fog. Every sensation feels distant, muted, like it’s happening to someone else.

“She’s losing too much blood.” The woman’s voice is sharper now, tinged with desperation.

Arthur’s grip on your arm tightens. “She’s not dyin’. Not here, not now.” His voice carries a fierce conviction that makes you want to believe him.

Your breathing comes in harsh, shallow gasps as you open your eyes again, only for the world to spin. Your vision narrows in on the looming figure above you—Arthur. You can make out the shape of him now, darkened against the campfire. His face is a mask of concern, his lips moving, but the words don’t quite reach you.

“Open your eyes,” he mutters lowly, but it sounds distant, as if he’s speaking through thick fog.

A rough, half-sarcastic laugh escapes you, though it’s weak and breathless. “Fine mess I got myself into…”

The words feel foreign, so far removed from the weight of the pain. But somehow, they escape, even though they carry with them the faintest echo of something you don’t fully understand.

Arthur’s grip on your arm tightens, firm but gentle. “We’ll get you patched up. Just hold on.”

You don’t have the strength to answer. The words are too far out of reach, tangled up with the pain and the weight of everything that’s happened. Your thoughts are swimming, slipping between memories that don’t quite make sense and the sharp, burning agony in your side. Your head lolls to one side, and your body shudders, a chill running through you despite the heat of the campfire.

The world dims, but Arthur’s steady presence anchors you.

“Stay awake, spitfire,” he says softly, the nickname laced with something unspoken. It stirs a faint flicker of warmth, like a distant memory brushing the edge of consciousness.

The warmth of Arthur’s hand is steady on your arm, his grip unshaken despite the commotion around you. You feel his breath against your ear, his voice cutting through your fractured thoughts.

“Hold on. You’re gonna be okay. We’ll fix this.”

For the briefest moment, you wonder if he believes it—or if he’s just saying it to keep himself together. Either way, it doesn’t matter. All you know is that you’re still here, and the voices haven’t stopped. Not yet.

The moments bleed into each other, each breath sharp and fleeting, but somewhere amid the blur of pain and fading vision, the voices begin to grow more distant. The chaos around you settles into a steady rhythm—softer murmurs and the movement of people working. You feel hands on you, their touch careful and practiced, pressing and adjusting with an urgency that pulls you back to the present.

A new cool cloth is pressed to your forehead, the sudden chill shocking you back to awareness. You let out a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering as the pain in your side radiates with a sharp bite. A voice, belonging to the woman, drifts through the haze.

“We’re lucky. The bullet went clean through; didn’t hit anything vital, from the looks of it.” Her voice, while tinged with worry, carries a note of relief. You try to focus on that, the small sliver of fortune.

Hands work quickly, removing torn fabric and applying pressure to slow the bleeding. The sting of antiseptic sears your skin, sharp and biting. The world wavers, edges blurred with fatigue, but the cool touch of the cloth remains. You shift slightly, feeling the taut muscles in your side tense as the cloth is replaced with bandages, rough and raw but securing the wound with an iron grip.

Arthur’s voice cuts through the fog again, low and steady, urging you to stay with him. You can feel his grip tightening on your arm, firm yet gentle, as if trying to beacon you back to the world around you.

The muffled sound of boots pounding on the dirt fades into the background as you force yourself to take another breath. You’re grateful for the simple fact that the bullet went clean through. For a moment, you allow yourself to think that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be alright. The voices around you blur into a comforting lullaby, soft and rhythmic, as if time has slowed to match the steady press of hands and the pulse of life still burning within you.

“Arthur…” The whisper escapes your lips, rough and barely audible. The sensation of your voice feels distant.

You feel his presence this time before you hear him, the shadow of him falling over you like a protective veil. He leans closer, his face etched with concern, the firelight casting deep lines across his features. “You with me?” His voice is urgent but gentle, like he's fighting against something he can’t control. “I need you to stay with me now, you hear?”

A tiny nod escapes you, barely perceptible, but it’s enough for him to catch. His breath catches, just a fraction of a second, before he exhales slowly. “Good,” he murmurs, the words so soft they might be meant for himself. “Just a little longer.”

But the camp around you seems to blur into nothing, a fading hum in the distance. The voices become indistinct murmurs, the movement of people turning into the background noise of a world you're slowly drifting away from. Each breath feels harder to pull in, your chest heavy with the weight of it, and your vision narrows to a thin line now.

You can feel Arthur’s grip, firm but tender, his calloused hand against your skin, grounding you as you fight to stay conscious. “Hold on, almost done,” he says again, his voice wavering once again.

The air feels colder now, the world spinning faster, and your breath comes in short, jagged gasps. The firelight feels far away, distant as the shadows stretch longer. The voices grow muffled, like you're sinking deeper into water, and the weight of the night presses down harder on you.

“Damn it,” Arthur's voice growls, low and fierce. “You’re gonna make it through this. Just hold on, spitfire.”

The nickname cuts through the haze like a beacon. Spitfire. It ignites something faint but stubborn—a flicker of warmth in the growing void. You cling to the sound, not for the word itself, but for the way he says it. It’s not a command but a promise, wrapped in affection and fear. Your lips twitch, almost a smile, but the effort is too much.

Your eyelids flutter, heavy with exhaustion. The cold gnaws at you, threatening to drag you into a place you won’t return from. For a moment, you surrender, letting the darkness cradle you. But his voice pulls you back.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, fierce and pleading all at once. “Stay with me. You hear me, spitfire? Stay awake.”

The nickname strikes you again, a whisper of warmth against the encroaching chill. You latch onto it like a lifeline, the way it curls around you, soft and steady.

The edges of your vision finally fades into a dark blur, the firelight fracturing into kaleidoscopic patterns. Your body sinks into the cold, bone-deep and unrelenting, but his hand doesn’t let go. You don’t think you’ll make it back this time, but as the void rises to claim you, his voice cuts through one last time.

“Spitfire.”

The world vanishes, and the darkness swallows you whole.

                                    ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

I hope you enjoy the first chapter! I’m always open to your thoughts, comments, and suggestions. AO3 : Chapter 1

[saturnville]

Voting for more hamilton content!!!

wash day, l. hamilton

pairing: he (lewis hamilton) x she (black fem oc) content: non-physical intimacy is just as important as physical intimacy. warnings: none. an: the girlies want lh content, so here we are! likes are cool, but we love reblogs and comments! let me know what you think <3

The soft pallets of her fingertips danced along his scalp. Her manicured nails brushed the sides of his temples, swiping away any beads of stress and insecurity that might have lingered longer than needed. Her gentle actions pulled a moan from his throat. She smiled softly.

A soft hum from the fan in the bathroom was the only sound that could be heard. That and the sloshing of the water in the tub when they moved ever so slightly. 

She combed through the beautiful coils upon his head with her fingers carefully. With ease, the knots and tangles broke away. Strands of his hair fell upon her wrist as she raked through his locks. 

Wash day was her favorite as much as it was his. It was a time for intimacy between them that did not require any sexual activity. Non-sexual intimacy was important. She stood by the sentiment and was willing to die on the hill most desired to climb upward in competition. There were important things, she noted, that deserved cultivation and just as much attention as learning her partner’s body. If she was honest, she felt closer to him in moments like these compared to when his body was pressed against hers.

She easily remembered the first time she participated in wash day with him. She came over one Sunday afternoon and found him in the bathroom scrubbing away at his scalp with his shirt drenched in water. She vividly remembered giggling at his state and offering to lend a hand, which he desperately needed. Sure, some people did his hair for him, but he figured he’d try it out himself. He did learn, however, he enjoyed it when she did it. There was something about being trapped between her legs as she wrapped his ringlets around her fingers, that he couldn’t get enough of.

“My hands are starting to prune,” she admitted as she dropped her hands into the water. She swished her hands to remove the remnants of deep conditioner trapped between her fingers. “You let this sit for a few minutes. I’m gonna rinse off in the other shower.”

She pressed her hands against the floor of the tub to push her body up, but his hands against her thighs halted her movements. “Mhm, stay.” His fingers danced along her calves. 

“By the time you get out, I’ll be waiting for you. I don’t want to shrivel up,” she replied, tapping his shoulder. With a dissatisfied groan, he released her body from the trap he had her in. She pecked his neck as she stood to her feet. 

His eyes were on her as she walked towards the rack that held her black towel. His eyes followed the droplets of water that slivered down her chest, to her hips, and down her brown legs. His tongue grazed over his lip. She sent him a wink before exiting the bathroom and starting towards the other one. 

He joined her hardly ten minutes later. She jumped when she felt his hands on her hips. She turned in his arms, gently shoving his shoulder as a repercussion for scaring her. The playful scowl on her lips did nothing but only egg on his desire for her. 

“Sorry, baby,” he mumbled, drawing her wet body close to his. She hummed in response, allowing her lips to brush against his. Her teeth gently nipped along his bottom lip before capturing his mouth completely in a steam-filled kiss. She swallowed his quiet noises and broke away before his wandering hands spurred her on. 

The warm water beating against them only intensified the heat burning between them. By the time the fire was extinguished, the water was as cold as a winter day, probing them to exit the shower.

“You don’t make yourself discreet at all,” she said while looking over her shoulder at her lover who smiled innocently. He was perched against the doorframe, a gray towel tied tightly around his waist. His damp hair leaked small droplets of water that slid down his bare chest. He smiled at her. 

She shook her head and continued to moisturize. She slid on a clean shirt and underwear. She sat on their shared bed and ushered for him to get dressed so she could finish his hair.

“You want two pieces left out or not?” she trailed off once he sat on the floor between her legs. Beside her was the “hair bin” filled with the creams, serums, gels, and oils they used on their thick locks. 

“No,” he replied, lifting his arms to place them on her thighs. His fingers drew imaginary doodles on her skin. Mumbling a quiet, “Okay,” she retrieved what she needed from the hair bin and began combing his hair softly.

Small conversations and little comments were made, but, a comfortable, silence dawned over them. She was focused on parting, moisturizing, and braiding his ringlets,  and he was basking in the relaxation he felt. He nodded off a few times, only to be awoken by her giggles.

“I’m almost done, baby,” she assured. She took a nice amount of oil in her palms and rubbed them together, taking the time to massage his scalp softly. She ran her hands over his hair, watching as the curls jumped under her fingertips. She wiped her glistening hands on an old towel and then patted his shoulder. 

“You’re good to go. Tie it up.” She tossed a black durag at him, which he caught with easily. 

“Thank you, baby.” He kissed her gently. She smiled and pushed the hair bin to the side, making a mental note to put it away in the morning.

Tiredly, she pushed her body up the bed and swiped her scarf from underneath her pillow. It was silk and smelled like a variety of oils. She tied the fabric around her twisted hair and laid against the pillow. Just moments later he climbed in bed next to her. He was quick to engulf her in his arms and press a gentle kiss against her forehead.

“You know I love you right?”

“Mhm,” she hummed. “I love you too. That’s the only reason I’ll spend four hours doing your hair every month.” 

“I’m lucky to have you,” he said in response. His words were muffled as his lips moved against her neck. She sighed softly at the feeling of the open-mouthed kisses against her neck and his hands against the flesh of her thighs. 

“I’m lucky to have you,” she replied quietly. “and also lucky that wash day is over. I’m going to bed; cuddle me.”

Lewis hummed and slid his hand beneath her shirt, palming the heavy flesh of her chest. “Yes ma’am.”

[maxdibert]

I’ve seen you talk about how the Marauders fandom (and how they have made their horrifically inaccurate fanon canon in a way) and I was curious about your thoughts on their horrible mischaracterisation of Lupin. From what I���ve seen they paint him as a sarcastic bad boy who’s apparently getting hit by everything all the time or whatever constantly (gee, sounds familiar in a way. ((I believe this was spurred on by ATYD.)) Anyways, thoughts?

Each of the Marauders triggers me in a different way, and not because I was bullied in school or have a visceral reaction due to personal traumas with people like them, but because I’ve met people like them. I’ve had to put up with people like them—people who are terrible, you know it, you see them as the absolute worst, yet they have the audacity to think they’re morally superior to others simply because of their political stances.

As a student, I was very involved in unions and active in political groups, and I’ve met James Potters (wealthy, privileged kids from progressive families who thought they were "fighters for the people" but had no clue about people’s actual needs and were only there because it was what they were supposed to do), Sirius Blacks (privileged kids who thought they were special because their whole family were fascists and they had "broken the cycle," yet they still carried all the prejudices of someone raised in a conservative, right-wing environment and made zero effort to deconstruct themselves because they thought not talking to their parents was enough), and Remus Lupins.

Remus Lupins, the quiet guys, the introverted ones who seem super nice but have awful friends. They don’t seem like terrible people because they don’t proactively show their flaws, and if you compare them to the others—who are a whirlwind—they appear as though they’ve never done anything wrong.

What bothers me about how the fandom characterizes Lupin is that it has nothing to do with what we see in the books or what Rowling said about him. Lupin was someone deeply insecure and self-conscious about his condition as a werewolf. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself as a way to hide that condition. He always followed behind his friends, letting them take the lead. His relationship with James and Sirius was nothing like Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s. The latter trio did everything together; they lived their adventures together. From what we know (because it’s explicitly mentioned in the books), the ones constantly seen together were James and Sirius. It’s literally stated that where one went, the other was always there. Remus (as Rowling herself said) was the third in a duo.

In fact, I imagine Remus and Peter being closer (something most people seem to find unthinkable because they have the critical reasoning skills of an amoeba when it comes to the Marauders) precisely because James and Sirius were the duo. The idea that Remus was some kind of alpha male is absolutely ridiculous because, if there were two characters in that generation who epitomized toxic masculinity and outdated gender dynamics to the fullest, they were James and Sirius—two bullies who used their power to get what they wanted, whether it was torturing someone or dating a girl.

We see Remus avoiding conflict, not having the guts to tell his friends they were wrong even though he had the responsibility of being a prefect. As an adult, we see him justifying his friends’ actions, which are unjustifiable. Remus was a lapdog because being with James and Sirius was a way for him to protect himself, to feel safe, and contradicting them would mean jeopardizing that safety he so desperately needed. So, he let everything slide. This is canon, and it tells you his personality was fearful, passive, and accommodating.

Remus is a coward. In fact, I find him much more cowardly than Peter. He never had the guts to confront his friends, never had the guts to admit that his friends were horrible people—even as adults—and never had guts, period. The best evidence is that, at 38 years old, he got a young woman pregnant and then left because he didn’t have the courage to face the consequences of his actions. Remus is the typical nice guy who acts all chill and friendly and understanding but, when it comes down to it, behaves like a jerk. He’s a Ted Mosby type.

Any other characterization, especially one that tries to make him sassy or badass, is an insult to anyone who has read the books because they’re literally inventing a new character and slapping his name on it. But that fandom does this all the time—they do it with all the characters. It doesn’t even surprise me anymore.

[creatingblackcharacters]

hi there; first, thank you for making this blog and all the lessons you do, i really appreciate them as a Black person because it highlights a lot of struggles i face with fandoms in general, and why i dont interact more in certain spaces. it makes me feel seen

with regards to your questions, i'd also like answers to them from nonblack fans, especially nonblack anime fans. i don't even mean consuming anime with overtly racist caricatures of black characters (because numerous anime fans pirate their anime and never send a cent to the creators anyway), i mean how can they make fanworks of it?

how can they look at something that they are told is wildly offensive, but then defend with "well, this is how it looks in canon"? where is the line drawn between what's okay and what isn't? as long as it's slow and gradual, is there no line at all?

these are probably just rehashings of your own followup questions, so please excuse that, but i do have an anecdote

i joined a casual anime server the other day and a lot of folks were lamenting one Black character's racist design and how often those on social media will replicate it without thinking/caring. The thing that struck me is that, I've checked this character's tumblr tag regularly for a long time. There are always people who will post art/fanworks of this character with his racist design. Yet hardly ever, if ever, (outside of Black fans) have I seen any of these folks- the ones in the discord server- try to talk to artists/writers/fan creators/etc via asks/replies/etc. There's a notable amount of people in that server and a notable amount that agreed the design was outright racist and that they'll never make fanworks like that, and yet still silence

i'm not entirely sure what would be the line, or the "okay, that's enough" moment to spur any of these folks into action. i'm not sure if there is one. the only reason i don't make my own "hey what is wrong with all of you" post and blow up is because I've made a wonderful little friend group in this fandom who get it, and I don't want them to get caught up in whatever happens if I were to make a post like that

And this is just for getting people to stop using the canon design of the character, i.e., to stop drawing him as a racist caricature. This isn't touching on the people who 1) lighten his skintone [he's been horribly whitewashed over time, which has been reflected in some fanarts and fan merch], or 2) give him a looser hair/straight hair texture, rather than his type 4 hair (there's also #3, which is fanfiction with straight up slurs, and horribly racist writing in it that my friend heavily warned me not to read, but that was more of a one-off case and I've had the creator blocked a long time now).

my point being, we (Black fans) can't even get folks to stop with the caricatures, which we have to start with, and then there's even more of an annoying uphill battle with the other stuff. I'm just so tired of all of this; it makes me want delete my own works and turn away from fandom all together because i can't stand it.

trying for polite and assuming ignorance hardly ever works, speaking bluntly doesnt work at all, making public posts hardly goes anywhere (partly because of how rarely people reblog things anymore, partly because it makes people 'uncomfortable' to share this information with others). Black fans so obviously need help to combat this, and yet it's like sitting at a tea party and hearing all these pretty words in this one setting, yet nobody does anything different/better when the party's over/outside this setting.

sorry for dooming a bit, but like, genuinely i would like to know where the line is for nonblack folks? what is the point/are the points where you would speak up against antiblack racism? have you ever considered speaking up? if there's ever a moment you recognized antiblack racism and didn't say anything, why didn't you? did you consider how your lack of speaking up might affect your fellow Black fans? or how Black fans may be interpret this as silent agreement with the racists/with the racist 'norm'?

..those could maybe be alternative ways of asking your last followup question?

(if i've made any blunders or overstepped here, please let me know!)

No, I'm glad you spoke up! I too would like to see answers!

[slightlyhopefulromantic]

aaand here's deadlands! it didnt take seven months this time, who cheered?

i'll probably do another post grouping all of my line-ups together, but that's gonna wait for when i do the wyrdwood PCs as well :] more thorough design thoughts/smaller details will be under the cut, but im putting this here so that everybody has to know: their eye shines are all different card suits, except for nate, who gets J for the joker card :]

oxventurers guild | the hobby horses

unlike my other designs where i let everyone have individual colors/palettes, i tried to keep colors more consistent across these designs! the oxventurers guild has the fantasy element and theyre all very different, so the wide mishmash of colors are fine, and the hobby horses all have a lot of dark colors so that keeps them looking consistent together. but for these guys, i wanted a more consistent feel, so i tried my best to reuse colors between each design (especially between delacy and nate ^-^)

silas - ough. my boy. i wanted him to be broad with a strong build, and i hope i pulled that off :D i had so much trouble with his hat that i almost just didnt give him one, but eventually i decided it was better to just. give up and rock with it, even if he looks a bit like a mountie hbjgfjhd and he is wearing cowboy boots, theyre just tucked into his pants because he doesnt feel the need to flash them (looking at delacy, lol). he has spurs on his boots, even though he doesnt ride horses, because he likes the way they jangle <3

garnet - people really liked it when i gave garnet dark roots, so i have decided to always give her dark roots. i like how it looks hehehe and i also like to give her freckles!!! i think theyre cute!!! for the vest, i struggled for a while trying to capture the vibe of jane's vest, because its so so strange and specific in a way that makes it impossible for me to picture garnet without it. i'm pretty happy with where i landed with it, especially the pattern, since i've never tried to make a pattern like that before :3 i dont know why ive been loving patterns so much lately LOL but i will keep riding this wave and regret it later when drawing the designs again

edie - definitely the furthest departure from canon outfits, though still in the right wheelhouse. i just don't like drawing multiple layers of ruffled skirt. i didn't like how my sketches kept looking. i wanted to give her a skirt slit, especially after my friend reminded me about her thigh rifle holster. so today, i stared at a bunch of victorian ballgowns and party city costumes, and then completely redesigned her skirt before i lined these XD and i think it was worth it!! i love the layers and the way her rifle peeks out, and it meant i could show off more of her boots and give them a pretty design :]

delacy - my main thought going into drawing delacy was just. "i need to malnourish this boy" LMAO i refuse to believe that he is eating properly, i just know that he is not. otherwise, i mostly just stuck to the campaign art but scuffed up his clothes a bit. as implied on silas's notes, i very purposefully had his boots be Big. he's overcompensating a little bit :] also sorry i did not want to draw rooster so he just gets a generic handgun. i didnt feel like drawing complicated guns, and i wanted it to be a smaller handgun so that he could be poorly copying edie :') he has no trigger discipline but neither does edie so its fine

nate - that's just nate, baby!!! i think, canonically, he's meant to be a bit. emaciated. but i cant help but just picture him being a bigger guy, i think it fits his vibe better and its more fun for me to draw that way. i like having variety in body shapes, and garnet and delacy already have the rail thin thing down for this line-up. let my old man be fat !!! also. he has a weird nipple because he is transgender. heart emoji

[the-raven-lady]

a gift for @men-want-me-fish-fear-me !! it told me about its mpreg AU and got me thinking about the complications that would have for someone like Konrad

this one's a bit heavy on body image issues so please be in a good state of mind for this!!

please read the warnings!!

Character: Konrad Curze

Song Inspiration: Real Men - Mitski [YouTube] [Spotify] "Real men don't need other people / And real men suck it in / Real men don't flinch or bleed in public / Oh, I think I'm a real man."

Warnings: mpreg, pregnancy symptoms, self image issues, self-inflicted gore, lamenting dark realities, implication of potential non-con, mentions of infanticide

Word Count: 643

Konrad groaned as the weight shift nearly threw him off balance and crashing into the stones below. Had the nausea not been enough? Blackened nails and coarse fingertips drag over the sensitive flesh of his aching abdomen, the skin taut against the growing life beneath. The Night Haunter loathed his natural urges. Being bound to a biological clock beyond his control was one of the many gifts of his father that he would rather have ripped out long ago.

As if he hadn’t already tried. 

It was easy enough for him to sink his clawed finger tips deep into the putrid skin of his belly. The iron tang of blood spilled had only served to spur him on, ripping and tearing and pulling as the offending organ until it was nothing but fleshy pink viscera on the floor. How miserable it had been when it had not even taken a week for the gland to revive itself. The regenerative nature of primarch biology seemed to leave him no choice in the matter.

Righting himself on his perch, Konrad elected to take a break from his prowling to calm the waves of nausea washing over him. He would never get used to it. A zing of electricity shot up from his tailbone when he sat against the stone ledge, drawing a gasp from him, then several curses. He gently rubs the base of his spine to soothe the ache.

Konrad felt delicate. Every little action that he would normally perform without effort could prove to be too much on his pregnant body. Perhaps he would be fine with it if he chose when the urges to breed took him, but his genealogy couldn’t even grant him that. Throne save the next helpless serf that wandered in his path when it kicked in, for Konrad knew their chances of survival were slim at best. This was a part of his father’s great vision? Bouncing on the cock of passers-by then birthing sons into a legion of murders and scum? It infuriated the primarch to no end. His only saving grace was that he never seemed to inflate to the size of his expecting brothers, remaining more gaunt and lithe.

Perhaps if he were Guilliman or Fulgrim, he could try to find an ounce of pride in bringing a new life into the world. Maybe then, he would see a purpose to all of the lost meals, cramping, and searing pain of the birthing process. Maybe then he wouldn’t hate the changes to his body, losing the ability to bend and contort as he wished. Maybe then he would want to hold the boys as they came out and coo at them as his brothers did.

His legion would never be grateful for the effort he put in for them. He would spare all of his blood children the mercy of ever having to integrate into the Night Lords with a quick snap to the neck if they weren’t always taken from him so quickly. Darling of his brothers to chain him down each and every time he neared emergence after they discovered the fates of the first several cycles. Fulgrim had been mortified hearing about how Konrad had disposed of the newborns like waste.

The Imperial Palace was always quiet at this time of night, nobles and Astartes alike turning in by this hour. Only Custodians remained, silent watchers they were (at least they could mind their own business), and his brothers would rarely come to check in on him. Konrad let out a weary sigh and tucked his legs the best he could against his swollen belly, protecting the fetus within. Emotions threatened to boil over in his chest, and Konrad Curze had to choke back a tired sob.

Things would be much easier if he didn’t still love each of his sons anyway.

[misguidedasgardian]

The dragon's Mistress (11)

11. King and Queen

MASTERLIST

Summary: You had known more about humiliation in the past months that you’d hope you’d known in a lifetime 

Warnings: cursing, mentions of war, mentions of death, humiliation, use of the word bastard and traitor, incest, smut, breeding kink, from now on it will be adultery and sort of cheating, might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount:  2.3k

Notes: shorter chapter, and a sad one too... anyways I wanted tog et this one out of my way hehe, now the dynamic is going to be different from before

Aemond’s heavy breath in your face soothed you in some way, as he kept ramming into you, drawing moans and whimpers from your mouth. He kissed you sloppily, and your nails scratched his back angrily, but that seemed to spur him on. He kissed your jaw and neck.

He kept pounding into you, making you whimper 

“My King”, you whisper mindlessly, and he smiled wickedly at you

“I’m going to breed you”, he said, but it sounded more like threat, “I’m going to give you my children, and you will be the mother of the future King”, he growled, and in the haze of pleasure you believed him, and even wanted it, desire it

He cummed inside you, like he always did, and then he threw himself over you, crushing you under his weight. But the weight calmed you, made you feel sickly protected

Until you remembered what day it was. He seemed to read your mind, and he lean back to gaze at your face.

“We need to get ready”, he whispered, caressing your cheek with devotion

“Please don’t make me go”, you whispered, Aemond sighed, like he was tired of you, he lifted himself off of you and off the bed, and you seated on the bed, covering your naked body with the sheets as you saw Aemond put on his clothes he left in the floor of your room

“It is a royal wedding”, he said simply, and your eyes filled with tears again, “the wedding of the century according to many”

“Please”, you begged again, he looked at you, and only nodded. Unknown to you his mother had begged him to keep you out of all this, the mistress of the King being in his wedding ceremony was not going to look good, not for the family of the bride and not for the entire court. So, wanting to avoid drama and that nauseous look on his mother's face, he didn’t fight you. 

“if you rather be locked up in here, fine”, he said bitterly 

You were more relieved, but then, nausea hit you like a wild horse, make you scramble out of bed, finding the nearest pot, and throwing up in it, Aemond was on you in a second, taking your hair out of your face and caressing your back

“Are you alright? Are you ill?”, you only wiped your mouth with the back of your hand

“I’m fine my king, you don’t have to worry about me”, you whined

“You are the only one I worry about”, he whispered, leading you to sit on the bed, “I will go and fetch a maester”, he said gently

“You should go and get ready for the wedding”, you murmured

“I will do what I have to”, he said stubbornly, and left you

He didn’t show up again, but the maester did, he checked on you, gave you a simple tea for your weak stomach, claiming you felt nervous and that it gave you a sickness. So the tea was going to settle your stomach and then he left you alone.

Alone to hear the party that was going on in the castle and around it

You avoided Aemond like he was the winter fever when he started to talk about how boring where the preparations of his coming nuptials

Because he did tried to talk to you about it

How sick was that?

That Floris turned into some kind of monster that demanded these flowers, and this prayer, and this song, and this feast or this color… Had driven Aemond insane. You just listened to him and nodded, or hummed, not really caring, trying to think about anything but what he was saying

Each time he spoke of the wedding you wanted to throw up.

You could hear the celebration from your chambers, the music, the people gathering and cheering, it was driving you mad

But at the same time…

Everyone was distracted…

Nobody was going to bother you today, not Aemond, not anyone…

This could be an opportunity you were never going to have again…

You put on a comfortable dress, one you used for riding because you could put pants under it, and that is exactly what you did, you grabbed everything of value you had in a small purse, and then a cape. But as soon as you opened the door, there was a King’s GUard outside of it

“Your grace”, he greeted, bowing slightly

“Ser Steffon”, Ser Steffon Mangold had been recruited for the King’s guard of Aegon II after half of the guard would have fled to back your mother’s claim. He was exceptionally good with not one but two swords, and his job was to care for Aemond, and now, apparently, you.

“May I ask where are you going?”, he asked, you seemed to hear a tone of mockery in his voice, you only looked up to meet him

“The Dragonpit”, you said

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to”, he whispered, “King Regent’s orders”

“Please”, he truly seemed sorry for you, but he still shook his head

“I'm sworn to the King, and I need to follow his command”, he said severely, and you only nodded, entering your rooms again.

But you couldn’t give up, you remembered what Jacaerys told you, about the secret passageways installed deep within the castle walls

But where to find them? 

You placed your hands in the wall, and pushed, then and there, everywhere, but nothing, there was nothing or rather, it was and now it was sealed shut, Aemond wasn’t an idiot and Aegon was famous for sneaking out of the Red Keep, using the same passageways, they said Queen Helaena’s children were murdered using said tunnels

Probably Aemond had them sealed 

So you opened the door ever so slightly, but to no use, the Kingsguard acknowledged you immediately

“Yes, your grace?”, he asked, clearly Aemond had restored your title of princess

“Please, I’m hungry, can you fetch a maid?”, you asked him, and he looked back at you, mockingly

“Do you take me for a fool?”, he asked then

“I will tell the king you refused…”, he sighed, loudly

“Very well, is this is how you want to play it”, he walked away from the door, and you, obviously, ran to the other side as soon as he turned the corner

It was silly, so silly it might actually work 

YOu only wanted to be at peace…

Was that too much to ask?

The only way to achieve that was to go away from the Keep, let them have it, your mother never wanted the crown anyways, you wouldn’t be disappointing her in any case, shape or form, but Dragonstone wasn’t far enough.

You had heard that Saera Targaryen, one of King’s Jaehaerys numerous daughters had run away to Pentos or one of the free cities, and had turned into a wealthy woman and lived freely, perhaps you could do the same. 

The free cities it was then

a quick stop in Dragonstone to take some golden dragons from under the mian room’s floorboards, and then…

Freedom

You ran hastily, the Red Keep was completely empty, everyone, including the staff must have been celebrating the Royal wedding

Your stomach twisted but you convinced yourself that the furthest you ran, the happies you were going to be.

You didn’t need to sit the throne, or for your children to do it, you were going to honor your mother by living, you were your mother’s legacy, she was going to live through you and the children you were going to have.

Perhaps you could search for Saera, join her, you didn’t know her, but you shared the blood of the dragon and that must count for something, right?

With all those things running through your head, you managed to reach the entrance of the castle that went through the courtyard, you didn’t know who you were going to go past the guards and that huge guarded door, but perhaps only an intimidated look was going to be enough 

And when you looked down the courtyard… IT WAS EMPTY!

You ran towards the exit, sprinted down the stairs… you were so close you could feel it. 

But as soon as you touched the huge wooden doors, you felt someone pull you off of them

“NO!”, you screamed, and wiggled out of grip, but it was Iron tight

Steffon Mangold, the king’s guard

“PLEASE!”, you cried, “let me go!”

“I can’t do that”, he seemed truly sorry as he started to pull you gently back towards the castle, “I can’t”

“Please”, you begged quietly, “I bet you are loyal towards the Baratheons?”, you offered, “If I leave, you will never see me again, Floris will be the Queen, she won’t be humiliated!”, you said, “please, I don’t want to be his mistress, you can say I knocked you out with a stick or something, and ran away, you don’t have to face any guilt, please, you will never see me again!”, you were back inside the hallways 

But he stopped, and made sure to look into your eyes

“I’m not loyal to that cunt”, he growled, and that surprised you

“Who are you loyal to?”, you asked. He blinked, and his anger passed to be something else

“Someone else”, he muttered, “I know you don’t want this, but there is something bigger at play here”

“What?”, you asked, but he turned and keep dragging you towards your rooms

“I can’t tell you”, he say stubbornly, and kept walking, and you were now resigned, he didn’t give you anything to go on, to hold onto any hope, he just dragged you back to your chambers, not before encountering the royal party, Aemond and Floris leading them, holding hands

It was only a second, in which Aemond looked upon you being dragged by your King’s guard, before you disappeared down the hallway

Your stomach twisted painfully, you were hungry you haven't eaten all day, but also, in disgust 

“Please”, you begged one more time before you reached your rooms

“I can’t”, he said, “but trust me, everything is going to be alright”, you only shook your head

“Please”, you begged, but he closed the door gently, but still… on your face.

When you turned, you saw the table was set for you. You guessed they took a serving from the wedding banquet 

You ate in an embarrassing pace, you were starving, luckily you were alone, but as soon as you took a pork chop, the strong smell caught you off guard, sickening you, and you threw it away like it burned, now you wanted to throw up like in the morning

So you washed it up with wine, and then you decided to take some fresh air, so you took a book and decided to sit on the balcony to read.

But your mind kept wandering…

Was there really something big at play here? you shook your head, you couldn’t do that to yourself, you couldn’t hold onto hope, what if there was nothing there? you were going to get your heart broken all over again… no… you had to ran away, it was the only way

You dozed off in the balcony, the sun was setting and you felt suddenly so tired, and you didn't understand why, so you walked back to the bed, disposed of your dress and just cuddled with yourself in your undergarments 

You didn’t know how late it was, but you were woken up by the door opening, you almost jumped off the bed, scared, but from the light of the torches in the hallway, you clearly saw Aemond walking in, and you whimpered, you did not wanted to see him today

“My King?”, you called, you didn't get to see his face, you only felt his heavy body land on the bed by your side and hugged you tightly against him

“Why are you here?”, you asked to the darkness of the room

“I couldn’t stand her”, he muttered, and you only whimpered

“Please my king, you shouldn’t be here”, you cried, “you should be with your wife”

“She isn’t you”, bitter tears fell down your eyes

“Please”, you begged, you wanted him to leave, you did not want all the court hating you, even though it was probably too late for that 

“Call me Aemond”, you felt it on his breath, he was drunk

“No”, you refused, turning in your bed, and you pushed him off of you, “you need to be with your wife, please, leave”, you begged. but no matter the strength you put on your arms, he wouldn’t budge, he just sighed

“I did it”, he whispered, he was out of it, drunk, you had never seen him like this, “I consummate the marriage”, that hurt, that truly hurt, he had been inside of her, and now he was laying next to you, you felt disgusted, “but she isn’t you”

“You married her, Aemond, it was your choice, now you have to endure it”, you said angrily, chances where he was not going to remember anything tomorrow, “get out!”, you cried, bitter tear fell down your face, “get the fuck out!”

He sat on the edge of the bed in a messy movement, showing you his back, he leaned forward, you couldn’t see him because it was dark and all, but it seemed like he used his mouth to stifle a whimper, but you were probably just dreaming

“Get out”, you whined, and he just stood up from the bed, and left the room without another word

Tomorrow you were probably going to pay for that, but tonight, you were going to enjoy the fact that he was not going to be over you every night, he had a wife now…

But still you felt sickened to your stomach. 

[genericpuff]

Out curiosity what’s your honest opinion of people getting there girlfriend/boyfriend name tattooed on a them?? Because honestly I think it’s bad luck.

haha there's definitely a superstition among artists that once you get your partner's / friend's name tattooed on you, the relationship is doomed. The craziest real life example I have of that happening is when I gave matching tattoos to a boyfriend and girlfriend who then went through a break-up so messy just a week later that it literally led to her getting a restraining order against him, which was NUTS (she's doing a lot better now tho which is great to see)

But also it's one of those things where it's just superstitions, a tattoo is a tattoo. I do generally recommend that people who get matching tattoos with their besties / tattoos of their partner's names / etc. do all the proper amount of thinking over it to ensure that it's not a last minute spur-of-the-moment decision and that their relationship is generally stable enough that they don't see it going anywhere any time soon. One thing I've been seeing people do more of is get 'matching' tattoos that are still perfectly fine on their own, so if the relationship does fall through, they still have a tattoo that stands on its own with its own meaning without needing the other half to make sense.

Shit happens though, tattoo or no. If you really want to get tattooed together as a fun outing and bonding experience between you and a partner / friend / etc. then ultimately it's your choice and superstitions be damned. Just make sure you weigh the pros and cons properly and that all the people involved are going in fully informed and aren't just getting dragged along into it! It can be hard to draw boundaries regarding something like matching tattoos because it usually involves at least one person being super excited to do it and it can be hard to say no to that, but at the end of the day it's your body that you have to live with for the rest of your life, so you need to make the decisions that are right for you and your skin (•̀ᴗ•́)و

[thunder-point]

Long ramble ahead

I've talked a bit about some things I liked, and mostly qotey, but I mentioned already that I adore phumpeem also, and this episode just spurred my love for their dynamic even more BECAUSE

THIS REACTION???????

THIS ONE AS WELL???

HOLD UP SOMEONE HOLD ME SOMEONE HOLD PHUM'S UNSTABLE ASS

For the love of everything on this planet I LOVED LIVED BREATHED FOR IT.

Not only because I adored how positive it was on both ends, but because of the differences and the genuine quality it gave me. The kiss was absolutely delightful, once again pondphuwin just delivered on that aspect, as they did throughout the entirely of Never Let Me Go.

BUT LISTEN Y'ALL

I just????? Fucking love???? HOW DIFFERENT PHUM AND PEEM EXPRESS THEIR LIKE TOWARDS EAC H OTHER

First of all I don't know how others feel about phum's character. Personally, I enjoy it very much. He has very visible flaws, emotional constipation in some aspects, but those in some way give way for other moments that just express how free he is with his feelings.

Because he likes Peem, and this episode he expressed it so openly that it gave me LIFE.

We don't know much about Phum yet, but he seems to have a complicated relationship with his parents. It gives the feelings that he lacked the affection he needed in the past. That, of course, leads to the attitude of seeking it so selfishly like he does with Peem.

And it's enjoyable to watch. He's a needy asshole, he's arrogant and he's attractive and he's attracted to Peem and he doesn't let ANY chance slip to get that attention that he wants. And even if it started in a rough way in the beginning, I genuinely think it's mostly because, for the most part, some people who never really had the attention they needed resort to getting it in very obnoxious manners later on. Phum is doing exactly that.

There are many things to talk about when it comes to Phum, and I hope that as the series goes on we get more from him, and good things while we are at it, but I just love how his crush developed. I loved that as soon as he realized he truly fucked up, he apologized THREE times, I love how remorseful he's looking in episode 6 when Peem's ruined painting is mentioned.

And I absolutely love how blunt he is with his feelings for Peem. He doesn't waste any time in episode 6. Not even caring if his friends catch on, if Peem's friends catch on. My man Phum is on a mission and he is RELENTLESS.

I think it gives me so much joy because they could have totally made a character like Phum, who is prideful and stubborn, hide his feelings behind teasing and this 'you are my slave' act that he puts forward. But instead, we got the softest smiles from him after the kiss. We got him coming into the art gallery TO TAKE PICTURES, TO START A CONVERSATION ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED.

We got him calling Peem adorable and pleading Peem to draw on a cup with him. He just wants LOVE. He wants it and as soon as he saw Peem reciprocated in some way it's like it exploded from him. And there's so much to say about it. God.

But Peem? Listen, I love it even more on Peem's side.

Not only did this man INITIATE THE FIRST KISS, the way he's processing these emotions are so funny AND SO REAL.

I loved it from the very beginning that we see that Peem is attracted by Phum as much as he's incensed with him. He admitted it - Phum is handsome, but he's an asshole. And that's real. As someone who fell for a person who I bickered with a lot at first, I had such joy watching Peem's way through his bond with Phum and how it developed.

Because Phum has his bad sides, and he seems to bring them up around Peem for that attentions and reactions it gets him, but when Phum goes soft? That's when his attractiveness and his personality clash in a way that seems to make Peem WEAK.

"You're so demanding, Peem," said softly had Peem BY THE THROAT. And I felt that.

Phum apologizing so softly, Phum eating Peem's atrocious cooking. Peem? Absolutely GONE for it. And that's certainly such a rushing feeling to have. Peem is clearly not experienced with relationships, and that just makes the fact that he initiated the kiss SO MUCH BETTER.

Because we know that he's not scared of showing his emotions. Even if he's a people pleaser, he's not a pushover. He kicked Phum's balls back into his goddamn body as soon as he had the chance. HE THREW A CHANCLA AT HIM.

Him going for the kiss when he felt the need to MAKES SENSE. it's wonderful.

And don't get me started on how often my man seemed to fantasize back to those soft moments with Phum. Don't get me started ON HIS CONVERSATION WITH Q this episode about affection and relationships and FUCK. Don't get me started on his gay panicked ass.

that's a ramble for another post. I feel like this is already too long and too incoherent. I jumped from so many topics but I have so many feelings for these two. As many as I have for Qtoey.

[artful-aries]

Acrophilia - Venti x Reader (NSFW)

Content Warnings: Penetrative sex with Venti in the hands of the statue of Barbatos statue in Mondstat. Reader can be read as gender neutral. Porn without plot. Minors please do not interact with this post.

Word Count: 1.1k

The cool night air kissed your flushed skin as you looked down at Venti who was laying down on the carved marble of the Statue of Barbatos’ hands, looking up at you as though you descended straight from Celestia itself.

Funny how this was his statue and yet, here he was underneath you, practically worshiping the sight of you taking his cock so well.

“Ah- ah, (Y-Y/N),” Venti whined as you slowed your movements to tease him, “P-Please, I can’t-“

“Shhh, Venti, your voice carries on the wind from up here,” you cooed as you sheathed his entire length inside of you, grinding against his hips in lazy circles, “If you’re not careful, someone might hear us. You wouldn’t want me to stop, would you?”

“N-No,” Venti breathlessly stuttered as his hands gripped your hips in pure desperation, “No don’t s-stop, mmn, please don’t stop (Y/N).”

You smiled sweetly at him as you rewarded him with a slow, steady movement of your hips, eliciting a sharp hiss from him as his fingers dug into your soft flesh. His chest heaved as he struggled to keep quiet at the feeling of you riding him, little tremors of pleasure rippling through his body at your teasing movements. You could feel the wind pick up a little bit, making you smile as you knew that it was a byproduct of Venti’s overstimulation.

“Didn’t you ask me to tease you?” You feigned a sweet innocence as you brought your hips down harshly, making Venti choke on his own moan, “And all the way up on this statue, no less. What would the people of Mondstat think, seeing their god committing such lewd acts?”

The blush that was already covering his cheeks extended down his neck at your words, “F-Former Archon, (Y/N). I’m not their- Nng!”

His protest was cut off with a groan as you sped up the movement of your hips, making you smirk down at him. Venti had always been a talker, it came naturally to him as a bard, but it was extremely satisfying to take the words out of his mouth for once. His bright eyes looked up at you, half lidded with lust as he watched the steady bounce of your hips as he struggled to keep composure.

“S-Shit, you feel so good,” Venti moaned as he couldn’t help but buck up into you, drawing out a low moan from your lips before you could stop yourself.

“A-ah,” You breathed at the sensation of him twitching inside of you, making your toes curl, “Y-You want me to ride you faster, hm?”

Venti gave a fervent nod, his hands gliding over every inch of your skin that he could reach, “P-Please, I’m s-so close, I- mmm, I need you (Y/N).”

Your fingertips traced his swollen lips for a moment before you leaned down to trap him in a heated kiss, grinding against him for some desired friction before breaking away to properly ride his cock. Placing your hands on his chest for stability, you quickened the pace that your hips slammed down on him, your tight hole seeking to milk Venti completely dry.

His almost helpless whimpers spurred you to go faster as he begged, “J-just like that, f-fuck- just like that. More, p-please please give me more-“

“F-fuck, Venti,” You found yourself whining as you worked your hips at a relentless pace, the wet squelching sounds of his cock pumping in and out of you mixing with the sounds of the wind that Mondstat was renowned for. Any other time you might have worried about anyone potentially wandering to the statue late at night and hearing the two of you, but at this moment you didn’t care. Venti was laid out so nicely in the statue's hands as you rode him with reckless abandon while chasing after your own orgasm, how could you stop now?

“(Y/N), s-so close, I’m so close,” Venti groaned, unable to hold himself back as he gripped you harder and timed his thrusts to match yours, making you roll your eyes back in ecstasy, “Where do you want me, my windblume?”

You were barely able to stutter out a reply, your nails digging into Venti’s chest as he worked himself deeper, “I-inside, I w-want you to cum inside.”

Venti grinned before his brows knitted together in concentration as he struggled to maintain his steady rhythm, his hips stuttering the closer he reached his climax. You weren’t much better off yourself, your resolve to tease Venti going out the window as his length hammered into you.

“Mmn, V-Venti, you’re s-so good to me, fuck,” You moaned as his hand buried itself into your hair, “I’m coming, c-coming-!”

The force of your orgasm made you clench around Venti’s cock as you trembled, rushing him towards his own orgasm as he whined your name while spilling into you. Panting heavily, Venti gently pulled your face down to kiss your lips, not bothering to pull out of you as his cum dribbled down his shaft and your thigh.

He looked dazed and completely fucked out as he stared at you, caressing your cheek with a lopsided grin, “W-Wow, you were amazing, Windblume.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his expression, “I’ll say, it’s written all over your face, Venti. But you were pretty good yourself,” You wiggled your hips teasingly, drawing a hiss from the former Archon.

“S-Still sensitive,” Venti breathed, his hands moving to keep you still.

“So you don’t want to make the most of our time up here?” You hummed as a mischievous glint flashed in your eyes, “You usually have more stamina than this, Venti. If you just wanted a quickie, we could have done it in an easier place than in the hands of your statue.”

He pouted at your words, “What do you mean? You teased me for so long, it’s a miracle I lasted as long as I did!”

You quirked an eyebrow at him, “I guess that means I can get off your cock and start getting dressed then?”

“…You’re more of a brat than I am,” Venti grumbled before rolling you underneath him. His eyes burned into yours as his thumb traced your bottom lip, “If you want to see how long I can really last, then you’ll get your wish.”

The look of determination on his face told you that it was his turn to make you a quivering mess. You were grateful that Venti had warmed the cold stone of the statue with his body, because you were in for a long night.

[starboishifting]

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ || autumn court d/r intro

★‧°𖦹 "𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔… 𝒊 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒘. 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒔…" "𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚?" "𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊'𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏." 𖦹°‧★

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ || who i am

my name is lyra, and i live just outside the capitol city of the autumn court. i live in the woods, somewhere hidden and safe, where foxes play and faeries hardly dare tread. except me. it was where i was raised, where my mother and sister raised me, until illness killed my mother and lord baron killed my sister, who was the lover lucien never speaks of. i only met him twice, but his face has been engrained in my mind ever since. we didn't grow up so isolated from society, but after 50 years of witnessing the people of autumn become more cruel and conniving with each passing moon, i decided to cut off the majority of faerie kind. after all, i had nothing to offer them anyway, and therefore no value, so i went unmissed and unhindered. i befriended a fox whom i dubbed aaravos, which is to say that he entered my home one day and didn't leave unless i was, too. and i was happy. i lived among the apple trees, harvesting them at my own convenience. i survived mostly off the land, but when i needed money, whether to fund a spur-of-the-moment passion project or to buy materials for a new gown for the solstice, i sold what i baked; pies, cobblers, the like. i ran a small stand, though it was only open a few days a month, where i sold my pastries and spiced-and-candied nuts. until he came.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ || eris vanserra

eris vanserra, eldest prince and heir apparent of the autumn court of the faerie lands of prythian, is as manipulative as he is beautiful. with amber eyes and crimson hair, the male walks with a certain... arrogance. as if to say, look at me. fear me. underneath, of course, he's just as soft as autumn leaves after rain, and as sweet as they smell. he needed to be feared because he had no other choice, not until he could dethrone his father. not until he could keep his court safe. until he stops one day in a random square, the scent of cinnamon and apples drawing him to an alley he's not been in for... well, centuries. not since he was a boy, playing at running from his father and his guards. it's there that he meets the female with the ram-like horns and sky blue eyes nestled between the scarlet curls barely held back by ribbons and wildflowers. she's scooping nuts into a paper for a child, smiling down at him with eyes so bright he knew they'd haunt his dreams for centuries. she didn't feel when the bond hit; but he did.and the princeling knew that his new mission, his only mission in this life, was to be loved by her. not respected. not feared. loved.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ || how i fell

i didn't know who he was when he came up to me. i didn't know he was a prince, or that his father was high lord, least of all that he was my mate. so as i asked what i could get him, i gave him the same kind, bright smile i gave every customer, something warm and gentle. he stared at me for a moment, like his heart had stopped, like he'd never been looked at so kindly before. before i could say anything else, though, he asked for my favorite. "whatever is good enough for a female half as beautiful as you really ought to be good enough for a bastard like me, eh?" i'd giggled gently, used to the wayward comments and misplaced affections of fae, male and female alike, that had (supposedly) traveled days to be in the city when i came; some citing their grandmother needed my nuts for a recipe, others outright admitted to coming just to see me in the flesh, determined to prove that i'd not really been as beautiful as they'd heard and not at all disappointed to be wrong. so i think little of it as i cut him a slice of chai-spiced pumpkin pie and hand him a cup of cider. i'd giggled again when he moaned at the taste of the pie, kept warm by my own magic, missing the way his face went soft with every little laugh that bubbled from my lips. he paid too much, by a lot. an obscene amount of gold, the likes of which i hardly see in two months. he was gone before i could give it back. but every week, without fail, he found his way back to my stand. i'd refuse to take his coin, he'd toss it into my coinpot and winnow away before i could stop him. it became a routine, one perfectly engrained in my life. a part of my week that i looked forward to, and hardly for the gold he'd leave me with. because before the squabbling, we'd talk. about nothing, about everything. about my pet fox, who must be around here somewhere, about his hounds, who he think might just be able to outrun aaravos despite my avid protests. i found his voice comforting. safe. eventually, i learned who he was. eventually, i cut him off, citing the stories i'd heard of him, of how cruel he was, that he was baron's perfect son, how he'd hidden his identity as well as a mating bond. and eventually, i forgave him, trusting myself over some stories from village gossips. and by the gods it was not a happily ever after, but it was the closest to it we could possibly have gotten, what with his father being evil incarnate and a war going on with hybern. but i had him, and he had me, and that was all we needed.