#nor has their author come out to ask its readers not to do it

[mxtx-purist]

I take all of mxtx's works like gospel, and think that they represent soul mates and are a manifestation of what true unadulterated love looks like, especially when you look at all her works and not just one of them as a sole incident.

So, it stands to reason that I absolutely despise every and any ship involving one of the main characters with anyone else other than their intended(which is also what MXTX asked of us- to never ship her characters with anyone else) because to me that's like denying their very meaning.

But Liushen is a little bit of an exception for me. Like, I don't ship it, but I also do understand where ppl come from in a tragic unfortunate sort of way, so it doesn't bother me like others do. Does that make sense?

[vxnuslogy]

– my proxy.

pairing: wise x gn!reader

premise: belle is currently suffering from an incurable disease of watching her brother play oblivious to your obvious hints of affection. she only prays that you confess soon or at least realize that wise actually feels the same.

– warnings: none

– author's notes: i am so normal about wise. whenever he starts talking in game i just burst into a fit of giggles. filler post for now. | ~700 words.

wise despite his name, wasn’t all that wise when it comes to noticing the very obvious hints you throw at him (or maybe he does know, he just isn’t speaking up about it). but belle does, and it sends her into a fit of giddy giggles that she hides behind her fist whenever it happens.

a fond and amused glint in her eyes whenever wise gets flustered after you call him “my proxy”. it wasn’t anything out of ordinary, wise always calls himself your proxy anyways, but whenever you do it on missions or when you go to hollows to accompany the cunning hares, it never fails to flush his cheeks a pretty pink. belle would let out a snicker and kick his feet from under the table and she’s always met with a warning glare. not once has he mentioned the romantic undertones of your words despite picking up on it himself. 

or the times when you would always drop by their store to hangout in his room. more often than not, when belle comes to check on you both, you’d be fast asleep on his bed with a bangboo in between you two. a devious smirk would always creep up belle’s face when she tip toes into the room and quietly open the cap of a washable marker to write on both of your faces. wise, when he wakes up, would come running down the stairs to chase belle around for writing “[name]’s proxy” in big bold letters on his cheek while you laugh. never once wiping the words of “wise’s hollow raider” with a heart on the cheek opposite to wise’s. 

belle isn’t ignorant nor is wise, but it does frustrate her when her brother doesn’t speak up about his very obvious feelings about you. a sudden feeling of irritation blooming within her chest when she sees your crestfallen expression when wise keeps calling you “just a friend” when general cop or the tin master ask what your relationship is. belle doesn't miss the flash of slight hurt in your eyes before you mask it with an awkward smile and wave of your hand, agreeing with what wise said even though you obviously want to be something more than just a friend.

she’s frustrated with you too. the hours the two of you spend in their workspace, curled up on the couch as you vent out your frustration at wise’s obliviousness. eight out of ten times, belle would just urge you to confess directly, however, you would always go quiet and murmur into the bangboo in your arms that confessing isn’t an option. at first, belle was rightfully confused. she saw how you looked at wise; you looked at him as if he hung the sun and moon himself. he was your entire world and you had him putty in your hands with just two words. it wasn’t until the day after when belle finally realizes –when nicole has her arms wrapped around your waist and an angry flush on her face when you enter their store battered and bruised, but still smiling– that this was a first for you too. 

before becoming a regular client, you would recklessly jump into hollows without a carrot or a proxy. barely making it out alive if nicole hadn’t found you and made you a member of her little band of misfits. you were enamored with wise when he first patched you up. you didn’t have anyone before him that cared enough to lecture you about danger, your recklessness, and bad habits. he was probably the first person that genuinely showed concern for you so belle understood for a moment why you didn’t want to confess. she’s watched enough romance movies and read books and comics to know that confessing has its risks. your friendship that you painstakingly built with her brother brick by brick would come crumbling down if you said those three words.

“my dearest proxies,” you barreled into their store front with a bright grin. belle doesn’t miss the twinkle in wise’s eyes when he sees you. “let’s go out for lunch. my treat!”

“what’s the occasion?” wise asks, putting down the boxes of videotapes on the counter to give you his undiverted attention.

your grin reached your eyes as you waved a piece of parchment in front of them both. “it’s paycheck day! and what better way than to treat my proxies to lunch for taking such good care of me.”

“count me in!” belle merrily jogs towards you and gives you a high five.

“what do you say wise?” belle flashed her brother with a knowing look. the boy only shook his head and started leading the two of you out the store.

“well, how can i say no to free food?”

wise stole a laugh from your lungs as you tangled your arms with them both. “that’s my proxy. now let’s go!”

belle never misses the way wise’s cheeks flush whenever you intertwine your arms together; it was as easy as breathing for you. she just hopes that one day you’ll see for yourself that wise also feels the same, he’s just clueless and a little shy to show it unlike you.

© vxnuslogy 2024. do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my works without my knowledge or consent in other platforms or websites.

[astraystayyh]

The prophecy- I.

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

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

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

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

ꕥ word count: 17.8k.

Next. Series Masterlist.

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

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

Act 1. Everything comes with a price.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why had he felt it when you simply cried? 

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

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

So why was Yongbok feeling the bruising of your heart?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he did not. 

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

But your heart weighed so much on your soul.

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

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

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

“Other people hurt her.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would you smile at him too? 

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

To talk to you. 

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we still save them from themselves?” 

“Not always. We can be too late.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something of the sort.”

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

“I don’t?” he questions. 

“No. You look kind.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That's not true.”

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

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

“That's somewhat comforting to hear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Each time you call out for him he is there. 

“Is that so?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

Until you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At what cost can an angel taste humanity? 

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

At what cost could he not? 

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is the cost of humanity facing the ugliness within you? 

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

His hand slips. You seize it before he falls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please leave it at that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“Since you turned eighteen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

He will understand the reasons behind this act much later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re totally not cool about that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aren’t you my guardian angel?”

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

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

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

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

“I'm not your sugar daddy.”

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

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

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

“Hm?”

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

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

“Can you hear that?” he wonders.

You shake your head no.

“It's quiet, finally.”

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why is that?”

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

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

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

“No, you sound brave.”

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

“Thank you.” 

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

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

“Why is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It does, ever so slightly.

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

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

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

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

“And in return?” you ask tentatively. 

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

Act 3. What’s an angel to a human?

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to be happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then, shut up.”

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

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

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

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

He shudders at the thought. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His response comes as easily as an autumn breeze. 

“Okay. I believe you.”

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

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

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

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

You snort, bewildered. “A what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s 165, actually,” he corrects. 

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

“What happened to live laugh love?” 

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

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

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

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Home is where you feel most like yourself.”

He does when you’re nearby. 

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

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

“Seven years ago.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You think so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially not you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened to Urban Dictionary?”

“Die.”

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

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

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

“Me? But I don't know how to.”

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

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

“Anything else, your majesty?”

“No,” you grin. “Have fun!”

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

“Mm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m Chris.”

“Yongbok.”

“Are you new here?”

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

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

“Because you give me free sweets.”

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

“Tell me,” you whisper.

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

“No,” you shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?”

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

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

He doesn’t think his heart could handle it.

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

“What should we have for dinner?”

“Sushi?”

“No, let’s have kimbap.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

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

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

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

A fool made to believe he can change a prophecy.

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

But he can.

He can.

He is.

…

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

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

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

Only those. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, no. It’s a good one. Truly.” 

“Okay.” 

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

“Yeah, sure, let’s go,” he grins. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do they happen often?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why didn’t you?”

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

“Why is that?” 

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

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

To me, you’re just Yongbok.”

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

To him you’re it. 

“I think I'm happy right now.”

“You think?” 

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

“Just say you moved in with me”

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

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

“Well, we aren’t strangers anymore.”

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

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

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

And most importantly, you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Today!” you nearly yell and he flinches.

“Really?”

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

“Should we go?” 

“Actually?”

“Yeah. you seem to really like him.”

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

“We?”

“Let’s go shopping, we need to buy…”

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

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

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

...

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

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

“I didn’t think you’d remember me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you one for passionate love?”

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Horrible.

Horrible.

Abomination. 

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

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

“Get out.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You falter, your hand curling tighter against the doorknob.

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

“What?” 

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

You hesitate for a few seconds, rooted in place. 

And then you close the door. 

You are inside. 

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

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

You shake your head, taking a step forward. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if they take you away from me?”

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

Are you gone?

Oh God, are you gone?

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

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

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

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

“No, I came to bring you back.”

“What?”

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

“I don't want to.”

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

“I know they are.” 

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

“And I love them for it.”

Seungmin frowns. “You’re defending them.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I… they won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I don't love her.”

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

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

“I’m sorry, Yongbok.”

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

“For the things yet to come.” 

[81folklore]

dress - SV5

pairings: sebastian vettel x famous!reader (fc: taylor swift)

summary: its known that seb has been married for a few years now despite the public never seeing is wife, its also known that yn is in a committed relationship and has been since she disappeared from public eye. maybe they are more connected than people realise

authors note: i have had this idea on my mind for SO LONG so im very pleased to finally be writing it. essentially in this, yn is taylor and seb is joe but no one has ever seen him nor know his name, if that makes sense? honestly i have no clue how this will turn out but i needed to write it

authors note 2: this is set in the midnights era however i switched the songs a bit so ‘dress’ is on midnights instead of ‘sweet nothing’ and vice versa!! also ‘dress’ is going to be a single. i also apologize for how all over the place this is, especially the tweets

authors note 3: just pretend whatever says taylor swift says your name and the photos with her hands have a wedding ring!! i also got so confused when trying to screenshot the twitter stuff so the timeline ones are backwards

authors note 4??: haha didnt realise there was a 30 pic limit... pt 2 here :)

masterlist

ynupdates

liked by user3, user18 and 10,628 others

yn on her story today, possibly posting song lyrics! thoughts?

view comments

user3: NEW ERA INCOMING

user18: OH I AM SO READY FOR THIS

user13: NEW MUSIC NEW MUSIC

user66: is this hinting at her reputation era?

user13: i was just thinking this, more specifically the time just before reputation

user72: MUSIC ABOUT LOVER?? OH I AM SO HERE FOR IT

user55: if it is about lover and the time before reputation this will BREAK ME like,, HE SAW THE BEST IN HER EVEN IN HER WORST TIMES😭😭

yourusername

liked by gracieabrams, ynupdates, olliebearman and 7,277,739 others

everyone thinks that they know us, but they know nothing about…

this album has been such a rewarding piece to create and im so glad that soon enough you will all be able to listen and enjoy it with me! one thing i love in particular about this album is the song ‘dress’

dress was originally a piece i started to write when making reputation however i felt it was right to keep it to myself, to keep it between my partner and i for a little while longer. however recently our lives have been changing for the better, and while that lid of privacy will still be on, i want to share more with you guys

you have all been on this journey with me and you have treated my partner and i with the upmost respect and for that i thank you. for me dress is a letter, its statement, its a declaration of my love for him and im very grateful to be able to give this to you all

this song is one im very proud of, i really enjoyed writing this the first time, and getting to revist and polish it up felt very special to do.

dress out now on all platforms🖤

comments on this post have been limited

sebupdates

liked by user34, user5, user88 and 23,683 others

seb in suzuka with the grid at his turn 2 bee (insect) hotels,, we've missed seeing him at the track :(

view comments

user3: of course the grid come together for him :’)

user5: im not crying!! just hay fever!!

user5: oh i have missed him SO MUCH

user7: NO BECAUSE YOU DONT GET IT HES BACK

user88: DID YOU GUYS SEE THE VIDEO OF HIM HUGGING CHARLES😭😭

user34: the way he was like a teacher throughout the whole thing😭

user18: does anyone know if hes staying the whole weekend or is it like monaco??

sebupdates: we believe hes staying the whole weekend but unsure if hes with a team or not!

user18: ok thank you :)

user77: the way the first thing lewis asked him was if his wife was okay, oh what if i cry😭😭

user66: im kind of new here, have the grid met sebs wife?

user77: i know they all at least know about her and know who she is, i dont think everyone has met her but i know lewis has met her quite a bit!!

part 2!

[munsonsfairy]

I always see bbf abby but never sbf, so maybe older abby x friends little sister (of age of course, like about to graduate college) 🕺🏽 reader is visiting her sister and she sees abby type thing idk

Btw, your work is amazing 🙂‍↕️🩷

love me tender ✨🐚🤍🌸🐠

author’s note: thank you so much! i appreciate you for reading and sending in a request. i hope you enjoy! thank you for @katemartinis for proofreading. 🤍

abby wants say yes to heaven, say yes to you, and let fear she has fall away. you thought you were only a lost memory to abby until this summer. now, you’re standing in front of abby in the rain with shoes full of water staring at each other.

content: fluff with angst. summer before graduation. 18+ no smut. no specific descriptions of reader but is feminine.

word count: 2.2k

The salt air coming in from your open window cools your skin from the summer heat. You're lying on your bed watching season three of stranger things as you always do at the start of summer. Or at least you were watching it until your best friend, Jackie, came over. It's the summer before your senior year and you’re trying to soak up every bit of it before you graduate.

You and Jackie made a list of what you want to do this summer consisting of tanning to getting matching tattoos to trying out surfing. Luckily you live on an island making it easy to complete. today you wanted to check off going to the aquarium off your list. While you were going through your closet for an outfit, Jackie was talking about a boy she swears she’s in love with after knowing him for two weeks.

Finally, you found the dress you were looking for. You always felt your best while wearing it and thought your skin glowed with the color. you stood in front of the mirror in awe.

Downstairs, you hear the door slam and someone yell to your mom that they’re hungry.

It's your older sister, Sarah coming back from volleyball practice. You both might be lesbian, but someone was definitely dropped too many times as a baby. You hear your mom greet Sarah and someone else.

“Well look who it is. my favorite Anderson!”

Abby. Anderson.

She's your sister’s best friend and also plays in the same volleyball team. You've had a crush on since you laid eyes on her. The way she carries herself and listens to you always filled you with butterflies. making eye contact with her blue eyes made you dizzy. Her love for books makes you wish you didn’t get so flustered around her so you could ask her about what she’s currently reading.

There was something about Abby that had your heart wanting more. she always knew how to pull you in. Unfortunately, she was off limits. your older sister made you promise you wouldn’t complicate things and ruin her friendship, but it takes two to tango. the stolen glances and subtle touches can only last so long before Sarah gets suspicious. Neither you nor Abby have confessed any real feelings, but it was enough to raise red flags for Sarah.

You feel yourself getting nervous at the thought of seeing her again. You haven’t seen Abby since last summer since she wasn’t home for Christmas. the four of you camped out together at the beach since the weather was more tolerable compared to summer. Sarah and Jackie fell asleep, so the both of you laid down next to each other looking up at the stars. Abby was a nerd when it came to constellations. She pointed out every single one she found, then it got quiet letting you only hear the waves crashing.

You felt at peace and closed your eyes to take it all in. Abby turned her head and admired you as she always did. The next morning, you woke up to Abby holding you close to her chest; her breath tickling your neck. You look up to see the blonde deeply sleeping. Her eyes lashes so long and freckles covering her skin. Being an early bird has its perks when you wake up before your older sister sees you cuddling her best friend.

Your reminiscing is soon interrupted by your older walking into your room eating a sandwich and laying on your bed with Jackie.

Just in record time, Abby comes behind her but doesn’t go into your room. Instead, she leans against your doorway focusing on the one person.

Through your mirror your eyes made eye contact with the bluest eyes you’ve seen. her freckles covered her sun kissed skin. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest making her arms show off for you.

Abby’s eyes rake over your body, drinking in every curve before meeting your eyes again. She tried to be discreet but couldn’t help but admire you.

She thought you were glowing and couldn’t believe such beauty existed, but you always proved her wrong. She loved way your eyes crinkled with your laughed at her joke. Oh my god she thinks I’m funny. Those were one of the few times she saw your true personality.

SAY HI IDIOT. Abby’s mind screamed at her.

“Hi.”

Her voice filled with honey and softness. You feel your knees get week and feel a shiver run through your spine. Abby notices and smirks then looks away to let you breathe.

You mentally kick yourself for not evening answering. It's one word!! two letters!! stupid stupid stupid!!

Thankfully, your sister and Jackie were too busy in their own world to notice or so you thought.

“I’m sure it would be fun if Abby came with us!” you turn to Jackie with wide eyes who is smiling knowing what she’s doing.

𓆉⋆.˚ 333 °‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

Since Sarah and Jackie went to the reptile exhibit, you and Abby stayed on a bench admiring the open ocean exhibit. Reptiles weren’t really your thing. The blue hues fill from the water paint the walls. It feels like the fish are moving in slow motion. You're in awe of the two stingrays swimming together it almost looks like they are dancing.

Although, the sea creatures were beautiful, Abby couldn’t focus when she felt your arm touching hers, or your hands brushing against each other when you were walking next to each other earlier. If only you knew how it took everything in her not to reach for your hand. she has been this close to you before but today felt different. The peace she was feeling was something she wouldn’t be able to put into words.

“Do you think seals have spots?” Abby asked as suddenly.

“Hm?” You missed her question when you turned to look at her. you feel a little embarrassed by how she can easily throw you off.

She laughs, “Do you think seals have spots? Owen swears up and down he saw one spotted. He says saw one and I haven’t heard the end of it. Not saying I want to prove him wrong but…” She trails off.

“Oh, definitely. Have you considered researching your question? I mean you do know how to use your phone, right or do you need assistance?” You laugh at her.

Abby playfully rolls her eyes, “You think you’re so funny, huh? I personally would love to see this seal in person.” She shrugs.

You laugh but this time Abby fully sees you. She wishes she could freeze time and just look at you forever. To make you laugh and smile every day.

“Do other people think you’re funny?”

Abby looks towards the fish tank shaking her head but still smiling, “No, they don't.”

For a moment you didn’t let your nerves hold you back, so you squeeze her bicep, “Let me be the first to tell you that you are very funny.”

You lay your hand back down to your lap, but Abby reaches for it and holds your palm up. She traces the lines on your hand and finally decides that it’s now or never.

It felt like she was on Saturn, and it was only the two of you. Nothing else mattered. All of her nerves were gone. It felt like a dream, but the warmth of your hand reminded her it was real.

“You're staring,” you whisper.

“I like looking at you,” Abby whispered back smiling.

Abby raises her hand reaching for your cheek. Her thumb gently rubbing your soft skin; scared to break you. She drags down her thumb to your lower lip sending a shiver down your spine. The world slowed down for the two of you. Abby admired every detail on your face just in case this was the last time she was this close. She could smell the coconut perfume you spayed earlier. She knew what color your eyes were, but they were so much better up close. Her eyes flickers from your lips to your eyes. Abby felt herself leaning towards you as if it was the most natural thing.

“Oh, are we interrupting something?” Jackie asked smiling.

Out of fear, Abby dropped your hand and pulled away from you. “N-no,” she stands up quickly and walks in front of you away from the group. Luckily, your sister didn’t see since she was walking a bit behind Jackie. The rest of your time at the aquarium Abby avoids looking at you after that. It's all gone.

𓆉⋆.˚ 444 °‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

The car ride home was filled with tension. Abby had barely said a word to anyone. You sat in front while she drove back to your house staring at the raindrops that filled the window. Summer might be your favorite season, but hurricane season makes you wish it was over already.

You finally got the confidence to look at the blonde next to you and see nothing but an emotionless face. Her eyes aren’t the same blue you saw earlier. They look empty. Abby must have felt you staring because she sighed and made sure you heard it.

Your brain replays what happened earlier over and over like a record player. There was never a moment where Abby looked at you the way she did right now.

After what felt like hours, she drove into the driveway of your house. Your sister and Jackie quickly got out of the car leaving you alone with Abby. You felt a knot in your stomach and don’t feel words come out when you open your mouth. Out of habit you anxiously pick the skin on your fingers.

“Wanna come in? I think we’re going to order some pizza. Sarah always orders way too much food for us to finish,” you ask trying to break the tension.

Abby clears her throat, “Uh, I can’t tonight. rain check? I’m pretty tired it was a long day.” Her eyes never met yours since you were at the aquarium. You missed her blue eyes filled with love. Now you couldn’t tell what she was feeling.

“Oh sure! We have the whole-.”

“I think it’s getting late don’t you think? I’m sure they’re waiting for you,” she interrupts. You hear the irritation in her voice and almost leave, but you needed to ask her why she changed her attitude in a matter of seconds. You really thought today was the day you’d finally tell her what your heart feels. How you much you find her funny and think she deserves to have someone love her.

“What changed, Abby? I know it wasn’t only in my head what happened earlier, or did I imagine it?”

Abby sighs and looks towards her fingers, “You didn’t imagine it, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be together. We're just good friends and I don’t think it’s the best thing to do. I mean what will you sister think?”

Her heart beats for you but she could never admit it to you. She's watched you go from relationship to relationship to break up to break up. yet, she can’t get the words out to tell you.

You scoff, “Just good friends, huh? you’re so full of shit, Abigail. I mean you were there! was I the only one who felt the feeling?”

“What feeling,” Abby asked confused.

“You know! the feeling! The feeling you get before you kiss someone for the first time. The excitement, anticipation, and butterflies in your stomach. The way your heart flutters when you finally kiss the girl you love!” You were talking so fast and just ranting now that you didn’t even notice you confessed your feelings to her.

“Wait what?” Abby was shocked but knew she shouldn’t be. She was there and so were you.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I’m here explaining this to you and expecting you to understand. Just next time, don’t look into a girl’s eyes and say you like looking at her if you’re planning to be an ass.” You open the car door and start running to your front door without getting soaked by the rain.

It took Abby two seconds to finally realize the girl of her dreams is running away from her. Abby ran out of her car leaving the door open without a care.

“Do you really want to know how I feel?!” she yelled out.

“I’ve never loved anyone like you! I’ve never felt so much peace before in my life! Everything about you consumes my being it’s frightening. This love I feel for you is so beautiful yet so scary. If choosing you means that I am losing your sister as a friend, then fine!”

You felt like your heart was beating so hard as you stared at Abby trying to process everything.

“And you couldn’t say all of that in the car, Abigail!? I have water in my shoes, I’m cold, and we-.”

Abby grabs you with both of her hands and kisses you. It takes you a couple seconds to process and kiss her back. Your eyes fluttered closed and you felt everything happening all at once. Her lips are softer than you imagined and so familiar. Your hands move to her braid making her moan into the kiss and letting you slip your tongue inside. She wrapped her arm around your waist bringing you closer to her.

“Wow…” you were breathless with your eyes still closed. When you finally opened them, Abby was smiling and looking into your eyes. She leans in again and whispers, “Can I do that again?”

[juneknight]

Making Trouble

For the girlies on the Marc’s Girls discord, and specifically to whichever one of you requested this:

Possessive marc who decides to fuck reader in Jakes car to further piss of jake, praise kink, (maybe a little mirror action to make sure jake sees)

About this: Marc finally finds where Jake stashes his car when he isn’t fronting. Marc/fem!reader

—-----

“You can open your eyes now.” 

Nearly breathless from the suspense, you finally open your eyes to see—a parking garage. You blink, taking in its tall, squat appearance, the teenager manning the little booth to let people in and out, her face in her phone. When Marc had said he had a surprise for you during your day out together, you had spent plenty of time considering what it might be. Knowing Marc, it was either painfully thoughtful or way too on-the-nose. 

“Is it the parking garage, or is it in the parking garage,” you deadpan. 

“I bought you a parking garage,” Marc deadpans back, obviously unimpressed with your deductive skills. 

Mouth twitching, you ask: “You…bought a car?” 

“Better,” says Marc with a grin. “I found a car.”

On the fourth level, you stand shivering amongst the dreary concrete scenery, mouth agape. 

Marc holds up a key fob. The expression on his face is distinctly wicked, eyes dark and narrowed, mouth tilted in a smirk which makes him look years younger. He jingles the keys before pressing on the automatic lock. Within the car, you hear the soft sound of the doors unlocking. The taillights come to life, flashing an ominous red: warning, warning, do not fucking touch. 

“We can’t,” you gasp, even as if you watch Marc open the driver’s door. Out comes a hint of Jake’s scent: leather, tobacco, cologne. How Marc and his alters can even smell different, you could never understand. 

Marc is already stepping into the car. He turns to look at your gasped warning, but there is no fear nor trepidation on his face. He just raises a brow and says, “Seems easy enough to me.” 

He ducks his head and disappears into the driver’s seat. You glance around, conscience guilty. It’s not like there is anyone who would dispute your right to be in the car; the thing is in Marc’s goddamn name! But you can’t help but feel eyes on you, like Jake knows what you are doing. For months he had stringently refused to reveal where he stored the flashy ride, despite your best attempts—and Marc’s, and even Steven’s who couldn’t resist a good mystery. He obviously did not want any of you encroaching on this, on his territory. 

The thought of his punishment has you shivering, and not with fear. 

You swiftly move to the passenger side, open the door, and duck inside. It is like another world within: all dark leather, cool against your overheated skin. The tinted windows make it dim, even with the soft glow of the overhead light (which disappears once you shut the door). You sit in the seat beside Marc, breathing in the experience. Jake never lets anyone in his car—that he doesn’t plan to kill. The adrenalin has your heart racing. You turn to look at Marc in the driver’s seat with a wide, giddy grin. 

“So where should we go? I feel like fucking Ferris Bueler.” 

Marc snorts softly. He reaches down between the seat and the door—and he pushes his seat back as far as it will go, creating copious space between himself and the steering wheel. It doesn’t look like a very comfortable way to drive. All at once, you realize that Marc isn’t intending to drive. He has not even put the keys in the ignition. 

“Marc,” you say, low and warning and scared and excited all at once.

“Come here,” says Marc, just as lowly. He pats one jean-clad thigh. “Come sit on my lap.” 

It isn’t a question. But for the first time you are caught between the authority Marc has over you and the authority Jake has over everyone. The rules are simple: do not touch his car. Do not look at his car. Do not think about his car. Definitely do not go looking for the parking garage which houses his car. And if you should find it? Definitely don’t fuck in it. 

“What if he gets mad?” you ask, running your fingers over the natural creases of the leather seats. 

“Leave him to me. Come sit on my lap.” 

You climb across the center console and into his lap. Your skirt rides up your thighs. Marc leans back in his seat looking like a god, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, one hand braced behind his head like he is relaxing and nothing more. The bulge you can already feel in his jeans says that as relaxed as he appears, at least one part of him is as eager as you are. 

“Undress.” 

You gasp, like this is unexpected. Like you expected him to ask you to sit in his lap and then the two of you would talk about the weather. Even though the window tints are thick—standing outside the car, you cannot even see the swirl of shadows behind the glass—your eyes are drawn towards the windows around you. Can you undress here? You would feel so exposed…but the way Marc is looking at you is exposing as well. Like he sees your thoughts and is watching them bounce between arousal and terror in the ping-pong match of the century. Like he sees your thoughts and enjoys them. 

He says nothing, just sits patiently, chest rising and falling softly with his each breath. 

Yeah, alright. You pull your shirt over your head, reaching back to unclasp your bra. Marc takes each article of clothing and tosses it into the backseat. There isn’t enough space to comfortably slide down your panties while on his lap, so he perches you on the center console and works the lace down your legs, testing the texture between his fingers.

He opens up the dash console and puts your panties inside.

“Marc,” you whine. “Come on, you’re going to get me in even more trouble.” 

“You’re trouble,” Marc says, lifting you with ease to set you back in his lap. The denim of his jeans is rough against your bare thighs. He is so thick that you’re spread uncomfortably wide, and your cunt—hungry, leaking—can’t even grind against the bulge in his jeans. Once you’re seated, Marc palms your ass in his broad hands, spreading you apart, eyes glued to the sticky place between your legs. “How else am I going to remind Jake that you belong to me, huh?” 

Marc’s possessiveness makes you shiver. Maybe it’s some unevolved part of your hindbrain that craves such a thing, something that makes you want to rub yourself all over him until his scent is your scent and no one can refute it. Whatever it may be that makes your heart pound and pussy clench tight when Marc makes such comments, it must also be the same thing that makes you want more. 

“I belong to him too, you know,” you tease. “And Steven.” 

“Steven knows his place,” Marc says darkly. He reaches up and threads his fingers through your hair at the back of your skull, clutches tight and close to the scalp so that he has utter control as he tugs you forward and down until you are nearly nose to nose with him. “Jake sometimes needs a reminder that you are mine, first and foremost. Maybe you need that reminder too.” 

You go to shake your head, but Marc holds it firmly in place by your hair. He tightens his grip (though not to the point of pain) and makes you nod in affirmation.

“Yes?” he asks, with mock surprise. “Yes, you need reminding? You need a lesson?” 

“Marc,” you breathe. There is nothing else to the sentence. There is nothing else in your brain, just Marc. 

“I’ve got you,” he coos. He pulls you in for a kiss, searing and consuming and all too short. Your mouth tingles after he pulls you away, lips quirking at the way you strain against his hold, eager to kiss him again. But he just says: “Take my cock out.” 

Your fingers scramble for the button against the denim. Perhaps if you weren’t tingling all over, it would be easier to unfasten them—but then you get distracted by Marc, Marc who is reaching up to the rearview mirror and adjusting it. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” says Marc. The grin he gives into the mirror is like a shark’s. Toothy, mean, hungry. 

You try not to. You focus on his cock which you are finally able to work free from the denim. He is achingly hard, a familiar velvety rod of steel in your palm. So much changes about your three lovers when they are fronting: accents, expressions, mannerisms…but this is one thing that never changes. You adjust your grip, let your thumb trace over the crown of his cock. When you stroke over the slit, your thumb comes away wet with his precum. 

Marc uses his grip on your hair to gently turn your face downward until you are staring at him: ruddy, deliciously thick, a length that already has your legs shaking just at the memory of the places it can stroke inside you. At the tip beads more precum, and you watch, mesmerized, as you spread it across the sensitive head turning it shiny pink and eager. 

“See my cock?” 

“Yes,” you laugh.

“Then why aren’t you sitting on it?”

A good question. You shift upwards. Marc helps, hands braced against your waist as he lifts and twists and turns you to his liking. By the time the thick head of his cock nudges at your entrance, he has turned you around until you face away from him, your palms on the dashboard, the steering wheel nearly brushing your breasts. 

Marc slips inside you. It’s always a tight stretch, no matter how wet you are for him. You whine, rocking forward and backward as your cunt spasms, eager for him and fighting his intrusion all at once. His hands are burning hot on your hips, your ass, your waist as he rubs at the skin firmly, murmuring soft encouragement beneath his breath. At last you relax enough to take the last few inches of him, and when the head kisses your cervix, it feels like it pushes the breath from your lungs. 

“Marc,” you groan. 

His hands, tan and strong suddenly reach for your own where you have braced them on the dashboard. He interlaces your fingers and then pulls back—he makes you put your hands on the wheel. You know why straightaway; because beneath your grip you feel the grooves worn into the steering wheel from Jake’s touch. You shutter all over, cunt squeezing Marc’s cock. 

“Hold on,” Marc says. You tighten your grip.  

Then Marc takes your hips in his hands and begins to fuck you on his cock. That’s the only way to describe it. His strength makes it easy for him to bounce your body the way he likes, as fast or as slow as he likes, as deep or as shallow as he likes. And you know that’s what he’s doing. You can tell that he’s taking you like this for his own pleasure, and the thought drives you fucking wild. 

You turn your head, searching for his mouth to kiss—

—but Marc is too busy staring into the rearview mirror. 

“Is he—?”

“Watching?” Marc pants. “Yes.”

“What’s he—?”

“Saying?” Marc laughs. “Cursing me. Threatening me. Telling me all the filthy things he’s going to do to you to punish you, to try and reestablish his claim.”

Marc’s teeth bury themselves into the junction between your shoulder and your neck, making you cry out and tighten around him. His tongue soothes the sting of the bite. The message is clear: stop asking questions about Jake. Right now there is only Marc. A few pointed, bruising thrusts push the remainder of your thoughts from your brain. You arch your back to soften the intensity, to let his cock stroke against that spot inside you that makes your legs shake. 

Behind you, words begin to pour from Marc’s mouth, dark and sinful: 

“Pussy this sweet, I can’t blame him,” Marc says through his teeth. He slows his thrusts, slows the speed with which he bounces you on his cock though the force remains the same. “The sweetest little toy for me to fuck. But this pussy belongs to me. I am the one who broke it in. Remember the first time I fucked you? You shook like a leaf in the wind just at the sight of me. ‘Will it fit?’”

Your face goes hot at the mocking way he pitches his voice. You didn’t sound like that…

“I made it fit, didn’t I baby? Didn’t I split you open? You cried like I was killing you—except you were begging me not to stop, so tight, like I had to push your guts aside just to get balls deep. I broke you in, baby. Steven and Jake just help me keep you loose, don’t they?”

Marc’s cock seems to do more than rearrange your guts. It scrambles your fucking brain. All that comes out of your mouth are broken gasps of his name, half formed pleas—and when you take a hand off the wheel to touch your clit, a warning. You’re about to cum.

Except Marc lets go of your hips to grip your arms just below the elbows. He tugs your hand away from between your thighs and twists both arms behind your back with practiced ferocity, no rougher than he needs to be as he makes your arms fold and hooks his arm through them, binding you. His hand against your upper back pushes you forward, forward until your chest meets the steering wheel, breasts against the cool material.

“You’ll cum on my cock or you won’t cum at all,” Marc warns you darkly, digging his heels into the floor so he can snap his hips up into the cradle of your thighs. He thrusts with such force that he balls tap your clit with each one, the light rhythmic pressure nothing compared to the firm rub of your fingertips, but still pushing you higher…higher…can you cum like this? With just the barest touch? 

“I’m getting close,” Marc warns cruelly. 

You try to say something back, some garbled plea, but it is inarticulate. Marc speaks the language, though; knows what your frantic little sounds and whines mean, well-versed in this tongue. He uses his free hand to grip one ass cheek, spreading you until he can see the stretched entrance of your pussy thanks to the arch of your back. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s it, cum for me. Come on. And look in the mirror while you do it. Show me those pretty eyes.”

But when you glance up to the mirror, the dark eyes that look at you—pierce into you, flaying you open and laying you bare—do not remind you of Marc. They remind you of the real person Marc wants you to make eye contact with. The one who is watching. 

It’s a good thing you can’t string syllables together, otherwise you might have shouted Jake’s name (and wasn’t that a lesson that Marc had already taught you!). Your cunt clenches down like a vice, back arching like a cat as the sensation explodes inside you, slick dripping down your thighs onto Jake’s leather seats. Your shouts and yaps and whimpers have nowhere to echo within the enclosed space, forcing you to listen to your own pleasure in high quality. 

Marc groans in satisfaction, slowing his thrusts to languish in the spasms of your pussy. 

“Good girl, that’s a good-fucking-girl!” Marc says, voice a little too awed and overjoyed to appropriately coo the cruel way he often does. He pulls you up from the steering wheel and makes you lay back against his chest. 

“Marc, too deep,” you hiss, shifting in anxiety at the hard thrusts which must be coming. 

He just hushes you, rocking his hips more than thrusting, one hand cupping your breast while the other finds your aching clit and begins teasing it, stroking your sex deeply. 

Your breath catches—as if you had ever managed to catch it in the first place. Already you feel that fire within your belly swelling, Marc’s fingers and the way his cock splits you wide acting like a lit match on dry kindling. His fingers make slick sounds, so loud in the enclosed space that you would be embarrassed if there were room for it inside you. But Marc’s cock must push that out of you, too: your shame, your brain.

“Come on, baby,” Marc whispers tenderly, his other hand teasing your nipple as he rocks into you gently. “Come on, give me another. Milk my cock.”

You do. You’d do anything that Marc told you to, but it’s impossible to even consider disobeying when his fingers stroke through your folds, when you feel his cock twitch where it’s buried practically in your guts. One of your hands scrabbles at the seat, scratching the leather. The other reaches up to bury itself in Marc’s hair, mussing the slicked back curls. His breath stops, head falling back against the headrest as his cock jerks and fills you with his warm seed. The sounds of his thrusts into you grow slicker, even wetter with both of your spend. His cum seeps out around his cock with each thrust in, smearing both of your thighs. 

At last he wraps an arm around your waist and pins you to him, his cock still buried within you. His heavy pants brush your neck as he catches his breath, and your fierce grip on his hair instinctually turns into a soft pet. You definitely muss the curls a little more than necessary; you can’t help how much you like them. 

“He’s going to be so pissed, Marc,” you breathe. But there is laughter in your voice. 

Marc snorts softly. He reaches up and pinches one of your nipples softly. “Yeah. He’ll live.” 

He helps you dress, cleans your thighs and his own with a pack of tissues that he finds in the glovebox. You sit in the passenger seat, eyes on him. It is strange seeing him behind the wheel of Jake’s car. 

“Ready?” Marc asks at last, glancing to you. It’s only then that he notices how much you’ve been watching him, and the fact that he can look flustered after everything he’s done and said to you today is a true feat. 

“Ready.” 

You face goes hot again as you step out of the car, even though there is no one around to see you. Orienting yourself, you spot the lift and begin towards it, a spring in your step. If you plan to make it home before Marc’s cum leaks out of you, you’ll have to be hasty. The last thing you want to do is ride the tube with cum dripping down your legs. 

Marc lingers. He glances back into the car, eyes searching for anything the two of you might have left behind. Besides the panties in the glovebox—let Jake find those. When there is nothing, he shuts the door softly and locks it with the fob. Fucking you in Jake’s car is one thing; leaving it vulnerable to any proper London thief is another. He wants to piss Jake off, but he would never wish to hurt him. 

There is a smudge on the window. Marc wipes it away with his jacketed elbow. 

“Go easy on her, hermano,” Marc teases his reflection. The one that is glaring back at him. 

“Marc,” you call, squinting back towards him from your spot by the lift. Your voice echoes off of the concrete. “Are you coming?” 

“Didn’t I already?” Marc asks the window. He snorts at his own joke, tapping the nose of his reflection before turning and sauntering away.

[dat-town]

mine for the summer

Characters: Leehan & female reader

Setting & genre: coming of age, summer romance, angst and fluff (it has a happy end!)

Summary: Busan is your hideout, your runaway place, your freedom bought on stolen time. Leehan is your first love, your safe place, your everything. At least, for the summer.

Warnings: stage name used, OC is coming out of a burnout in the beginning and she has a relapse, mentions of anxiety and panic attacks, past hospitalization, emotionally distant parents, parental pressure on academics

Words: 9.4k

Author’s note: title from One Direction’s Summer Love. here is the Romeo + Juliet movie scene that gets mentioned

turns out i cannot not write an at least bit of an angsty story for your bday but i do sincerely hope you have a very happy one, @restlessmaknae <3 also of course you would start singing this song in july to give me a heart attack right before i accidentally told you i’m writing about Leehan

The humidity of air sticks to you like second skin, sweat glistening on your nape where your hair gets tangled in the summer heat. With closed eyes and the tickling feeling of sand under your bare feet, you listen to the ocean waves washing up the beach and children giggling. You take a deep breath of air filled with salt and fish and oil, something so uniquely Busan that you feel like fourteen again.

It’s been years since you had come to visit. Excuses were easy to find: too busy, too far; reasons were much harder.

But now you’re here and you realize that you missed it. The quiet serenity of being hidden away in the part of town that’s far from the busy skyscraper downtown and the overwhelming tourist traps. You remember spending summers running down these sandy beaches and playing in the water, mouth sticky with fruit and palms scratched with falls and youth. Then you turned older and got bored of the quiet neighborhood, the ocean losing its significance after seeing it too many times, eventually you stopped coming altogether. Now you are even older but still young, barely out of school, the CSAT exams still haunting your dreams. You’re just twenty but sometimes that age feels like it bears the weight of the world. Your world at least.

You open your eyes and squint right away at the brightness of the Sun and feel its burning heat on your bare shoulders only cooled by some nice breeze. The air might smell like salt, fish and oil but it tastes like freedom.

You take one more deep breath, willing yourself not to think of your mother’s disappointed words about your behavior nor her disapproval of you coming here, and push yourself up. You grab your discarded sandals and head back. Your grandparents must be worried already. In their eyes you are still fourteen, forever a child.

And they might be right because not even halfway down the beach, you abruptly halt and hiss, pain shooting into your feet and your carmine blood drips onto the golden sand. Balancing yourself on one leg, you check on the wound, a cut on the softest flesh part of your feet and the culprit, a broken shell in the sand. Clumsily you take your water bottle from your bag to clean the blood off, your skin still sensitive around the fresh wound. You debate whether you should tiptoe the rest of the way or clean your footwear off sand and dirt as much as you can but before you could decide, a stranger approaches you with worriedly furrowed brows.

“Are you okay?” He asks in a deep voice but you don’t pay too much attention to him, too busy to figure out what to do with your injury.

“Yeah, it’s just a small cut,” you brush his worry off, expecting him to walk away or maybe to give you directions to the closest pharmacy but he does neither.

“Here. Hold onto me,” the stranger offers his arm which you reluctantly but take because your balancing skills honestly aren’t the best. Then you can do nothing but stare as the boy around your age suddenly pulls out a plaster from his shorts’ pocket and leans down to inspect your wound. It’s a bit awkward, having a stranger look at your feet, so your fingers curl inside themselves around his arm. The boy is gentle, barely touching your skin as he applies the plaster and once he’s done, he straightens, looking down at you with sparkling, shiny eyes.

The first thing you notice about him other than his height and the low register of voice is actually his eyes, how pretty and expressive they are. The second thing is the way the wind blows his longer, almond colored fringe into his eyes. Your fingers twitch to brush it away just to find out if they are as soft as they look.

Then you realize that you’re staring, so you quickly look away, down at your feet that now has a cute seahorse patterned plaster on it.

“Thanks,” you mutter, a bit dumbfounded but amused at the same time. “Do you just carry around plasters everywhere?” You blurt out the first thing that comes to your mind as you lower your leg, still feeling a bit sensitive but much better.

“I can be a bit clumsy at times. And too curious for my own good or so I have been told,” the boy shrugs with a sheepish smile on his face. “I’m Leehan by the way.”

“I’m…”

“Y/N-ah! There you are,” your grandmother’s voice cuts off your introduction and like a kid caught doing something you shouldn’t have, you take a step backwards, away from the boy, on instinct.

“I have to go,” you look at the stranger, Leehan, one last time apologetically. “Thanks again.”

“Take care,” the boy smiles warmly and waves, the movement cute just like the animal print plaster he had on him.

You limp all the way towards your grandma who stands there with her hands on her hips, ready to scold but you hush her and tell her it’s nothing serious, that you are okay. Still you listen to her tsk-ing and nagging as you walk back inside the house but once she seems to run out of everything she could have said about it, she changes the topic swiftly.

“You barely got here and you are already snatching boys?”

“If by snatching you mean embarrassing myself in front of them, then sure,” you try to softly tone down your grandma’s enthusiasm but she keeps chattering despite the sarcasm in your answer.

“Leehan is a sweet boy, always helping when he sees me with lots of groceries. He lives in the neighborhood with his family and I think he graduated high school last year, so you must be the same age.”

You hate how hopeful she sounds because you didn’t come here to befriend people. When you called asking if you could spend the summer here like you used to, except this time you would help them out, your grandma was happy to take you in but worried too that you would be lonely or bored alone with ‘only them old folks’ but honestly, you craved a little peace and alone time. That’s why you needed to get out of Seoul too, away from its people. From all its memories.

So you just make a noncommittal hum and escape to the kitchen to help your grandpa with the scallion pancakes for dinner.

“What’s your grandmother fussing about?” He asks, pushing the glasses further up his nose.

“Nothing, I just stepped on a broken shell,” you shrug and get three plates from the shelves and kimchi from the fridge.

“Typical. I heard about it for weeks when I accidentally cut my finger one time,” he recited and you smiled, feeling loved and cared for. At home.

The market is stuffy, different smells of sea animals, fried food, fresh fruit and detergent mixing with the sounds of vendors arguing and negotiating over the static sound of music coming from an old radio. It’s busy but different type of busy compared to the crowded metro coaches. It’s lively here and while you had studied your ass off for the promise of a future corporate job, here you are packaging tteokbokki for takeaway, always adding extra because that’s a given for regulars. Not that you think it’s below you, you love the food stall aunties and uncles very much, but you would have never imagined yourself sweating next to a spicy boiling broth in the heat of summer. Maybe it had something to do with the way your mother talked about her parents’ job so derogatorily, always telling you that you’re only somebody if you’re well educated and a career woman. Maybe that’s why she was so against you coming here. Because it was a place she had run  away from.

You’re in the middle of chopping scallions in the back when you hear a cheerful call of Ahjumma! and your grandma perks up more than usual.

“Leehan-ah, are you going down to the beach?” She asks and you feel the back of your neck heat up but you blame it on the Sun. It has been days since the shell incident but the embarrassment still creeps on you. You hope the boy won’t notice you or at least not say anything about it.

“Later. First I have some errands to run,” Leehan says and your granny coos, probably patting his cheek too, calling him a good boy. Then casually while she is stirring the tteok in the pot, she suddenly changes the topic.

“If you have some free time, could you show our Y/N around? She doesn't really go out on her own.”

“Grandma!” You turn around, sulky at the callout. A mistake because you can clearly see the boy failing to hide his amused smile.

“Sure. If she can keep up,” he raises a brow elegantly at you which immediately makes you defensive.

“Are you calling me short?” You straighten up without meaning to because come on, you aren’t that much shorter!

“I’m asking if your foot is alright.” Leehan corrects your assumption with a know-it-all smile plastered on his face but he still manages to pull it off in a genuine way with a hint of worry. It makes you feel flustered for a moment.

“Oh, yeah, it’s fine,” you clear your throat and clean your hands in a rag cloth nearby.

“I’m just going to the post office, I’m free after that,” the boy says, looking straight at you from under his longer fringe, over your grandma’s shoulder.

“Great. Go have fun!” The old lady exclaims, turning and walking up to you, untying your apron faster than you would expect from somebody her age.

“Grandma, I’m not leaving you alone,” you protest but it’s no use. She tsks and shakes her head as if she couldn’t believe what she’s hearing.

“Please, we were doing fine before too. I can just get your grandpa to stop playing mahjong with the neighbors if more people come,” she brushes off your worries easily and basically pushes you out of the food stall’s kitchen area. You’re just about to complain about your bag when she shoves it towards your chest and all you can do is stare at her, shocked but you can’t really say anything when she smiles so sweetly and wishes that you have a good time.

Eventually, you’re the one to give up. It’s not like you could make her let you work against her wishes and she seems very keen on making sure that you go out and get friends while you’re here. It was difficult to convince her to let you help out at the shop at all to pay back in a way for their hospitality no matter how much they told you that they would be happy just to have you over the summer.

It’s only when you’re a little further as you follow Leehan through the market, when you speak up.

“You know, you don’t have to do what my grandmother asks you. I can be on my own just fine,” you mutter, not wanting him to think you’re some child that needs a babysitter. Just because you like to stay in your room, it doesn’t mean you would get lost if you set a foot outside.

“I’m sure, don’t worry. But it’s no bother. I like to be an advocate for the city,” the boy grins at you and as if on cue, an auntie greets him and insists on giving him a bag of peaches. Leehan asks about her grandchildren and compliments her harvest. He charms everybody effortlessly, a real sweet talker but he doesn’t seem fake about it at all and it’s kind of lovely, just like his fish themed plasters.

With people constantly greeting him, it takes way longer to get to the post office than it should have but at least you can laugh when he loses paper, rock, scissors against a nine year old kid and is bullied into trying something really spicy. You try to hide your smile while the little kid is unabashed about his reaction when Leehan grimaces at the hot spices, finding his disgusted nose scrunch hilarious. In apology, you buy him iced green tea at the next stall you see and he smiles at you brightly like the Sun.

Once Leehan is done at the post office, you expect it to get awkward but it’s him who breaks the silence as you stand in the shade, sweat dripping down your back in the moonsoon season’s humidity.

“So… you’re here for the summer?”

“Hm. I missed the sea,” you hum quietly, keeping your eyes on the bright horizon and the shimmering line of water in the distance.

It isn’t entirely a lie but not the whole truth either. Being so burned out after high school that you got a panic attack at the thought of going to university, so you had to postpone a semester and the disappointment it caused to your parents certainly isn’t something you want to dump on a practically stranger. But even if Leehan has a feeling that you’re not 100% sincere, he doesn’t push, which is something you appreciate.

“Well, then you came to the right place. Not to be biased but Busan has the prettiest beaches.”

“Prettier than Jeju?” You tease just for the sake of it and it makes the boy chuckle.

“Of course! Come on, I will show you my favorite place,” he tilts his head, a clear invitation and you give in because you don’t have anything better to do anyway.

The Sun is still high up on the sky, white clouds clear against the blue of it. You’re fanning yourself but it doesn’t help much. Leehan however doesn’t seem bothered by the heat, so you find yourself asking:

“Did you grow up here?”

“Born and raised,” he nods with a proud smile which isn’t that surprising because he has that more laidback way of talking that locals around here have. At least he’s not talking as fast as the neighbor ahjussi whom you have trouble understanding. “You have a Seoul dialect though.”

“That’s the standard way of speaking, just saying,” you roll your eyes at him calling the way you speak a dialect which makes him laugh. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

It’s silly arguing over something like this but it’s actually fun, you find yourself smiling without meaning to. Something that has come harder lately. So you end up answering the boy’s unasked question about your upbringing. You tell him about growing up among metal skyscrapers, the Han River and Seoul Forest being your escape, only spending your summers in Busan, your mother’s hometown until you were fourteen. Leehan listens and asks random questions like whether you have ever been to the COEX Aquarium or if you ever wanted to be a mermaid as a little girl. It’s surprisingly easy to talk with him, to open up. Maybe it’s because you know he doesn’t know you well enough to judge or even if he did, it doesn’t matter much because you would leave at the end of the summer anyways.

In the meantime you reach the sea and walk along the shore farther from the crowded beach and bay areas. When you come across a bunch of larger rocks, Leehan climbs onto the top easily and holds out a hand for you to help you up too. Tentatively but you take up on his offer and let him pull you up on the slightly slippery rock. He doesn’t let go until you land on stable ground on the other side. There are smaller rocks and pebble stones splattered across the sand there stretching from the clean turquoise blue waters to a cave overshadowed by greenery. It’s beautiful and you can’t believe you’re the only ones here.

“How did you find this place?” You ask in awe, wandering farther ahead. Even the sand is cooler here from the trees’ shade.

“Honestly, I don’t go out a lot either. I just like to go down to the beach and be, you know. So I have been looking for a place where I can chill and well, I had years,” the boy says with a hidden smile in the corner of his mouth as your grandmother’s words about your hermit behavior echoes in your ears.

Of course, you know that she means well and that she’s a social butterfly, so it’s weird for her that you are not that outgoing at your age. Or maybe she has heard from your mother of those weeks where you refused to leave your room let alone the house. Things had been bad then, now you’re getting better. You have come all the way to Busan after all. Was it to run away from your problems? Maybe, but also you hoped that not being in an environment that reminded you of your failures would help.

“Do you always bring girls here?” You ask, more playful than anything as you balance between two rocks, looking back at Leehan over your shoulder. You can hear him snort and catch the way he scratches the back of his neck.

“Not really,” he admits sheepishly. “Just the special ones,” he adds with a mischievous smirk on his face. Tsk, what a flirt, you shake your head in disbelief but amused.

“Aren’t you afraid that I will ruin your chill time here?” You ask as you settle onto a place in the shades, closing your eyes as you enjoy the cool breeze against your sweaty shoulders.

“Not really,” comes the answer closer than you expected as Leehan settles on the ground not far from you. You squint your eyes open to see his expression but he’s only looking at the sea fondly.

You don’t talk much afterwards, just sharing bits and bobs of your lives, little anecdotes. Leehan eventually offers to walk you home when it gets close to dinner time. You could easily find your way with Naver Maps but you let him anyway and try to keep up with his recommendations of Busan places to check out; you probably forget half of them though. You don’t exchange contacts, it somehow doesn’t even occur to you because you’re pretty sure you will run into each other one way or another. It’s all nice and cozy. Something you could get used to.

Even though you expected to meet Leehan, you didn’t think it would be so soon. But trust your grandma to play the matchmaker despite your firm reminder that you didn’t come to stay with them over the summer to get a boyfriend.

Still, you should have known better when you agreed to get cat food at the local pet store in lieu of one of your grandmother’s friends. You feared she would have gone herself and carried it all if you weren’t going and at that point you were just happy if she let you do anything yourself because you felt like a spoiled guest at her house. But of course, she had ulterior motives, you realize when behind the store’s counter, there’s none other than Leehan with his pretty smile and soft-looking hair.

“Are you stalking me?” He grins when he spots you after the jingling sound of the door chime signals your arrival, one side of his mouth curling more upwards then the other, the asymmetry of it making him even more handsome.

“Blame my grandma. She sent me here on an errand.”

You are quick to give him your excuse but it only makes the boy pout slightly and you can’t tell whether he’s faking it or he’s actually disappointed.

“I thought you missed my wonderful company,” he puts a hand over his heart and ah, that’s definitely over exaggerated.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” you deadpan as you walk up to the counter and pull out your phone to get the list of things you should buy.

You show the pet food brands and quantities to the boy and while he’s off to get them from the back, you look around in the shop. There are all sorts of cat and dog supplies but further in the back you see tanks and you swear you see movement in some, so your curiosity brings the worst out of you and you wander closer, smiling upon seeing the blue and golden fish in various prettily decorated glass boxes. You’re so busy looking inside the tanks that you get startled when Leehan speaks up from behind you.

“Do you like fish?”

“Oh… actually, I have wanted a fish tank at home ever since I saw Romeo + Juliet,” you admit as you turn to face the boy. He furrows his brows in confusion and you somehow feel urged to explain it in more detail. “It’s an adaptation from the 90s. In this version, Romeo and Juliet saw each other first through a fish tank at the ball. I just thought it’s… romantic,” you cut yourself off when you realise your’re rambling about embarrassing girly things and clear your throat. “Anyways, my parents obviously didn’t let me have one.”

“That’s cute,” Leehan says, his smile half-teasing, half-sincere and you feel heat coloring your cheeks. How can he just say things like that? “I have one at home.”

He adds casually but you immediately perk up.

“Really? Do you have pictures of it?” You can’t help but inquire and luckily the boy doesn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, he seems pretty excited that he’s able to talk about his fish. He keeps showing you pictures of different states of the fish tank and what kind of fish he had before and what else he wants to get one day. He also tells you that this is his go-to place when it comes to buying fish supplies and it’s pretty cool that the owner lets him work here part-time over the summer. You are so distracted that the next customer has to come to the back looking for the cashier which is a bit awkward but you both laugh about it.

You shuffle around in the back while the customer gets the new leash for his dog and when he leaves, you go to the checkout counter too to pay for the cat food. You already stayed longer than you intended to do, so you do a little ‘hwaiting’ gesture at Leehan as a goodbye but his words stop you before you could leave.

“Would you like to go to the aquarium this weekend?” He asks and you swear you can hear the nervousness in his tone despite the smooth, casual delivery or his confident front.

“Sure, why not?” You try to play it cool too and eventually you agree to meet in front of the place on Saturday, so you leave the pet shop not only with cat food but weekend plans too and a smile on your face.

It’s an understatement to say that your grandma is over the moon when you tell them that you will be out Saturday because you made plans with Leehan. Your grandpa asks though if he needs to talk with ‘this young man about his intentions’ and you protest vehemently. It’s not even a date after all, because it isn’t, right? You’re just hanging out. Your granny waves her hand and chuckles at the interaction.

“Let them be. We were young once too,” she says in that voice she always has when she gets nostalgic. You listen to her stories about her youth even if you have heard them dozens of times before because your grandma had such an eventful life. No wonder she always encourages you to ‘live a little’ and follow your heart. That’s how you don’t regret life looking back, she says.

So that’s what you are doing when Saturday comes and you get ready to go out. The loose-fitting white dress feels light against your skin and with a sudden wave of enthusiasm, you reach for your barely used eyeshadow palette. Today you feel like doing something special, like putting on silver, glittery makeup. You feel good when you look into the mirror but then you start second guessing it. Isn’t it too much for a simple hangout?

Too late, you realize because you’re already short on time to make it to the aquarium by the agreed time, so you brush off your worries. By some miracle you manage to catch the bus, trying not to think about your outfit or makeup being too much, too… date-y.

When you arrive at the entrance, Leehan is already there, his tall figure striking even from a distance, especially in the jeans and tucked-in, light blue shirt combo he wears. He stands by one of the pillars, scrolling through his phone but pockets it right away when he sees you.

“Hey… You look pretty,” he blurts out, faint rosiness coloring his cheeks and it makes you feel shy too. Your previous thoughts about taking this dressing up too far cease to exist.

“Thanks. You look good too,” you say because it’s true, but he always looks nice. Even in the bermuda shorts he wears to the beach or the pet store uniform t-shirt. Maybe it’s because of his slender figure or his prince-like features or just overall the casual confidence he holds himself with.

“Thanks,” Leehan mutters and looks away. It’s quite a different reaction from what he shows when ahjummas on the market pinch his cheeks and call him handsome. “Let’s go in.”

Inside it’s like a hidden Atlantis. You are surrounded by lovey-dovey couples walking hand-in-hand and families with kids running around. The blue hue of water is casted over everything and Leehan’s eyes sparkle in the dim light as he tells you about things he learned from documentaries about the deep sea or at university. It turns out he’s studying oceanology at Korean Maritime and Ocean University there in Busan which is pretty cool, something that suits him. When he asks about your side, unknowing to the turmoil inside you when it comes to your studies, you don’t tell him about the stress you have been under just to get into a SKY university. You don’t tell him about your messed up sleeping and eating schedules, the IV drops at hospitals, the anxiety and panic attacks nor the result of it all. You just shrug and tell him that you got into a good uni with a business management major, but it’s not really what you want to do. He doesn’t ask why you did it then or why you don’t change it. Instead he looks at you with a smile under the penguins’ majestic aquarium and asks:

“If nothing else mattered, what would you want to do then?”

You give it a thought because you didn’t quite have the luxury to think about what you really wanted before. It was always about what your parents wanted you to do. Until you decided to pack your things and come down to this beach town.

“Staying here forever,” you eventually respond and it sounds like an exaggeration, so you chuckle to soften the confession’s rough edges. Even if Leehan doesn’t know you well enough (yet) to understand the longing in those words, your yearning for the taste of freedom and the warmth of a home where you are waited for,che seems to understand. He just smiles wider and proceeds to tell about the crazy lifespan of some turtle species. It’s good, your tensed shoulders relax again as you follow him to the next section.

After you have thoroughly seen everything at the aquarium, you find a place nearby to eat at, then walk down the closeby popular Haeundae beach. It’s not as pretty as the one next to the lagoon Leehan showed you the other day and there are more people here than you would have preferred but it’s okay. You never seem to run out of topics, lighthearted ones, yet even silence is comfortable with Leehan.

“See you tomorrow at the beach?” You ask in lieu of saying goodbye on your way back. Your fingers are intertwined behind your back just to do something with them because they are sweaty and soiled with sand from the impromptu sand castle building you came up with under the last unforgiving rays of the Sun.

“Don’t miss me too much until then,” Leehan says with a corny smile playing on his lips instead of saying yes but you just laugh and let him be.

You ignore your grandma’s knowing glare from the living room as you run up the stairs two at a time, your white dress floating behind you like flower petals in the wind.

On Sunday you meet on the beach and stay out until the Sun disappears behind the horizon. Next week you help Leehan choose a new decoration for his fish tank and spend two hours in the pet store listening to him talk about the difference between algae types and the importance of filters and sub-filters. On Friday your grandparents are at the hospital for their usual check up, so you’re on your own in the food stall. Leehan comes around to keep you entertained but he ends up helping out when a bigger group appears. Sweet of him but you find out the hard way that he has shitty sense when it comes to spice, especially salt, measurements.

The week after, you run into each other in your local Olive Young while you’re getting a new nail polish color and he has a bottle of shampoo in his basket. You end up leaving with a new glittery eyeshadow palette too because the boy drops a comment that it would look pretty on you. You put it on together with the baby pink nail polish you just bought when you go to the outdoor screening of a Korean classic on the beach. Under fairy lights and the fluorescent reflections of the movie in Leehan’s sparkling eyes, you feel a rush of something selfish, a longing so deep it cuts and you have to look away before it becomes obvious.

You don’t talk about it, whether these are dates or not. Because talking about it would make it real. It would make it scary, because then you would have something to lose when the summer ends. It’s fragile but it’s yours and it’s enough, you tell yourself.

One of these days it rains. The kind of sudden summer downpour that feels way too nice on your heated skin in the humid, hot weather. It catches you in the middle of eating ice cream with Leehan and you can’t help but yelp when the first cold raindrops touch your bare shoulder. You both get up quickly and run for cover ice cream long forgotten but the rain just pours and pours and both of you are drenched by the time you reach the nearby cave.

You look up at Leehan from under your wet eyelashes, shivering slightly and burst out laughing at the sight of his hair sticking to his face weirdly like a soaked puppy. You know you don’t look any better because you feel your hair weight over your shoulders like a rag. You try your best to tie it up, out of your eyes but Leehan is still staring.

“What?” You ask, self-conscious and shy under his intense stare. Then you are holding your breath because the boy lifts his right hand and touches your face. His touch burns and leaves goosebumps in its wake as he brushes another lock of hair behind your ear.

The rain is loud around you but it all sounds saturated right there, at the entrance of the small cave just by the beach. You tremble, not from the cold but something akin to anticipation.

Leehan’s gaze meets your eyes. There’s softness and wonder in the depth of his brown orbs. You take a shaky breath as he runs his fingers down the expanse of your bare arm until he finds your hand and then he chuckles and pulls you out into the pouring rain.

“Yah!” You scream at him but you laugh too, a childish feeling bubbling up in your chest.

You chase each other around on the beach. The sand is wet under your feet and the sea is cold when you end up knees deep, splashing water at each other as if you could be even more soaked. Your laughters echo in the cave and you feel the most alive in a while.

You still laugh about it when the next day you wake up with a cold and sore throat.

The push and pull between you is like the waves washing up the shore. There has to be a breaking point when it spills over. It happens in Leehan’s room when he finally shows you his fish family in person after chatting your ears off about them. The tank is bigger than you expected and it’s really nicely decorated, it’s clear that the boy put a lot of effort into it and you appreciate all the details. You’re too busy watching in awe as the tetras and shrimps swim around to notice the boy on the other side of the water wall until you catch his eyes on you. You blink in surprise and think that it’s unfair how handsome he looks even through two layers of glass and filtered water. Bashful, you straighten up at once and Leehan does the same on the other side.

“Was it like this? In the movie?” He asks, curiosity coloring his deep voice and your breath hitches because he remembers! It was something small you mentioned to him the second time you met and yet, he didn’t forget.

“Something like this,” you nod, still bewildered and breathing shallowly as the boy edges closer, leaning over the fish tank.

“What happens after?” Leehan’s voice is barely above a whisper as his gaze searches your face. Your fingers tremble, so you press them against the countertop for balance.

“Why do I have a feeling that you know?” You lower your voice too as if it was a secret and the thought of him looking up the movie just because you told him about it makes you feel mushy inside.

Leehan giggles and it's music to your ears, a beautiful sound. 

Your eyes flutter closed when his lips graze against yours. It’s chaste and clumsy but his kiss tastes sweet like cherry lip balm and summer. You never want to forget this feeling.

What starts with a kiss between four walls ends up spilling all over the pages of your summer. It’s in the way you share looks and secret smiles over your grandmother’s shoulder, the way he holds your hand as you walk down the beach or the way every accidental touch sets your skin on fire. The way you talk on the phone until late on days when you can’t meet or how he notices the faintest burn mark on your fingertip from cooking and presses a kiss on it to ‘help it heal’. It's shared packs of gummies, sea-washed hearts drawn into sand, blush on cheeks and a secret held close to your heart. You still don’t talk about the future, about what it means even though you know you should. You should tell Leehan that it’s bound to end in heartbreak because you will leave eventually but for once you let yourself be selfish and pretend that you have all the time in the world. Or at least pretend that you have him.

It’s been almost two months since you have been in Busan and you have felt better than ever. No pressure on your chest anymore when you wake up, no breaking out in sweat when you see the calendar counting down days, no lack of motivation to go outside. However, one thing is enough to crash it all down. One simple thing.

You stare at your ringing, buzzing phone as if you could will it to stop just by looking at it hard enough. Your mother’s name on the screen is enough to make your stomach twist uncomfortably and you bite into your inside cheek so hard you taste iron as you swipe the call towards the green direction.

“Y/N,” your mother calls your name like a greeting. You hold your breath back, wondering if she will tell you that they missed you since you haven’t talked with them since you have left but you should have known not to get your hopes up.

“Did you decide on the next semester?” She asks, straight to the point as if that’s the only thing they care about. Maybe it is.

“No,” you mumble and you want to make yourself smaller when you hear your mother’s disappointed sigh. It’s bringing back ugly memories. The realization that their love is conditional hits you hard again.

“When are you coming back then? It’s been enough of a vacation already,” she says dismissively and you know too well that she doesn’t ask because she wants you back out of caring but because then she would have more leverage over you.

“I’m staying for the rest of summer,” you force yourself to remind her because no matter how guilty and ungrateful she makes you feel, you remember how hard it was to leave, to go against her in the first place, so you don’t want to go back, not until you are sure she cannot emotionally manipulate you into doing something you don’t want.

“What a waste of time. You should at least sign up for a language course–”

“I have to go. Sorry,” you hang up the call and only when you drop the phone onto the bed’s mattress you realize that you’re trembling. It’s when the tears are starting to sting your eyes. Your phone rings again, your mother’s contact haunting you like a ghost, so you switch the phone off entirely. You refuse to cry but the ugly sobs bubble up nevertheless and it’s all coming back.

It’s day three of shutting yourself in your room and not talking with everybody. You feel useless and stuck, just like the disappointment your mother thinks you are. When there’s a knock on your door, you think it’s your grandmother coming for the breakfast tray, so unsuspecting, you open it. You immediately wish you didn’t because in front of you stands Leehan with worry clear on his face. Or is it pity? In this mindset, it’s hard to tell.

“Your grandmother let me in. I couldn’t reach you,” The boy rushes to speak up, his voice stained with something heavy. “Are you… What’s wrong?” He corrects himself probably realizing that asking if you are okay would be a stupid question when you clearly aren’t.

“You should leave,” you croak out, your voice hoarse from disuse.

“Y/N, don’t,” Leehan pleads with sad eyes that beg to don’t push me away, don’t shut me out but you’re too used to dealing with things alone. “You don’t have to tell me but let me be here for you.”

It’s the gentleness in his request that makes you stall. He doesn’t force you to do anything, he just asks like he wants to be there. Like he doesn’t care that you look shitty and ignored him for days. You don’t deserve his kindness.

“Let me shower first,” you look away before opening your door wider to your curtained and stuffy room.

You open the window and grab some homey clothes from the gardrobe because you don’t want to stay in your pajamas next to the boy. Then you close yourself inside the bathroom, taking a too cold shower but by the end of it you actually feel a bit more like yourself. You walk back to your room in the new, clean clothes and wet hair, not ready to look Leehan in the eye, so you’re relieved when he doesn’t make you do that either. He just gently takes the towel from your hands and sits down behind you on the bed, massaging the soft material into your head. You let out a little choked up sound at the feeling of being cared for. You close your eyes to will yourself not to cry and Leehan doesn’t say anything, he just keeps drying your hair gently.

“My mother called,” you speak up after what feels like forever and yet not long enough. The boy hums quietly, showing that he’s listening but he lets you go on at your own pace. So you tell him about the pressure to do well at the CSAT exams and to get into a SKY uni, about falling out with your best friend because of competitive studying, about starting to hate it and how it ruined your relationship with your parents.

You speak and Leehan listens, then when there are no words and your heart feels like an empty shell, he holds you close. It feels like he holds all your broken, ugly pieces together.

It doesn’t happen from one day to another but things get better. You get better again. It’s the kind of progress that you have to do yourself but having your supportive grandparents and Leehan by your side definitely helps.

The boy comes over often in the beginning because you don’t yet feel like going out and being seen by people. Your grandfather mentions something about keeping your door open at all times but after realizing that all you do is watching documentaries on your laptop, reading books with your head in Leehan’s lap while he is on his phone or braiding each others’ hair, he doesn’t say anything anymore.

It takes a while to gather courage to tell everything to your grandparents too because it’s one thing opening up to Leehan but it’s about their daughter and you’re afraid that despite letting you stay here and not caring much about your education, they would take your mother’s side. Luckily, they understand.

“You could stay, you know. Your grandfather and I would be happy to have you here,” your granny reassures you with a hand on yours, soothing.

“It’s not that simple,” you let out a quiet sob because which ungrateful child doesn’t do what their parents want after the fortune they had spent on her education? It’s just university, you can bear it for a few years, says the little voice in your head, even if you hate it, even if your perfectionist tendencies will ruin the experience for you.

“It can be that simple. I will talk with your mother,” your grandpa exclaims and you know he would do so if you don’t stop him.

“Please don’t. It’s something I have to do myself,” you say because you can’t let others fight your battles for you, because it’s a step you need to take for the freedom you crave.

It’s scary still, preparing to tell your parents something you know they won’t like nor will they hesitate to try and change your mind. 

Leehan squeezes your hand before leaving you alone to make the phone call. He doesn’t go far, you know that the farthest is the kitchen where your grandma will convince him to taste her cooking. You pace around in the room, giving yourself a pep talk, rehearsing your prepared speech a few times before hitting the call button.

It takes three rings for your mother to answer. Her voice is leveled and disinterested when she asks how you are. She doesn’t care, she only cares about what people will say about her if their A+ student daughter won’t go to university. But you won’t take her burdens on your shoulders anymore.

“I decided. I won’t start uni next semester. In fact, I will drop out,” you blurt out as quickly as possible, like ripping off a bandaid. You don’t let your voice waver no matter how nervous you feel. “Maybe one day I will attend a university but if I do, I will study something I would like to, something I'm actually interested in, not business,” you continue before your mother could interrupt you. “Thank you for supporting me through school but I’m old enough now to make my decisions, so I would rather pay you back for all that.”

Your parents are stunned to say the least. There comes a nicely wrapped threat about ‘their house, their rules’ but when that doesn’t work, they try to negotiate. They tell you that you will regret it, to think of all your wasted efforts and how lucky you are, then they want to talk in person. You say it wouldn’t change anything and telling them actually feels like a huge rock being lifted off your chest and you can finally breathe.

It becomes easier after that. The countdown stops and you can sleep properly. Summer ends and you start packing your bag. Going back to Seoul doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

You ask Leehan to meet you at the beach, your usual place, because he deserves to know. He brings fruits and jellies, an entire picnic. Your heart aches because he doesn’t know it’s goodbye. Or maybe he has a feeling since he has always had good intuitions and because this idyll was never meant to last longer than summer.

You eat and you talk while watching the waves and the clouds chase each other. Leehan tells you about the classes he has in the upcoming semester and his fish family updates. You tell him the latest anecdote about your grandparents because the atmosphere is too good to bring up you leaving so soon.

You watch the sunset together with his head on your thigh and your fingers raking through his soft hair, grazing across his reddened ears and the earring he wears. He’s illuminated by the oranges and goldens of the dying Sun and your heart shatters at the sight. He is so beautiful and you want to remember this moment forever.

When darkness settles, you take out sparklers, set them in the sand and cuddle until the last speck of light burns out, until you can see the constellations you cannot name clearly in the night sky.

“I go back to Seoul next week,” you whisper as you lie on the picnic blanket and watch the stars together. Leehan doesn’t say anything immediately and you don’t dare to turn to him. Not before you tell him why. “We will go to family therapy. It was mom’s idea but maybe it will do us good. I owe them at least this. They are trying.”

They might not be the best parents but you know that they mean well in their own way even if it’s not something you want. It’s already a big thing that they also realized that you need help to mend family ties. But that’s not the only reason why you’re leaving.

“I also need to figure out what I want to do for myself and not for others,” you admit in a small voice, barely audible.

You spent your teens working towards a goal your parents set for you and it made you miserable. You’re afraid of it happening again and that’s why you can’t stay in Busan no matter how at home you feel here. Because you know this is what your grandparents would want, because Leehan is here and it scares you that one day you will blame them for staying because you are too weak to make your own choices. So you need to decide on your own. You need to be sure you aren’t just running away from your problems.

Moments pass and the boy’s silence is unnerving. You wonder if he’s angry or if he’s sad. If anybody, you would think he understands but you cannot be sure and it’s killing you. When you turn to him, he moves too and suddenly you’re paper thin distance apart. When he pulls you against his chest, you can feel the rapid rhythm of his heart. When he speaks up, his melodic voice is shaky with unsaid emotions.

“I hope you can find what makes you happy,” he says as he strokes your back gently and it’s an i will miss you, i get it, i wish you the best all in one and tears pool up in your eyes, feeling touched and understood. You nuzzle closer, taking a deep breath full of Leehan’s signature scent of sea salt and sand and something sweet.

“I will miss you,” you whisper under the stars and they witness it as the closest thing you can manage to the confession you can’t say out loud. But it’s in your heartbeat and all your memories.

You and Leehan had all summer and it was golden. It was love even if you never said it out loud.

3 MONTHS LATER

Winter in Busan is kinder. It’s still cutting cold but not unforgiving like in Seoul. It's a roasted sweet potato smell and a stranger helping you with your big suitcase as you get off the train. One of the stores plays Christmas music while you are checking your phone to see if your driver has already arrived.

“Y/N!” A familiar voice calls for you and a smile blooms on your face, whipping your head towards the source of it. There he is in all his beauty, a fluffy scarf around his neck, a beanie on top of his head and his nose red.

You want to rush up to him but your suitcase is heavy and its wheel gets trapped in something, so you manage to trip and lose your balance. Luckily, Leehan is there to catch you and it’s déja vu, a reminder from the summer when you held onto him, another beginning.

“Careful,” the boy warns you with a chuckle as he lets go and looks down at you with a tender smile. You mimic his reaction, your heart getting wild in your chest that you finally see him again. “You are smiling. It’s pretty,” Leehan says in awe and you beam at him wider.

“I’m happy,” you tell him, honestly because he’s part of the reason why.

A lot has happened in the last three months since you left Busan. Family therapy wasn’t a piece of cake because admitting mistakes wasn’t your parents’ forte but it did help to salvage your relationship as a family. They stopped pushing you to choose a higher education and let you make your decisions yourself. First of those was to start tutoring high schoolers who wanted to get into a SKY university like you did. Even though you didn’t actually attend one, the admission letter was proof enough for many people and you realized you liked helping others. You also developed a teaching style that’s more compliment and reward-based than the strict hakwon style. Out of all subjects, you enjoyed teaching English the most, so when you not so accidentally came across an opening position in a language center in Busan, you applied right away.

The truth is you missed Busan. The freedom, the independence, the happiness you found here. And you missed your grandparents and Leehan the most. This time it’s not just a hideout where you come running away from your issues. This time, you come because you want to be here. It’s a home to return to.

Leehan takes your suitcase from you and walks you to the parking lot to his dad’s car. He got his license this fall for which you cheered him on all the way via texts the same way as he supported your teaching journey. You listen to the cheerful songs on the radio as he drives you to your grandparents’ house while talking about the train ride as if you haven’t been texting throughout it. It’s almost like nothing changed and yet, everything did.

“Leehan-ah,” your grandmother coos when you arrive, welcoming the boy with a warm hug.

“Hey,” you pout pseudo-sulky because shouldn’t she greet you first? Her one and only granddaughter? She should take notes from your grandpa.

“Don’t be jealous, sweetheart,” your grandma singsongs before wrapping you in her embrace too, all warm and loving. Immediately after she starts listing down your favorites that she has been cooking since morning but you shush her because you should at least pack your stuff in your room. Leehan offers to help with your luggage and the two of you go up the stairs while you hear your grandparents ‘whisper’ about when to bring out the cake. It makes you chuckle. It makes you happy.

“Actually, I bought you something, too,” Leehan speaks up, his ears as red as his nose but you aren’t sure it’s from the cold outside.

“Oh, what is it?” You ask, surprised but curious and when he nods towards your room’s door. You give him a quizzical look before pushing down the handle.

At first nothing stands out, it’s almost like how you left it months ago but then in a flash of gold you notice one striking difference. There it is, unmistakable, a fish bowl with a single goldfish and some rocks and coral decoration in it on your desk.

“It’s not exactly a fish tank you must have wanted but it’s better to start small,” Leehan explains with a smile in the corner of his mouth and you realize once again just how much he sees and understands you, he always has.

“Thank you! I love it so much!” You exclaim, throwing your arms around the boy, giggling into his chest.

You fussing over your new pet fish is interrupted by your grandma inviting you down for lunch and suddenly it’s like nothing has changed since summer. Leehan is welcomed at your table as if it’s the most natural thing and your grandpa is still teasing your grandma about making way too much food. They keep asking you about your job too as if you knew anything more than what you told them on the phone.

After lunch, you help clean the table while your grandpa keeps Leehan busy by asking him about something he saw on the internet. When your grandma sees you stealing glances, she nudges you in the side and tells you to walk him out with a knowing look which makes you roll your eyes as if you didn’t yearn for more alone time with the boy.

So here you are right at the gate, knowing full well that your grandparents are watching through the window, fidgeting with your scarf, not knowing how to say goodbye even though you will probably see him tomorrow after work. Eventually it’s Leehan who speaks up.

“Y/N,” he calls your name and it sounds so sweet from his mouth, you feel degrees warmer in the cold of winter.

“Hm?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to call your name. I still can’t believe you’re here,” the boy chuckles sheepishly and you realize it’s not only you who’s nervous. But maybe there’s no reason to. Now you know what you want.

“I’m here and I’m staying,” you promise and when Leehan smiles, the mole on his left cheek moves upwards and you tiptoe to peck him right on it. He has a hand on your arm as you descend down flat to your feet and his gaze is stuck on you. You’re mesmerized as you watch all his moles and acne spots and his boyish beauty that makes your heart flutter. You stand so close that you can see the snowflakes melting over his eyelashes and that’s when you notice it.

“Oh, look, it’s snowing!” You squeal with childlike wonder as you look up at the sky and try to catch the floating snowflakes on your palm.

Leehan hums quietly but his voice is playful when he asks:

“Do you know what they say about the first snow?”

You blink at his sudden question, cheeks growing pink and hot as the boy leans closer.

“You’re as smooth as ever,” you mumble, shy, because of course you know the saying about couples’ love being long-lasting if they witness the first snow together.

Your first kiss tasted sweet like cherry jellies but this one tastes like forever locked in a touch. You had the summer together but now you have all the seasons ahead of you and you can’t wait to walk them through together with Leehan.

[peyton-warren]

Okay sorry last one!

Sy knows that you’ve been ignoring your health. (Brushing teeth, showering, eating properly, sleeping properly) but he’s been pleasing you every chance the two of you get.

Could be because you’re with him or you just have been busy, but you get a toothache and he takes you to the base dentist or a regular dentist. It’s something simple like just a stuck popcorn shell or something like that. Or maybe you pass out. Idk 🤷🏼‍♀️

He decides that if you want to cum again, you have to take better care of yourself. No grinding either. Every time you do, you suck him off while he teases you. Until you take better care of yourself. No orgasms

I might have taken this one a little off the track you set but we got back on it by the end. There is no smut there is a hell of suggestion at the end. I hope this is ok. And its a weeee bit longer than a drabble. Wrote this all by hand in the woods thanks for the prompt that resonated so much with me.

Characters: Gender Neutral reader, Captain Syverson Pairings: Sy x Reader Fandoms: Sandcastle, Henry Cavill characters Word count: 4111 Type: angst, suggestive Warning: 18+. Warnings: blood, Reader injured, discussion of domestic abuse, self depreciation, discussion of mental illness, daddy kink, potential eating disorder, tiny Daddy kink

Summary: Reader has to be taken to the hospital by their new-ish boyfriend Sy. Sy learns some things about his partner that has Reader worried about their future together.

Author's Note: I have no idea how a real ER works, nor proper medical procedures nor hospital policies.  I manipulated them for my own gain here.  Nor do I fully understand how blood sugars work or what the tests doctors use tell them about your eating habits.  Don't come after me if you know how they actually do work. Also thank you to @ellethespaceunicorn for the beta.

Ask Box: Open Masterlist

Banner by me with an assist by @ellethespaceunicorn Dividers by @cafekitsune

Dazed, you blinked your tired eyes open.  

“There they are,” Sy cooed softly, crouching next to you.  

You blinked again, trying to focus.  

He was next to you on his kitchen floor.  You stared up into the concerned blue eyes above you.

Oh right date night.  You two had been cooking dinner. 

“I didn't know you were afraid of blood,” he said with sincerity, no teasing or judgment in his tone.  

“I’m not,” you said defensively.  Then you realized the last thing you remembered was nicking your finger cutting up veggies and then nothing.  “What happened?” You asked.  

“You passed out,” he told you.  “I saw you waver out of the corner of my eye and caught you in time to keep you from hitting the deck,” he told you.  “How are you feeling?”

“Okay?”

“Just okay?  You think you can sit up?” He offered you a hand.  As you placed your palm in his, he carefully helped you into a sitting position, his other arm gently curving around your back, just in case.  “How’s that?” he asked, squeezing your hand.  

“Okay.  I think.”

“I don't like your uncertainty,” he admitted, softly, looking at you with a deeper concern.  “I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No!” you shook your head vehemently, hating to cause him or anyone even a hit of inconvenience.  “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine, sweetheart,” he told you.  “You look like you have seen a ghost.  You're trembling and your palm hasn't stopped bleeding. We are going to the ER,” he insisted.  “Even if I have to hog tie you and throw you in the back of the truck.”

“Sy, I’m fine,” you tried again.  

Sy moved from you only briefly to grab a kitchen towel that read “Mama Tried,” and returned promptly to press it to your palm which you just now noticed is covered in blood.  “I didn’t think I cut it that bad,” you admitted.  You were unable to assess the damage before it was covered in flour sack material.  

“You jabbed it in there pretty good just before you went down.”  Sy pulled his phone from his pocket.  “Now are you willingly coming with me to the hospital? Or am I calling the squad?”

You knew your stubborn asshole of a boyfriend wasn't going to back down until you were properly checked out.  After a beat, a silence, just a split second before you were certain he was going to open his phone, you relented.   “Alright.”

He placed a hurried kiss to your forehead as he stuffed his phone back in his pocket.  “Good.  Now put your other hand over the towel and I’ll get you to the truck.”

You scoffed at this.  “You are not carrying me to the truck,” you said.  “I’ll get myself out there.  Just get me off the damn floor.”

Sy chucked.  “There’s my sweetheart.  Hold the towel tight,” he insisted just before standing behind you and hooking his hands under your arm and effortlessly lifting you to your feet.  His hand held your upper arm tight as he rounded you and looked intently at your face.  “You al’ite?”

“I’m fine, Sy,” you ground out, done with being fussed over.  

With a single nod, he placed that hand to your lower back and gently guided you to the door. “Easy and gently,” he reminded you.  

“I’ll ‘easy and gently’ you.” You continued to be unhappy with his instance of treating you with such tender care.  You still were not used to dating a decent human being, unsure if you even deserved it.  If he knew how  you really were, maybe he’d throw you away, like all the other partners you had had over the years.

Sy, oblivious of your inner conflict, got you settled into the passenger seat and buckled you in.  “All set, baby?” 

You only nodded, still applying pressure to your cut palm.  He gave you a soft smile and carefully closed your door.  Took him all of two seconds before he was in the driver's seat and starting the engine.  “Let’s get you patched up.”

The drive to the local hospital was over within 20 minutes and was accomplished in silence.  You tried to ignore the new throb in your palm that appeared.  Sy had stopped you once from peeling back the towel by laying his hand over yours.  “You don't wanna do that.”

“I wanna see.”

“No you don’t.  Firstly it'll start bleeding again once you release the pressure,” he used his Captain voice, you knew his military training had kicked in.  “Secondly, I don't need you passing out again when you see it.”

You all but huffed at him.  “I am NOT afraid of blood.”

“You may not be, but you aren't gonna like the looks of that.”

You relented and gave a dramatic sigh.  “Aye, aye, Captain,” you said dryly.

Once you arrived at the hospital, and got through the headache of checking in, the two of you settled in the waiting room. Sy took your injured hand and put it on his thigh, taking over putting pressure on the injury.  You sat in further silence until a nurse called your name, less than 30 minutes later.  Sy kissed your temple and let you take your own hand back.  You both stand and head for the nurse who eyes you 6’4” shadow with suspicion.   “Just them,” the nurse states in a no nonsense voice.

“It's ok,” you reassure her.  “He’s with me.”

“Is he your emergency contact and/or spouse?” she asks you, and your stomach dropped at the thought of going in without Sy.  

“No,” you say in a small voice. 

“But ma’am-”

“Do not,” she cut Sy off.  “Policy is policy.  I don't make it,” she sternly stated.

“You are just the enforcer,” Sy finished for her in a very knowing voice.  

“You got it,” she beamed at him. “Have a seat.  They'll be out as soon as they’re done.”

You gave him a soft smile over your shoulder and mouthed ‘Sorry.’  He kissed your forehead.  “You’re in good hands,” he tried to sound calm for you.  You nodded and followed the scrubbed nurse into the ER.  The door closed behind you with a soft click, signaling it locked.  The nurse led you to a room, flipping the plastic flags over the door to whatever she needs to as you step in.  

“Have a seat on the bed,” she said in a softer tone than she had with Sy.  As she halfway pulled the curtain closed, you settled with your back on the upright position of the gurney.  She clicked at the computer near the bed.  “Laceration on your non-dominant palm.  How did it happen?” she asked, nodding to your hand as she reached for gloves from the rack on the wall. 

“Slipped while cooking dinner,” you offered, leaving out the part where you passed out.  

She eyed you before placing a hand on your wrist.  “Let me take a look.”  

You relinquished the towel which you now realize had a significant amount of blood on it. “Oh geez, I hope he can get that out.”

The nurse’s eyes flit back to your face.  “Who is he?” she conversationally asked.  

“My boyfriend,” you said almost shyly.  This thing between you was still new and fresh, only a few months old.  You were still getting used to using the title for Sy.  

“You live together?” she asked as she put the makeshift bandage back down.  “Hold that again please.”   

You do as you are told.  “No, only been together a few months.” you affirmed.  

She nodded and stripped the gloves from her hands, dropping them into the biohazard trash before turning back to the computer “You are gonna need stitches,” she told you, “but first the doc has to come see you to confirm.”

“Yeah kinda figured that was why my army boyfriend brought me in.  If he coulda handled it himself we wouldn't be here,”  you guessed.  

The nurse pulled a wheelie stool over and sat down near your bedside and looked at you compassionately but no nonsense.  “He the reason you are here?” she asked.  

“Well yeah, he insisted-” 

She shook her head, interrupting you.  “No sweety,” she tried again.  Her name tag/badge read Joy you noticed.  “Are you safe with him?”

Your eyes widened at her meaning. “Yes!” you stumbled over the word, surprised someone would think you are not safe with Sy.  “Absolutely,” you insisted.  “He’d never hurt anyone he cared about much less me,” you defended him further.  

“You have to know how this looks,” the nurse stated.  And you finally put all the pieces together.  “Especially with him being active duty,” she pointed out.  You had heard the rumors that military men were statistically more likely to be the aggressor in domestic violence situations. 

“Not him,” you asserted, trying to think of another way to convince her she had it all wrong.  

Instead she reached out and squeezed your knee.  “It's ok.  I have to ask.  Just a couple more questions and then I'll go get the doctor.”  

You relaxed into the mattress.  “Okay.”

“Do you want your boyfriend back here with you?  I can continue to tell him its policy to keep him out in the waiting room.”

You almost started panicking again at the thoughts that anyone would think anything but the best of Sy.  “No, I want him here please, if I can.”

“Of course you can, especially if he will help you stay calm.” She took a deep breath, holding it for a beat and then releasing it, which you mirrored.  “Will his presence keep you at ease?” Her eyes stared at yours, watching your reaction closely.  

You took another deep breath and nodded.  “Yes please.”  

“Ok sweetie.  If you change your mind, tell me or the doctor you’d like to see ‘Dr. Strong’ and we will get security to remove him from here, okay?”

“I won’t need that,” you assured her.,  “But I’m glad you have that in place for other people to use.  “

She gave you a sad smile. “Unfortunately it's all too common of a situation for us.”  She put her hand on the door handle.  “What’s the boyfriend’s last name?”   

You gave it to her and she nodded.  “I'll go get him now and the Doctor will be with you as soon as he can.”

“Thank you.”

And she was gone.

And you were left alone with your thoughts for a few minutes.  You had never thought so much of as an ill thought about Sy outside of  how obnoxious his snoring was when he’s been drinking and now you felt like you hit the jackpot with Sy.  But also, it felt a bit early to be proclaiming declarations of love.  Sy didn’t seem like the type of man who would ever harm his partner but you had been fooled into thinking the best of others in your past and were proven ---

The door opened and saved you from continuing that thought.  Sy’s face appeared around the curtain with a concerned look as Nurse Joy peeked around him.  “Will be a bit til the doctor will be with you.  Keep holding that towel.”

Sy rounded the bed and sat on the stool the nurse abandoned.  “Thanks,” you said.  “For everything.”

“You are welcome.  Just doing my job.”

And she was gone again, the door closing behind her. “New friend?” Sy asked after that exchange.  

“Something like that,” you affirmed.  

“What’s the verdict?” he nodded towards your hand.  

“Needs stitches,” you stated nonchalantly.  

“And the passing out?” he prompted. 

 You hesitated.  “Oh, ummmm,”   

“You didn't mention that?” he surmised.

“No.”

“Of course not,” he sighed.

You stopped looking at your hands in your lap and flashed your eyes to him.  “What’s that mean?”

Sy just shook his head and laid his hand on your knees closest to him.  “I’ve just noticed you aren't very good at taking care of yourself is all.”  

You get defensive immediately, though this isn't the first time you have heard that from someone else who cared about you.  “I do just fine with that,” you asserted.   

“Then why didn't you mention that to the nurse?”

“Because that's not a big deal,” you attested. “Not as much as bleeding to death.”  You raised your injured hand to illustrate.  “I’m sorry about your towel.”

“I don't give one goddamn about a kitchen towel,” he stated but is interrupted by a knock on the door, drawing both of your attention.  Nurse Joy walked around the curtain with a man in a white coat.  

“Hello here’s Dr. Brock.” 

Sy’s hand squeezed your knee. 

“How are you today?” Dr. Brock asked.  

“Fine outside of trying to filet my palm.  Wait,” you suddenly say.  “I only remember nicking my finger.  When did I slice my palm?” you looked at Sy, and felt the attention of the medical personnel in the room shift to look at him as well.  

“You grabbed for the counter as you passed out,” he simply stated.  

“There was no mention of passing out,” Joy stated, and you realize you had just ratted yourself out.  

“Did you hit your head?” the doctor asked, springing into action to examine your eyes.  

“I don't think so,” you sounded unsure. 

“No they didn’t,” Sy joined the conversation. “I caught them on the way down.”  

Doctor turned half his attention to the attentive boyfriend beside you as he applied gentle pressure around your head.  “Were they out cold?”

“Yes”

“For how long?”  

“At least 3 minutes but it felt like a lifetime,” Sy disclosed.  

Doctor Brock nodded as Joy typed on the computer.  “Let’s get them a CT scan, a CBC panel to start,” he spoke to the nurse who clicked the mouse.  “And a stitch kit for their hand.”  He gave that the briefest of looks and a nod.  “Looks like the bleeding has stopped.  We can take care of that while we wait for radiation to come get them.”

He turned back to you.  “Afraid we are going to keep you from dinner for a bit longer,” he told you.

“It's ok,” you whispered. 

It took another hour, but you found yourself stitched , bandaged, scanned and short a few vials of blood.  You and Sy sat in the room, talking about which fast food to grab on your way back to his place when Dr. Brock and your new favorite nurse returned.  “We have the results from your scan and your blood work,” he told you as he sat down in front of the computer.  Sy’s hand gently squeezed your uninjured hand while the doctor logged in and pulled up your chart.  “Ok,” he paused as he read.  “Your CT scan came back normal.  Nothing unusual in your brain.”

“That's good.”

He nodded as he continued to look at his results.  “There’s a few things in your blood work I’d like to talk to you about.  Your glucose was concerningly down.” 

 “We were in the process of making dinner,” Sy tried.  

“No it was more than just one missed meal,” the doctor told him.

You avoid looking at Sy out of guilt.  ”I may have missed a few meals today.”

“There's only three to miss,” Sy sounded upset, and your stomach flipped.  “How many did you miss?”

“All of them...?” you stated uncertain, again. 

“And the past few days?” the doctor asked.  

You shrugged and looked sheepishly at him.  “A few...”

“Your blood work says more than ‘a few’,” he said sternly but gently.  “And your urinalysis says you are severely dehydrated.” He looked at you.  “How much water do you have every day?”

“Water?” you lamely asked 

“Yes, plain water.  Maybe with some lemon or bubbles in it, but just water?”

“Not much.  I’m more of a coffee kind of girl,” you tried to tell him, aiming for a joke but it falling flat on your audience.

“I’m going to need you to up your intake of water by a lot.”

“For how long?”

“For always,” he looked at you.  “Human bodies need water to survive.” he glanced quickly at the screen before turning back to you.  “How has your depression and anxiety been lately?”  

Well shit.  You looked guiltily at Sy again before answering.  “It's been better.”

“On a scale of 1-5,  l one being the lowest you’ve been and 5 being the best feeling ever, where have you been lately?

Another sideways glance at Sy before answering.  “A 0.5?”

“I see,” the doctor said and typed a few things.  

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sy asked, sounding more than a little hurt.

The shrug you give him does nothing to remove the look from his face.  

“What can I do for them, Doc?” he asked, his eyes never leaving your face.

You opened your mouth to protest but Dr. Brock beat you to it. “That’s up to them as to what they need. But open communication is a good start.”  That was directed at you.  “And reassuring them they are worth taking care of themselves.”  That was directed at Sy.

“I can handle that,” your boyfriend stated.  

“Glad to hear it.  Nurse Joy will get you your instructions and get you checked out.  You can have your GP pull the stitches in 14 days.  And go over your mental health needs with them too, please.”

You just nodded.  

“Take care of each other.”  And he was gone out the door.  

The ride home was as silent as the ride to the ER but for different reasons.  You felt the anger rolling off Sy.  You were ashamed at having your mental health issues revealed to him in such a manner.  This relationship was still too new and now you were afraid he was going to ditch you and run for the hills.

“You can just drop me at my car in your driveway and I’ll head home,” you surmised you had fully ruined your date night if not your whole relationship.

“What?” Sy sounded confused.  “No.” He pulled his eyes from the road for a second to look at you.  If you weren't wrong, he looked hurt again.  “We are grabbing dinner and then we are gonna talk about what is going on in that beautiful head of yours.”

“Look if you wanna break up with me-”

“What kind of assholes have you dated, sweetheart?” he asked angrily and your mouth audibly snapped shut followed by a soft sniffle.  He DID think you were an idiot and he was going to ditch you tonight.  You knew it.  Trouble was he held you hostage until he returned you to your car.  And the sound of your next sniffle, Sy hit his blinker and pulled the truck into the first parking lot on his right,parking his truck across 4 spots before turning in his seat to look at you, his hand landing on your forearm. “Please talk to me,” he softly said.  “Whatever it is, I'm here.”

“You hate me,” you asserted.   “I’m a horrible person.  And now you know the truth about me.”

Sy’s hand flew up to the ceiling of the truck and flipped the light on and watched you wiped at your tears.  “Did I say any of that?” he asked. “Ever.”  

You shook your head.  “No but you probably are thinking about it now that you know.”

“Know what? That you have a mental illness that makes your life hard to navigate?”

“Yeah.” you sniffled. 

“For fuck’s sake, darlin’, do you know how many of my men have mental illnesses, both diagnosed and not?  And I trust them literally with my life,” Sy tried again, agitation just on the edge of his voice.  He took a breath and tried another time.  “Sweetness, whatever you have going on , I ain't lying when I tell you I’m here for you, for all of it.:”

“But-”

“No buts, gorgeous, you aren't getting rid of me that easily,” he insisted, giving you a small smile, which you did not return.  “Unless you want me to go.  I hope you don't.  You seemed like you were enjoying our evening tonight before your swan dive.” You smiled at that.  “But if you want out, let's talk about that and I’ll try to convince you to stay so I can fix whatever it is you don't like but I do not want out.  I make that call, not you,” he asserted gently.  

You sat in stunned silence for a moment.  All your standard cookie cutter responses to try to convince someone you were a horrible person died on your tongue, leaving you with nothing to say.  

At another beat of silence, Sy grabbed his phone from the center console.  “Do you want pizza or tacos for dinner?”

~~~~~~~~~

Once you were safely at his house with your dinner, Sy left you at the kitchen table as he took an exuberant Aika outside to potty and chase a ball around for a few minutes.  By the time he returned, you had set the table and were in the process of cleaning up the mess you had left on his floor, on his counter, your blood mixed with food that had been left out too long.  

Sy dramatically sighed when he found you trying to one handedly clean everything up.  “Will you stop before you hurt yourself further?”  You looked at him sheepishly.  “But thank you,” he tried instead.  “Thank you for setting the table.”  He took your good hand and escorted you to the table set with two plates, two glasses of water and the only candle you could find in his house and you were fairly certain it was a gift from his mom or sister.  He pulled your chair out for you and you rolled your eyes as you sat down, but you sat down.  “Good baby,” he mumbled into the crown of your head.  “One slice or two?” he asked, chivalrously opening the box for you to see the options available as if you weren’t in the truck when he ordered your usual pizza.  

“You are a dork,” you informed him. 

“Yes, but I am your dork,” he told you, pulling two pieces to put on your plate.  “Since you didn’t eat at all today, you get two.  And you have to eat them all, even the crusts.  And drink all your water too,” he informed you. 

You made a face at him but nodded, agreeing to those terms.  “Okay, Daddy,” you teasingly mutter as you pull a stringy bit of cheese and pop it in your mouth.  

Sy growled low in his throat, a noise you only heard when you did something he liked in the bedroom and you felt your belly heat at finding a new kind of his and one you didn't object to.  You smirked at him as he sat down, your focus now on his darkening eyes. “You wanna play with Daddy, little one?” he menacingly asked you.  You nodded enthusiastically, your ravenous hunger shifting from the pizza to the man in front of you.  

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, Daddy.” you started to rise from the table to move towards him.  

“Sit your pretty ass down,” he commanded without raising his voice.  You felt yourself grow hotter at his tone, immediately and unthinkingly settling back into your spot.  “You will eat everything on your plate, or you will not leave this table, am I clear?”   Normally you would balk at such a statement but now you just nodded.   “I need words, little one.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good baby,” he commended.  “You will also drink everything in your glass, do you understand?”  You lost focus, you wondered if this is the tone he took with his men and if so did any of them get turned on as you were right now.  “Hello, pretty baby?” Sy’s voice broke through your wandering thoughts.  

“Yes Daddy, I mean Sir.  I mean Daddy,” you stuttered, unsure what title to use, both seeming fitting at this moment. 

“I see that attention is a problem for you.  So let me try a different approach,” he asserted.  “If you have everything on your plate, drink all the water I give you and take your daily meds if you haven't yet,” he raised a questioning eyebrow at you, knowing you usually packed your medications with you when you came over for date night.  “You can cum tonight.  If you don’t do those things, all you’ll get to do is help me cum, am I clear?”

You swallowed loudly, knowing he was not at all joking in her terms.  “Yes, Daddy.”  And you took a big bite of cooling pizza.

“Good baby.”

General Tag List: @ellethespaceunicorn @littleone65, @mysweetlittledesire, @jvanilly, @identity2212,

@avengersfan25, @foxyjwls007 @gummydummy19 , @cynic-spirit , @rosecentury

HC Tag LIst: @m07belzen, @used-to-be-bourbonwithice, @hawklin, @geralts-yenn @summersong69,

@sillyrabbit81 @mistressmkay

Syverson tag list: @mrsevans90 @wunder-blunder

Please let me know if you want to be added to (or removed from) any of them. AND Just cuz I think you'll be interested in seeing it I am gonna tag @deandoesthingstome

[ceridescent]

Jealous Freak — F., Amber

Amber Freeman x Female!Reader

Summary: amber freeman has some serious issues, says samantha carpenter, your most loyal friend. but who cares when she's so hot when bothered, with you to take the fall?

Warning/s: top! amber, bottom!reader, heavy use of expletives, degradation kink, praise kink, strap-on usage, choking, pet name use (bunny), hair pulling, vaginal fingering, manhandling, & mentions of blood.

Word Count: 4, 417

Author’s Note: this is my first! evah! scream fan fiction! i’m so excited !!!!! (may or may not have a part two plotted in mind :*).

a loud chuckle erupts from you by your best friend’s comment, the ribbon that tied both you and your woman together; beginning freshman year, two months ago. 

you finish putting on your halloween costume, glazed under the vanity lights. taking a look at yourself before applying your makeup, you take pride at how your girlfriend fashionably knows how to navigate these things. 

amber didn’t mention anything about dressing up as a bloody bunny, which you are grateful for, not that she gave instructions for you to follow. she only mentioned it once, her desire to design a halloween outfit for you, and you excitedly approved, bouncing up and down her lap as you did so. then, she made you promise not to ask any questions nor clues regarding your costume, as it would spoil the fun. 

and now the box sits on top of your mattress, hard and empty. 

the post-it note: something cute and small, just like my bunny, along with a smiley face, sticks on the mirror in front of you. 

“aah!” your throat scratches at your scream as you are met with a ghoulish-looking mask. “what the hell?!?” you screech turning around, kicking the quiet masked man with your knee. 

“ow! baby!” an all too familiar, muffled voice sounds out of the mask, the anguished tone expressing its anguished features. 

the man takes it off, revealing

“amber,” you sigh, coming over to her, giving a hug whilst massaging her crotch, the place you hit hard on. 

“you almost knocked me out,” she sniffles, making you pull away to look at her glossy eyes. she then smirks.  

“nailed it, baby,” huskily, she bites her lower lip, trailing her eyes all over your clad form, lust etched all over her gorgeous face. you hit your playful girlfriend’s shoulder, earning a small groan from her. immediately you rub it to soothe, feeling the soft fabric on your palm, its soothing texture.

“so what do you think about my costume?” 

amber twirls around with a beam, showing it off. “huh? what do you think? left you speechless?” she raises her brows to urge you to say something, giggling as you trailed your eyes up and down her ghostface costume. 

you take a huge gulp of your saliva, feeling very exposed. “left me screaming…” 

“oh definitely!” amber sniggers, “that really was my desired reaction from my baby girl. you just never fail to make me proud,” 

you moan as she peppers kisses all over your neck and collarbone, each contact getting louder as her lips trails down your body. “amber,” you mewl, pushing her away. you give her a pointed look. she innocently shrugged. “what? i’m just kissing you there so i won’t smudge my girl’s makeup!”

“how considerate,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes, walking back to the vanity mirror. 

“you done?” she asks, plopping down on your mattress beside her gift box. “i think you are,” she sighs, staring at your plump ass whilst you’re bent over the vanity desk, applying lipstick. 

“patience, girlfriend, beauty takes time.”

“but you’re already so beautiful,” she half-sighs and half-whines, stomping her doc martens like a bratty child. “i want to kiss you on the lips already!”

“wipe off your drool, get in line. you’re not the first one,” you giggle, finalizing your glam with a lip gloss. tilting your neck to see your girlfriend’s reaction, as expected, with her arms crossed together against her chest. her ghostface mask sits flatly on top of her lap. amber freeman’s the jealous type. overly and overtly. you walk slowly towards her.

shaking her head, she makes an eye-roll before pulling you closer by the waist, rubbing them up and down, tightening her grip as she thumbs the front of your bodysuit. she stands up then, her hands still glued on you, and you can’t help but to look at how tight she clenches you as if you’re her property. until she pulls your chin up to focus on her brown eyes. amber’s lips part, hungry ruby reds taking her time. 

you almost drown in them, spiraling into the caramel pools of carnality and admiration. blinking twice, you escape amber’s dilated pupils, only to count the moles on her pale face. you hear a shuffle. “just keep looking at me,” she instructs, mumbling, “just look at me,” her breath ghosting over your cusps, teasingly inching her red plump lips against yours. “is it okay now to mess up my baby bunny’s lips?”

you gasp, feeling her softness bump against your own for a millisecond with a tender gaze, batting her eyelashes at you, entertained by how you will respond to her advances. 

“it’s-“

amber opens her mouth with a sigh, the way she comes with your mouth around her clit, chuckling as you stumble back slightly, losing your grip around her padded shoulders. “oh,” she purrs, pulling you back in with the chain she slyly strapped to your collar. 

“hmmm,” she hums, admiring her work. 

“it was what, bunny?”

you stammer, trying to find the words, clearly struggling to form a coherent thought. 

“well whatever that is, it can wait. we’re already five minutes late to the party so we better get movin’!” she exclaims with such eagerness, tugging your leash in the process. you choke the moan that was ready to pop out, grateful to be preserving the amount of dignity you could spare. 

amber doesn’t let go of your leash while she takes on the ghostface mask, until she puts you in the passenger seat. 

amber’s muffled giggle could be heard before it disappears, a click of a red glowing button placed between her neck and shoulder. she turns at you, eerily slowly, pulling out a fake bloodied knife out of nowhere, creating stabbing motions. 

“what’s your favorite scary movie?”

you groan, clenching your thighs. a sudden throb pulsed through you when she did that, piling up to the list of her teasings of the day. “baby,” you whine, “we’re already 10 minutes late. that can wait,” you remind her as you drag your words, the whole time staring at a blank mask stare, unaware if she’s reciprocating. but it’s your girlfriend amber freeman, who loves to make eye contact. 

“you don’t treat me like that-“ 

amber tugs at your leash and you whimper, cowering as the heat between your thighs intensifies. amber has never been this rough. 

she huffs, “you’ll be sorry for that,” putting away her props and turning off her voice changer device. 

“you got your seatbelt on, baby?” she asks, back in her sweet, loving voice. you smile, caressing the mask, “yes, baby, good to go!”

“oh my fucking god!” you hear sam exclaim, raking her shocked eyes all over you. “you’re a slutty bunny!”

“now, now, sam, don’t eye my girl like that,” amber warns with a scoff, shielding you protectively from the fake lara croft. “hey, i can handle myself, thank you very much,” you complain, pushing amber away. you’re met with a smirking sam, looking at amber with a knowing look. 

“then maybe you shouldn’t have chosen that halloween costume for everyone to ogle at her, ms. smart pants,” sam tells amber matter-of-fact, waving to the crowd which definitely eyed you like a fish in an oasis, howling and whistling as they passed you by. 

“you’re scorching, ms. croftie! are you out looking for gems?” you ask her flirtatiously, twirling your hair, like girls do when they tease their friends. samantha chuckles and slaps your shoulder playfully, “yes and the bigger the better!” giving you a high-five whilst your girlfriend handles the situation she’d cause with her ghostface costume and her fake bloody knife. 

 “fuck off!”

“oh, scary,” sam mocked sarcastically, dragging you away from your distressed girlfriend. “that woman could be stupid,” your best friend sings, giving you a drink. “i think she meant well,” you fend, twirling a lock of curled hair as you sip the alcohol. “do i really look like a slut?”

sam rolls her eyes at your innocence with an amused grin. “you’re wearing a damn bodysuit with bunny ears and a bunny tail, y/n. let’s not forget you literally have a collar and leash strapped to your neck. 

“you’re dressed as amber’s slutty pet this halloween, god’s sake.”

samantha carpenter nods at your blown away look of wide eyes and an open mouth, her words slowly registering through your pokey brain. she lets a moment of silence encompass the both of you as you look down at your costume. the red on your lips. the fake bunny parts you happily placed on your body to dress the part. the collar that’s tight around your neck — to impress amber — to have the best halloween costume in the party — to make amber proud. 

“oh,” you say. 

“oh. is that bad?”

your best friend chuckles, shaking her head in disbelief. “well…” she checks you out, biting her lower lip in the process. “if amber wasn’t in the picture i for sure-“

“it’s not bad for you, princess. i think. but for amber,” sam sighs, tilting her head to see how her friend is doing with all the oglers. “it’s 50/50.

“she loves to show you off. this is her most elaborate way of parading you to everyone, at the latest. she loves for every single one of us to know that she owns you, like a pet, or something. i bet she got too carried away to forget about all the motherfuckers who want to steal you away from her.”

all that talk with sam had your mind going hazy, if it wasn’t already. you’re not even sure if putting on that costume and staring at yourself the whole time in the mirror looking like an animal was part of amber’s slick foreplay, but now that you’re in here…

another strong pulse digs in between your thighs, pestering the nerves into a blaze. and you don’t even remember if you’ve put on a panty to salvage the bottom of your bodysuit, but that made you throb even further. 

“both of you are stupid in ways you complete each other,” she concludes, nodding her head. 

“thanks?”

samantha chuckles, checking you out again. “you’re welcome, bunny.”

“no one calls her that but me!” amber yells at sam’s smirking face before she grabs your wrist, pulling you away from the crowd and into the nearest bathroom down the hall. 

you jump at the loud noise of the shutting door, everyone’s halloween-prepared faces staring back at you. before you could fully comprehend the circumstance, your girlfriend shoves you against the bathroom door and pins your arms above your head. the hollowed holes stare at you dead in the eyes, you can feel it, amber shooting lasers into yours. she groans as she pulls away. 

“baby,” you coo, your voice wavering, “will you take off the mask? i’m getting worried…”

“fuck this,” amber cursed in a muffled growl before unveiling the mask, shoving her lips onto yours, biting it harshly it stings. 

you moan at the pain and the pleasure of amber soothing your cut with her lips, gradually getting softer at the moment. she slides her gloved hands around your waist and squeezes it so hard you open your mouth to sigh. taking the opportunity, she slides her tongue in to suck yours. 

“yes, baby,” she pushes the words into your mouth, “you’re doing such a good job for me.

“we just got here and i gotta fuck you to let them know who owns you,” she huffs it itritatedly as if she can’t believe it; like things didn’t go as she had planned. 

“but you were gonna?” you ask in a whimper, panting. the softness of her full lips feels so addicting you didn’t want to open your eyes. 

she slithers her knee against your core, grinding up against it, moaning “oh fuck yeah baby i was gonna,” breaking the kiss for a moment to solely feel your warm pussy.  “i was gonna fuck you on the terrace where everyone could see. but that’s too far un-fucking-fortunately.” you both moan, picturing the image inside your dazing heads. 

“amber,” you whine, her cursing turning you on more. 

“and i need to be inside you baby. i need it so b-bad,” you whimper and nod your head in agreement, amber’s cries setting your mind off completely.

but then you giggle.

“are you wearing any panties?”

“why don’t you come find out, ghostface?”

amber growls and pulls your neck into a fiery kiss, each nip and suck sending you into a spiral of frenzy. amber unbuttons your crotch, pushing her fingers on your clitoris successfully. 

“fuck baby!” she moans loudly, closing her eyes. her head falling behind you against the door, her forehead resting against it. “fuck, baby…” she whispers, using her thumb to rub on your clitoris, her middle and ring finger ghosting over your hole. you both hear the slosh of your pussy echoing inside the bathroom. 

“you drive me so fucking crazy.”

you can’t even think straight. 

your head reels and you haven’t even drank alcohol yet. amber’s scent alone got you fuzzy; however, the way she yelled your name and proudly claimed you in front of everyone, her possessiveness, her jealous intent, her desire to claim, fuck, that just had you dripping in your fucking bodysuit. 

“are you ready for me, baby?” she asks in a low tone, saccharine and soft, and before you could respond, 

“ah,” you scream, her fingers sliding easily into you. she holds you back, her left hand on your hip to hold you down, shaking her head as she stares at you with blown out eyes. 

she bites her lip, breathing heavily with you, the party noises outside blocked out by your moment. “i slid in so easily, baby. i can’t believe i own this slutty pussy,”

“y-you own it,” you muster to say aloud, letting her manhandle around your waist, planting her mark over there as well. 

“i do, yeah?” amber’s got that cocky smirk all over her face, the one thing you want make out with. you nod your head, pulling her for a kiss. 

“of course i do,” amber grunts, pulling away but not before biting your lip, pumping her fingers into you, her pace getting quicker. “i own the sluttiest pussy in town,” she groans as she watches your pleasure-stricken face, blood oozing out of your busted lip. it takes all her might not to nibble, sucking off all the blood.  

amber’s wrists angles diagonally, her tips hitting against your g-spot. you scream high-pitched, caught off guard, falling over the door. she chuckles as she catches your frame, kissing your cheek as reassurance. 

your girlfriend’s  grunting continues, a series of possessiveness and promises bursting out of her dirty mouth, luring you into your orgasm. you do nothing but moan in heat, nodding your head, and taking every hard pound. 

you grip onto her shoulders, the pace and the pounding driving you to the edge. 

and then she pulls away. completely. 

you fall on your bum and cry her name, watching her figure in a blur. “baby?!” you squeak out, pushing yourself up with your palms to no avail. your weak legs shake. your heart pounds as she goes over to you, her gaze predatory and her movements aggressive. 

“come here,” her gentle voice calls in total opposite of her actions as she yanks you by the hair, manhandling you by the chest area, tossing your front against the sink of the bathroom. “see that?”

you see it — the smudged makeup on your flushed face, the few littering marks on the left side of your neck, your disheveled hair, the falling bunny ears. you nod your head, squeezing your thighs together to get some sort of comfort. you’re so empty all of a sudden. “fix your ears for me, bunny.”

you do as told, positioning your bunny ears on the top sides of your crown, making them look untouched. amber hums in approval. 

“there we are,” she caresses your cheek with a smile, which soon turns into a smirk, its transition so terrifying. you watch intently with innocence in the mirror, aware of what she’s going to do but still the need of her to do so to confirm it. amber’s soft features turn into a sharp and hollow ghostface mask. suddenly she’s not your girlfriend. and yet with her thumb caressing your side and the rest of her fingers wrapped around you in a possessive hold, you know it's still her. 

“now that we’re both in our costumes,” she sighs, her muffled voice turning sinister and rough, “i can get started.”

she pushes her front against your back like she’s burying something in there and you gasp with your head thrown back, feeling amber’s bulge nesting on your ass. “hmmm,” she hums like she’s thinking, “this doesn’t seem right, bunny. do you think it’s correct that i’m not sliding in?” she pants, trying her best to fit it in but “it just won’t budge, bunny,” she tells you. 

you shake your head immediately, desperation coating your face. “n-no! n-no! it’s-“ you groan as she begins to hump on you, whatever emotion she’s portraying you cannot see. “please take out your cock!”

“where is my cock?” she teases, rubbing herself against you, positioning it as if her zipper’s unzipped. you whimper, unable to proceed with your girlfriend’s playfulness. “it’s on my ass, please! give-“

“and what’s my name, pretty girl?” you hear the octave drop of amber’s voice, the edges rough and spicy. she’s using her bedroom voice now, you know. 

“please am- ah fuck! mmm!”

two deliberate spanks are harshly pressed on the sides of your asscheeks, causing you to bounce due to the constricting space. because your girlfriend is right behind you, she feels you rubbing against her dick. 

“what’s my name?” she almost shouts, impatience dripping down her tone. 

“ghostface! please- i-“

“please…?”

“please give me your cock, please ghostface. please, ghostface,” you moan, desperate and needy you feel like a flame that’s going to be burnt away. “bounce for me one last time then, bunny, and ghostface will give it to you.”

you nod your head excitedly, bouncing up and down against ghostface’s clad dick, feeling her thrust every up of your ass. you stop when she grips tight against your sides and a “good bunny, so good,” praise leaving her cruel mouth. 

you bite your lip to contain your excitement as you hear amber unzipping her blue jeans, letting it pool around her ankles. you whimper and pout when you see her dick standing tall in her hand, nodding your head nonstop when she asks

“do you want this? do you want my dick in your pussy?”

“please, ghostface. i need your cock in my cunt. please fill me up,” 

all the while giving your most innocent look, knowing what it does to your girlfriend. 

amber snarls and places her left palm against your abdomen to position you — ass up, and then her left hand goes over to your shoulder blades, pushing them down, sheating herself into your pussy hole in one go. 

ghostface doesn’t leave any room for adjustments, growling “take it! take it you little cock slut!”, pounding herself in and out of you, your sinful cries combined with your awfully loud pussy taking everything in. 

she joins into the music with her modulated sounds, the noises so unfamiliar but you know it's her.

you didn’t know amber was into this type of roleplay, although subtle, but it probably was already a great indication of her obsession over the stab franchise. she would always joke around about being ghostface, and asking if you would consider being an accomplice when she goes into a killing spree. 

“yes that’s it, that’s it you fucking slut, take it all in. dirty my cock with your juices,” she husks as you mewl and thrash around your girlfriend, your body pliable and delicate to amber’s liking. 

“fuck fuck fuck,” you cuss with your head going downcast, as if you were on the best rollercoaster you’ve ever rided on. “oh my god, fuck-

“fuck!” you scream, your neck being pulled up by the throat, the blank stare of ghostface staring right back at you in the mirror. “don’t fucking look away, bitch! look at me! look at me while i fuck you!”

you cry and nod your head, mascara running down your cheeks as you glance at yourself in the mirror before looking at her. you bite your lip at the debauchery of the situation — a woman with a ghostface mask fucking you in someone else’s bathroom as a party goes on — making your pussy even wetter. 

“that’s it, that’s it,” ghostface pants, her head dropping down to watch how her length disappears, your ass blocking the whole view. “take it like that, good bunny. that’s my good bunny,”

goosebumps flare up your skin as you gasp, catching your breath, all the while beginning to feel the rush of your climax. you hold onto her arm to signal her to slow down, “i- slower, ghostface-ah!” but she smacks your ass raw to no avail. 

“what do you mean, slower?” amber’s voice returns, muffled and husking. she rams her cock deeper into you, every thrust pronounced and fast. “are you gonna cum, baby doll?”

“mm-! plea-!” she smacks you again, this time on the right side of your breast. “no!” she yells and fucks you harder. 

amber yanks your hair back so you're arching even more, the tip of her dick hitting right into your g-spot. “god damn, right there!” you whine, meeting her thrusts in the middle. “you’re such a messy whore!” she takes her clutch away and without her support your face falls onto the sink, almost. thankfully your left arm firmly rests against the marble tile. 

“i’ll decide if you get to come!

“fuck you, fuck you, i hate your sexy ass,” she groans, her thrusts getting sloppy, her pace going slow. “please,” you beg, “please let me come around your cock, ghostface,” you added the title for great measure. “please, i’ll even let you fuck me in front of the girls who wants m-“

you gasp and start feeling your blood clog up around your throat, “don’t you fucking dare try to bring the others girls up and manipulate me, you fucking bitch,” her grip vice-like around your neck. “i may be a jealous freak but that doesn’t mean i’m stupid.”

ghostface takes off her mask, revealing her flushed face and her disheveled black hair. 

a sigh of relief washes over you, seeing your girlfriend after twenty minutes of being rough fucked. 

“but this,” you mewl and roll your head back, thoughts being derailed off your mind, amber’s hold around your neck getting tighter, “this little fucking makes you so fucking stupid. doesn’t it?”

“u-huh. u-huh,” you agree, not really understanding what’s going on now. you’re seeing stars. “i thought so too, bunny.”

and when you thought amber’s going to finally make you come around her cock, she takes off her grip around your neck, turning you into a coughing fit, saliva dripping out of your mouth. “god, fuck. fuck this pussy. so fucking tight!” she curses it into the air whilst she stares at your pretty flushed face, all railed out because of her. 

“i hate it when everyone looks at what’s mine. i hate that i can see what they think of you when they see you in these clothes,” amber huffs, biting your neck, leaving marks of purple and blue. you hiss, tilting your head to give her more room, nodding your head impatiently. “i hate when they eye fuck you when i’m around. fuck them, baby. i will fuck you in front of them. i’ll show them who you belong to.” she barks and bites your right shoulder, making you cry out in pain. 

“f-fuck! i’m so close, baby, i’m- fuck! 

“who do you belong to?” amber yells it in such heavy desperation that you immediately answer, both of your coils about to snap in half. 

“you! i belong to ghostface!”

“that’s right-fuck me! fuck- bounce against me!” she prods her hips violently, holding yours with both of her hands, guiding you to meet her in the middle. 

“that’s it, bunny! i’m coming! i’m co- come with me!”

screams and whines leave both your mouths as you reach your highs, your bodies shaking as you do so. amber chuckles as your ass automatically presses back against her front when she falls on top of you, her exhausted legs weakening.

“oh, what a good bunny!” she exhales, pushing a strand of hair in the back of your neck, kissing your flushed cheek. you hum feeling her lips’ soft caress, “you did great too,” mumbling.

“i was?” amber’s brown eyes sparkle at the praise, “yes you were. so…so good for me,” helping you turn your body to face her. “be careful,” she says, guiding you to sit on top of the toilet cover. she sits on the floor in front of you, her ghostface mask lying on top of the sink. 

“so rough and so perfect at it,” you compliment teasingly, your energy on the low. you bend down, taking her chin to plant a kiss on her saccharine lips. “i love my jealous freak.”

amber hums, returning the kiss, moving her mouth into you steadily with no rush. “mmm, of course you do,”

you both giggle and pull away, deciding to take a five-minute break before going out of the bathroom to get refreshments and eventually party like you were supposed to. 

“are you not going to fix your makeup, bunny?” amber asks, looking at you with admiration in her eyes. her ghostface mask wraps tightly around her fingers, draped low to be put on. you shake your head, a grin forming your freshly coated lips. 

“and ruin your work? no thanks,” you kiss her on the lips for a brief moment and pull away, fixing your bunny ears for the last time. “let them know who owns me.”

amber liked that very much. 

when you finally casted yourselves out of the bathroom, a soft smile coated your dirty face whilst amber held her cocky smirk, her arm wrapped possessively around your waist, the other holding the leash tied around your collar. you were glued to each other the whole night, letting everyone know who you belong to. and of course, what you both did in the bathroom. 

[chelseachilly]

do you want to build a snowman?

pairing: reader x ben chilwell request: "ok so you and ben have a daughter around 3 or 4 and its her first time seeing snow so they take her outside to build a snowman :)" - anonymous warnings: fluffff, dad!ben word count: 2k

author’s note: thanks for all the requests!! i'm really getting in the flow of writing rn (and inspired by the holidays) so i'm going to do my best to write as many of them as i can! ❄️

-

“Is Daddy gonna be home soon?”

It’s not the first - or the second, or the fifth - time your daughter has asked this question since she woke up this morning. 

Ben left for training shortly before 8, and neither you nor your daughter Sophie were awake yet. You could’ve happily slept a few more hours, but Sophie woke you up not long after to excitedly announce that it had snowed overnight.

In her four years of life, your daughter has never seen a significant amount of snow, at least that she can recall. It snowed quite a bit on her first Christmas, but she was far too little to remember that, and since then there’s been nothing but a few flurries here and there or a light dusting on the rooftops.

She’s quite fascinated by the concept from watching movies and TV shows featuring winter activities and is currently deep in a Frozen phase, which means she’s obsessed with the idea of building a snowman. 

Over the past month as the weather got colder, you and Ben had tried to keep her expectations low as you weren’t sure you would get enough snow to make this dream a reality. You could tell it was killing Ben to disappoint her - he hates denying his little girl anything - and a few nights ago you caught him looking into booking a holiday to Switzerland or Finland or anywhere she would be guaranteed some snow.

Thankfully, today her prayers were answered, and you were fully prepared to bundle up and go outside with her before you even had your coffee, but she insisted on waiting for Ben. It was their plan to build the snowman together, Sophie told you, and she stuck to her decision even when you reminded her he wouldn’t be home for hours.

It‘s been pretty adorable watching her anxiously await her dad’s return all morning, pacing around the house and checking for his car in the driveway often. You can tell how badly she wants to go out and play in the glistening white snow, and the remarkable restraint she’s showing is a testament to how much of a daddy’s girl she is. 

“Not too much longer, sweetheart,” you assure her as you beckon her to come cuddle with you on the couch where you’re doing a bit of work on your laptop. “He texted a while ago and said he’ll be here as soon as he can.”

“Alright,” Sophie sighs. “Can you put on Frozen?”

You’ve watched this movie more times than you can count lately, and once already today, but you remind yourself that you signed up for this when you chose to be a parent as you’re queuing up Disney Plus once again. 

Later, when you’re nearing the end of the film and you’ve given up on doing any more work as long as your daughter is screaming the lyrics to each song, you hear the sound of the front door opening and closing. 

“Daddy!”

The movie is quickly abandoned as Sophie darts toward the foyer to greet Ben. You’re not too far behind her, though by the time you reach them she’s already in her dad’s arms.

“Daddy, it snowed!” Sophie exclaims, her little arms wrapped around Ben’s neck. “We have to build a snowman!”

“I know, darling,” Ben laughs, giving Sophie another squeeze before gently setting her down. “Why don’t you go get your coat on while I say hello to Mummy?”

Sophie nods and eagerly runs toward the closet to fetch her winter coat. As Ben drops his bag and makes his way over to you, you can see how tired he is from training. When he cups your face to give you a kiss, you can tell he’s also freezing. 

“How was training, baby?” you murmur, placing your hands on his to warm them up. 

“Cold,” Ben sighs. “Forgot how brutal it is training in the snow. I’m glad the gaffer let us go home early, though.”

“You and me both,” you smile, leaning in to kiss him again. “Maybe you should warm up a bit before going out to play with Soph?”

“No, she’s been waiting for me all day,” Ben says. “I’ll be fine.”

You know there’s no changing his mind, especially when Sophie comes running back into the room in her adorable little puffer jacket that nearly swallows her whole. You help her zip it up and grab mittens, a scarf and a hat to keep her warm, as well as some for you and Ben. 

Once you’re all ready to face the cold, you head out to the garden together. You and Ben have matching grins on your faces as you watch Sophie excitedly run through the snow for the first time, a core childhood memory being created right before your eyes. 

She gets to work right away on her snowman, rolling the snowball she’s formed as long as she can before it gets too heavy for her and she has to accept Ben’s help. 

You join in on their efforts, occasionally taking a break to take some photos of your daughter and husband that you already know are going to be your new phone background.

After some hard work - certainly for a four year old - the snowman is completed with a carrot nose and hat that you had prepared just for this occasion. 

“He looks great, Sophie!” you exclaim. “What’s his name? Olaf?”

Despite it being a fairly safe guess, Sophie looks at you like you have two heads.

“No, Mummy, Olaf doesn’t have a hat,” she reminds you very matter-of-factly. “His name is Tom.”

“Like Uncle Tom?” Ben chuckles, referring to his best friend and her godfather.

Sophie seems to contemplate this for a moment before shaking her head.

“No, because I want him to be Tom.”

You and Ben look at each other for a moment before bursting out into laughter. You both blame your daughter’s stubbornness on each other, though deep down you know it’s from both of you, but at times like this it’s both hilarious and adorable. 

“Fair enough, sweetie,” you say, bending down to give her a kiss on the forehead. “Now, I think some hot chocolate is in order. Ready to go in?”

“No, we have to make snow angels!”

Of course, this was another activity she had seen in films that she was dying to try for herself. 

“Alright,” you chuckle. “Why don’t we make snow angels while Daddy goes and warms up? He’s been out in the snow all day.”

The pout on Sophie’s face quickly tells you that she is not happy with this plan, and Ben swoops in before you can say anything else.

“I think I have a few snow angels left in me,” he smiles, picking Sophie up and balancing her on his hip. “Babe, can you start the hot chocolate while we finish up here?”

You raise an eyebrow at your husband but accept his proposal nonetheless, placing a quick kiss on both his and Sophie’s cheeks before heading inside. 

As you’re warming up the milk on the stovetop, you look out the window where Ben and Sophie are still playing, her excited giggles loud enough that you can hear her through the windowpane. 

Your heart is threatening to burst from the sweet scene, overflowing with love for your daughter and admiration for your amazing husband. No matter how tired he is from training, if he’s upset about a loss or injured or anything else, he always steps up for Sophie. You’ve known since you met him that he would be a great dad, but ever since you became parents, he’s continued to exceed your expectations.

Just as you’re pouring three steaming mugs of hot chocolate, you hear your family come in through the back door and begin to strip off their winter gear. 

To your delight, Sophie runs straight into the kitchen and hugs you tightly.

“I made five snow angels!” she exclaims as you run your hand up and down her back in an effort to warm her up. “Daddy made some big ones, too.”

“That’s amazing, love,” you smile, kissing her head. “You want some hot chocolate?”

“Yes! Can I put the marshmallows in?”

“Of course,” you say, lifting her up onto the counter and passing her the bag of mini marshmallows.

As much as she’s a daddy’s girl at heart, you also get your fair share of moments when your daughter seems to only want her mother. You know how special her bond is with Ben, and you really can’t blame her for how much she loves spending time with him, but you still cherish the little things that just for the two of you - making hot chocolate with extra marshmallows being one of them. 

You carry the tray of drinks into the living room with Sophie trailing behind, and find Ben already there getting the fireplace going and arranging some pillows and blankets.

“This looks cozy,” you smile, setting the drinks down and sitting on the floor across from him, Sophie following your lead. “Thanks, honey.”

“Thanks for making the hot chocolate, my loves,” Ben responds, glancing over at the tray that holds two regular Christmas mugs and one with the Frozen characters on it. He picks that one up and pretends to take a sip. “I assume this one is mine?”

“No, Daddy, that’s mine!” Sophie squeals, making both you and Ben laugh as he carefully passes it back to her. 

You all sip your drinks in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the warmth of the sweet beverages and the burning fire. 

“So, did you enjoy your first snow, Soph?” Ben asks. “Was it everything you hoped?”

“It was amazing!” Sophie confirms. “Thank you for playing, Daddy.”

“You’re welcome, angel,” Ben says with a soft smile as Sophie climbs into his lap and he kisses her rosy cheeks. 

It’s not long before she drifts off to sleep, tuckered out from playing in the snow and comforted by her dad’s embrace and the sound of you and Ben quietly talking about your days. 

Once she’s fully passed out, Ben carefully shifts her tiny frame over in his arms to make room for you on his other side and beckons you over. With him laying back against the sofa and you now laying against his chest, both of you watching your daughter sleep peacefully, you’re not sure you’ve ever felt more content. 

“That little girl absolutely adores you,” you comment, nuzzling further into Ben’s warmth.

“She must get that from her mum, then,” Ben jokes, making you roll your eyes for a moment before kissing his jaw, then his cheek.

“Mhm,” you nod, smiling as you reach his lips and kiss him slowly. 

When you pull back, Ben gazes lovingly at you for a moment before his eyes return to Sophie, her little hand curling around the material of his hoodie in her sleep.

“Babe?” Ben murmurs, and you nod again. “How would you feel about trying for another one?”

It takes everything in you not to betray yourself with a grin as you think about the tiny Christmas onesie and pregnancy test you boxed up and placed under the tree yesterday while Ben was picking Sophie up from daycare. 

It’s less than a week until Christmas - you can make it that long. 

“Let’s talk about it after the holidays?” you say for now, pressing another kiss to Ben’s lips. 

He nods with a smile, though you can see his mind wandering with thoughts of another little one to play in the snow and curl up by the fire and watching the same movies over and over with. 

It’s been the greatest joy of your life raising Sophie side by side with him, and you absolutely can’t wait to do it all again. 

[audreyscribes]

Ω PJO DEMIGOD HEADCANONS: ⚖ NEMESIS: Goddess of Balance, Retribution, and Vengeance wheel ♎

Author's note: Hello everyone! In lieu of posting the major gods demigod headcanons, here is the minor gods version! As usual these headcanons will contain what it's like being claimed and what it's like for the respective god and cabin, followed by a small story between you, the reader, and the respective demigod of that god. Thank you for reading and please like and reblog! [PJO MINOR GODS DEMIGOD HEADCANONS MASTERLIST] Disclaimer: To new fans or strictly TV watchers of the PJO series, future spoilers for the entire PJO series books will be referenced. Read at your own risk.

When you get claimed, it’s usually after one of the following: when you help exact revenge, serve justice, or rage vengeance. Of course when you hear those words, you’re going to think you have to do one of those large, epic moments but in reality, it’s pretty simple. That can be catching something unfair, doing what is right, getting back at your opponent, or simply saying No to something when it is unjust. When you get claimed, something feels balanced within you.

If you have some reservations about being a child of Nemesis, one of your half-siblings tells you it is an honour to be a child of Nemesis. Not just because Nemesis and what she stands for is important, if not sometimes harsh, but because Ethan Nakamura. You’re told about the tale of Ethan and who he was, how he was one of the inspirations for Percy to make the gods vow to claim their children and why the Minor gods have a cabin. You’re even shown the portrait of Ethan at his own altar in the cabin, as a reminder of his sacrifice and his life. If you’re lucky enough, Percy Jackson introduces himself and welcomes you himself to the Nemesis Cabin, just saying something “it was just right”. 

However, following that, they also warn you ‘an eye for an eye’ is more than what the eye can see. 

If you weren’t ambidextrous before, you are now. 

You’re always perfectly balanced and symmetry is important to you. Being fair is also an important factor in your life and one way or another, it will be done. 

Because of the domain Nemesis presides over, your cabin becomes a place that acts like a court. You and your siblings often get asked to preside or become mediators in arguments, and be the verdict who is the wrong and who is right. But the deciding factor is always fair. This also means you can pick out lies, though probably not to the extent of a child of Apollo.

You become a believer in working hard for your efforts, and you reap the rewards. If you’re not paid or treated fairly, everyone looks out. 

You know other people’s hubris by nature of Nemesis’s domain, so you know to be careful of ignorance and being modest. Just because you know other’s hubris, doesn’t mean you don’t have one. 

Given Nemesis is also known to be a distributor of fortune, neither good nor bad, the Nemesis Cabin has a connection with the Tyche Cabin, the goddess of Fortune and Luck. 

This isn’t a common fact, but Nemesis’ chariot is pulled by Griffins and you have a certain connection with them. If you manage to get your hands on a gryphon, and tame it, fairly, you’re allowed to ride them in camp. Just, don’t let them go near the Pegasus. Otherwise you’re going to get a long, stern lecture from Butch Walker. He’s still mad that one of the Nemesis children’s gryphons hurt Rainbow Dash. 

Speaking of pets and animals, you all have a goose or geese as its Nemesis’ animal. If you have encountered geese before or played the goose game, you know it’s a perfect fit. There has been one time, the Golden Goose, that lays the golden egg; however, it comes and goes as it pleases. Some of your siblings think it is Nemesis herself but who knows? Just don’t give any of the geese a knife or sword or weapon of any kind. Please, no one has recovered from that catastrophic event yet. The Apollo cabin doesn’t want a repeat of reattaching limbs by goose related causes any time soon, even if Paulo said he was okay.

When you get claimed, the feeling of being claimed is being merged with the sweet feeling of catharsis. You got back at one of the campers who has been mercilessly bullying you and trying to establish themselves as bigger than you. Everything came to a head when the two of you were put in a spar and all the time you’ve been honing your weapon skills and observing your opponent, you’ve finally had a perfect opportunity to exact your revenge. 

When you were given the moment to go, you readied your weapon, kept your grip firm, and attacked back. You pushed forward with anger and retribution as you swung and moved. You pushed your opponent further and further into a corner, and you kept knocking them onto their back, knees, and hands. You purposefully showed yourself drawing it out, showing them what it was like to be bullied and what it was like to be on the other end of their act; making them feel helpless, fearful, and shamed.

You decided to finish drawing out their punishment as you were declared the winner. People cheered for you, some louder who were once at your position, and as you raised your weapon in the air in victory, everyone gasped out and cheered harder as they saw the claim of Nemesis floating upon your head. 

You stared up wide-eyed at the claim as the announcement of your claim was yelled out for everyone to hear. You felt your mouth sour slightly as you remembered faintly from your mythology lessons about who Nemesis was. You weren’t entirely sure if you followed Nemesis’ reputation and domain. 

You see a boy come towards you as he looks you up and down before nodding in approval. “You’re definitely showed that you are a child of Nemesis. You delivered their punishment fairly and didn’t take it too far” he complimented. 

“Thanks…but I’m not sure if being a child of Nemesis can be entirely a good thing” you said truthfully, shrugging as you did. 

The guy rolled his eyes as he put his hands on his hips. “Nemesis isn’t an evil god and she’s just as important, like Ares either. The same goes for being her child. In fact it’s an honour” he said. 

“How?” you asked confused.

Damien smirked before he gestured for you to follow. “Because I’m also a child of Nemesis too. My name is Damien White, and I’m also the cabin leader for the Nemesis Cabin” he introduced before taking you to the cabin. You didn’t get a chance to look at the building before he opened it and guided you to a portrait inside. You saw a japanese looking boy who seemed a bit cold, especially with an eyepatch but clearly he was important with the amount of flowers and offerings that laid on the table below his portrait. 

“This was Ethan Nakamura, a child of Nemesis. He was the one who made a deal with our mother that brought back balance and helped inspire the hero Percy Jackson of the 2nd Titan War, where he used his divine wish to the gods to recognize the minor gods and their children in camp. His sacrifice is why the Nemesis cabin, and the other cabins are here” told Damien as he looked at the portrait of Ethan. He then turned to you, “Being a child of Nemesis is just as the same as the other demigods, but it’s more of an honour because our former brother.” 

You felt better as you nodded. “It might take a while to wrap my head around it but... I’m glad we’re related to such a demigod.”

Damien grinned and nodded, before he guided you out of the cabin, “Come on, I’ll help you grab your stuff from the Hermes cabin and get you settled in your new place.”

You nodded and when you had packed your stuff up, Damien grabbed your stuff for you to let you and another recently claimed demigod say goodbye to the Hermes cabin members, who was just claimed as a child of Tyche. They left first, since they came a bit earlier and their cabin leader was waiting for them outside. By the time you finished saying goodbyes, you came out to see your cabin leader arguing with a girl, who was also with the new child of Tyche. 

You saw Damien and the girl yelling at each other, almost getting into their faces and you thought of stepping forward to intervene, lest a cabin war breaks out. You don't know if it's a thing but you're not going to wait and find out. Before you could though, you're interrupted by a voice, 

“Oh don't worry about it, those two always argue with each other but they don't ever take it too far” you heard. 

You turned and saw a boy, with brown hair and blue eyes. He seemed familiar but you weren't sure where though. 

“Are you sure?” you said, looking at the two arguing people. 

The boy nodded as he took out his ukelele, plucking a few strings. Something to shift in the air, as you thought “Oh he's a child of Apollo maybe”. As if he heard your thoughts, you jumped when he turned to you with a smirk.

“The girl you see Damien arguing with is Chiara Benevnuti, daughter and cabin leader of Tyche, the goddess of Fortune and Luck. Nemesis and Tyche are sort of connected, so seeing their two children get along isn't unusual.”

“You call that getting along?” you replied skeptically. 

“Oh, you would be surprised. One time when the two of them were stuck in the medical tent, I saw Damien move to the cot next to Chiara and the two only argued with each other when people were around” snickered Lester. “If I were ever more poetic, I would say this is a perfect haters to lovers haiku right now.”

“Wait, how do you know this? Who are you?” you asked.

The boy smiled at you and you saw his blue eyes almost seemed like the sky for a moment. The sun glowed behind his head, highlighting his brown hair into what looked like gold. A shiver ran through you and you had an inkling of who this guy was. “My name is Lester Papadopoulous, nice to meet you.” 

[3-2-whump]

(Re)Living a Nightmare, part 2

<prev next>

You're still here? Okay, it's not gonna get any better for our poor boy. Do read and heed the tags/CW.

Basic Summary if You Decide to Skip

Also please skim this chapter and this chapter if you haven't already, because they will be referenced heavily in the story coming up

TW/CW: rape/noncon, bound and gagged and blindfolded whumpee, creepy/intimate whumper, knife play, neither safe nor sane nor consensual, blood (lots of blood), victim blaming, internalized victim blaming, whumpee and whumper unknowingly triggering each other, blunt force trauma to the head (face), panic

NOTE: The inner thoughts and opinions expressed within do not align with those of the author, who themself has never and would never condone such thoughts and opinions in real life. Reader Discretion is advised.

All Thomas asked of him was to change into clothes he wouldn’t mind replacing, which usually meant that whatever Khaled wore would be torn/burned/ stained so irreparably that it’d just be thrown away after. Already based on that request, Khaled could guess he was in for a rough night. He had no idea how much worse it could get until he was blindfolded, bound, gagged, and carried out the apartment and down to the cold garage, where the hard foot-well of the back seat waited for him. The car revved to life, and his restrained body lurched forward as Thomas pulled out of the garage and drove them to fuck knows where.

Eventually they came to a stop, Thomas exchanged some words with the night-shift guard at the old house, and then they kept going until they parked. Khaled slowly started to put the pieces together. They were back at the old house, which probably meant Thomas wanted to take him downstairs, which meant whatever he wanted to do to him would be too messy or too specialized to do back at the apartment. What is he planning? Khaled wondered. He’s asked me to wear my most expendable clothes, he’s tied me up like I used to be when I was recaptured, he’s thrown me into the back like when I was recaptured-

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the car door opening. He blindly tilted his head toward the chill of the night and the distant sound of frogs singing. A pair of calloused hands hauled him up from the foot-well of the back seat and slung him over a broad shoulder. “Thought you could escape me this time, did you?” his master’s voice purred in his ear.

A pit of dread competed with the chill of the early spring night in his bones as Khaled realized what all this preparation had meant. Master wants to roleplay my escape attempts. He began shivering, though not just because of the cold. A warm hand rested on his buttocks to steady him as he felt himself being carried inside, through the hallway, and to the front of a very familiar door. Reliving his failed escape attempts but with an added sexual element was one of Khaled’s recurring nightmares. What cruel irony was this, that he had begged so enthusiastically no more than half an hour ago for this man to make his nightmare come true?

The familiar creak of a door opening preceded the dusty, dried-blood smell coming from the stairs leading down into the cellar. Khaled pleaded through the rag stuffed in his mouth and the tape sealed over his lips as they descended the stairs step by concrete step. He tugged at the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles, but all that did was dig the hard plastic further into his flesh.

The cellar in the basement was the only room in Luciano Antonio Costa’s old house that didn’t get renovated when they converted the rest of it into an office space. Mainly because its purpose as a room for torture and interrogation never went obsolete. Khaled didn’t have to see it; he’d been down in the T&I cellar enough times to have the layout committed to memory. Dusty, red bricked walls arched into a curved ceiling where two overhead lamps hung by thick chains, illuminating the large expanse below. A fireplace and all its accompanying iron tools sat to the left, and a rack lined with various instruments of torture was positioned to the right. In the middle was one large table with scratch marks furrowed into its edges, and many other types of equipment were either shoved in a corner or hanging from the ceiling, suspended by heavy chains and hooks like morbid chandeliers. Partitioning a back portion of the room was a large iron gate leading to a small offshoot of the basement, much like a door to a prison cell. Not much lay beyond the iron gate besides a hard-worn bench and several opaque plastic storage tubs full of mysterious items.

Khaled squirmed as he was lowered onto his stomach on top of the familiar table. “What were you thinking,” scolded the nightmare looming above him. A faint swish of a pocket knife and cold steel next to his skin made Khaled pause his struggles as his master cut away the zip ties. “Escaping in this cold weather without so much as a scrap of clothing on you –did you even have a plan?” he taunted. “I don’t know what your plan was, or even if you had a plan, but was it really worth freezing yourself to death?”

Khaled enjoyed the freedom of his unbound limbs for only a moment until his wrists were snatched into a tight grip and gathered in front of him. A coarse and scratchy material –rope, most likely –began entangling around and in between his wrists as his master continued talking. “We have a tracking chip installed inside of you, remember? You can never escape me; I will always find you.” With a forceful tug, Khaled’s hands were pulled in front of him, then he couldn’t move his hands at all. The other end of the rope must have been tied off to the ring attachment at the edge of the table.

His ankles remained free, if only to make it easier to take his pants off.

There were some light shuffling noises before the wooden table groaned under a newfound weight. Khaled felt the body heat of another person leaning over him. The cologne Thomas wore quickly overpowered his senses as the man hovered close. Khaled could feel his master’s breath on his ear and something hard and stiff against his backside. “The last time you tried to run away, a friend of mine advised me to cut your tendons,” Thomas sultrily whispered.

Oh god no. By now, Khaled knew which escape attempt they were reenacting, and, coincidentally, it was the one he had nightmares about the most.

“I don’t want to permanently cripple you though,” Thomas sighed, “mostly because it would be even more of a hassle to care for you, but I will cripple you temporarily, at the very least...”

He could already hear the hiss of the iron.

His panicked cries took on a new pitch of desperation. Without warning, his master’s fingers pinched at the edge of the duct tape on Khaled’s mouth and pulled, making him scream in pain. The rag was quickly removed, only for his tormentor to shove his index and middle fingers past the boy’s teeth to depress his tongue. “Suck,” he growled, “because this is the only lube you’re going to get.”

“Please, no, not this one, please, please no, not this, not this,” Khaled begged around the fingers in his mouth.

The fingers quickly withdrew before Khaled’s head was yanked back by the hair and then smashed onto the table. Stars danced across his blindfold, and a faint trickle of something warm and wet escaped from his nose.

“Let’s try this again.” Thomas shoved his fingers back into the boy’s mouth, burying them to the knuckle and making the boy gag. “Suck.”

Khaled shakily worked his head up and down the length of the fingers as his tongue lapped at each digit. He started to cry. As soon as the fingers withdrew, his pleas picked up again in earnest. “Please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me-”

“Would you relax?! I’m not going to burn you!” Thomas shouted above him. “What about any of this looks like I’m gonna burn you?!” Khaled heard a frustrated huff above him as his master yanked down his pants and underwear, exposing his bare ass and legs to the cold. The shed clothing was discarded, landing with a soft whump somewhere behind them. The two digits that were in his mouth forcefully entered him below, all pretense of play forgotten as they began roughly working him open. “Besides which, weren’t you the one who wanted to do this? You asked for this, you wanted this! You said you would be good for me!”

And he was right, he did say he wanted this. He asked for this to happen. So, with a defeated sniffle, Khaled went quiet and limp.

“So, are you going to be good for me now?”

Khaled’s bruised forehead scraped against the table as he nodded.

“Thank fuck,” Thomas grumbled.

I asked for this, Khaled told himself. The darkness around his eyes became damp as the blindfold caught his tears. I asked for this, I wanted this. He repeated it like a mantra as the man on top of him replaced his fingers with his cock and steadily screwed him against the table. I asked for this, I wanted this. Something tore down there as an unmistakable thin, warm, and sticky fluid trickled past the cock pummeling his hole. I wanted this. I wanted this…

I didn’t want this.

I never wanted this. Any of this.

I don’t want this. Slowly, the new mantra gained strength, and he let the words slip between his lips with every shuddering breath. “I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this-”

“Tough shit,” his master grunted.

Khaled pulled against the rope restraining his hands as he struggled against the body pressing into his. “I don’t want this! I don’t want this! I don’t want this! I-” Again, Khaled’s face was smashed against the table. He heard a faint crunch as a new river of blood flowed out of his nose.

“You can scream all you want, nobody’s going to hear you,” Thomas growled, “but for fucks sakes, can you please scream something less annoying?!”

Khaled kept repeating it between every sniffle, like a sad broken record. “I don’t want this,” he sobbed. “I don’t want this… I don’t want this…”

His begging finally outwore Thomas’ need to finish. “Fuck,” his master huffed, unsticking his sweaty torso from Khaled’s clothed back as he pulled out of him. Khaled collected his heaving breaths. It would be too naïve of him to believe his bitchy whining finally got through, but he would appreciate this moment while he could.

He suppressed his sobs and tilted his head to follow the footsteps and shuffling sounds Thomas was making as he tried to guess what would happen to him next. Khaled heard the faint schwing of a different knife being unsheathed. It cut through the flimsy fabric of his t-shirt as his master finally completely undressed him, tearing away the scraps of cotton the knife didn’t excise from his body. “You said you would be good for me, but you have been anything but!” A twisted strip of cloth was wedged between his teeth and hastily tied off at the back of his head. His master’s hand pinned him down by the back of the neck, crushing him against the table with the weight behind it. “You said you missed me, but you’ve only fought against me this whole time!” Khaled screamed into the gag as the tip of the knife sank in between his shoulder blades. Its blade dragged tortuously and deliberately through his skin as his tormentor continued griping above him. “You’re a fucking liar, you know that?” The knife mercifully lifted from the trough it had carved, only to be plunged into a new area of Khaled’s back. “Do you know what I do to liars, boy? I make them pay!” The raw wounds on his back wept with blood as the knife kept slicing, spilling over his sides and pooling underneath his stomach and the table below. It was hard to cry with a gag in his mouth and a broken nose full of blood. He gasped for breaths between sobs, never quite getting a satisfying breath before the pain of the knife would make him scream again. His tears slipped past the saturated blindfold and tracked down his cheeks to join the pinkish smear of saliva, snot, and blood he could feel covering the lower half of his face. “This is for Callahan!” The knife drove down and sliced another line through his skin for each name the monster dropped. “This is for Trémeaux! And Robinson, and Martinez, and Kruger, and Kościelsky, and this-” The knife dug deeper this time. Khaled bit into the gag as his nerves screamed in agony, the steel scraping something hard as it dragged against his back. “-this is for my brother; he is never coming back! Tony is never coming back, and it’s all because of you!” the monster above him roared.

It was in that moment, between the terror and the pain, that Khaled realized with a fascinated horror that his master was reliving a nightmare, too. I need to snap him out of it if I’m getting out of this cellar alive, he realized. So, he set his own trauma and pain aside and began doing what got him into this mess in the first place. The twisted cloth had loosened just enough. He pushed it out of his mouth with his tongue and started begging as if his life depended on it, because this time, it really did.

“I didn’t kill him!” he cried.  “I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill him!” Khaled screamed well past the point his throat hurt. “Master, please, I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill any of them! I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill him, Master, I didn’t kill him…” If the knife had stopped cutting into him and the rope around his wrists had been untied, Khaled was too far gone in his panic induced catatonia to notice. “I didn’t kill him… I didn’t kill him…” he rasped through a throat torn raw from screaming.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood

[pennyellee]

preview of chapter V

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

chapter warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, , manipulation, possessive/obsessive behaviour, angst, mentions of God, mentions of feminism, spanking, kidnapping, drug use, alcohol, manhandling, mentions of murder, mentions of abuse, abduction

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 708

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

author's note: i really thought i would get this preview out sooner but life stumbled upon my feet so i had to deal with that. Anyway! Here is the preview of chapter V that is hopefully coming out next week. This one is going to be slightly longer than the previous one, hence the name of the chapter that you'll know once it's out ♥ Enjoy the preview and stay tuned for chapter V ♥ Lots of love.

m.list CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V

“You knew?” She asked finally, tears welling up in her eyes yet again. His presence only made her feel everything at once. His calm demeanour contrasted starkly with the tempest that brewed within her.

“I did,” his expression was calm and attentive.

“Why keep it a secret?” She said more as a statement than a question.

His gaze did not waver, his response forthcoming. “I wanted you to focus on us, sweetling,” his voice was both tender and unapologetic. Y/N’s lips parted, the words of reproach she had prepared faltering on her tongue.

“You want me to be a Buin, yet you won’t even ask for my blessing. It’s my little sister Yoongi.”

“And that my love, is why I’m letting you decide this. Will that union be beneficial to us, Buin?”

“I’m too biased to think of your clan matters, Kkangpae.” She clapped back at him, speaking honestly.

“And by only looking at you, it was decided way before I got to know.”

The young man was looking at his future spouse in amusement. “Actually, I planned to arrange a marriage between her and Namjoon, but Taehyung swept her away it seems.” Her eyes snapped back at him. The threat that her sister would be married off to Namjoon was loud and clear even before. Namjoon was a decent man for proposing a deal to her, but Y/N wouldn’t stop being careful around that man, nonetheless let Yoongi give him Xiaoli.

“Therefore, I think the cards tossed themselves without me touching them, but still, this will be your call.” Y/N was eyeing him with suspicion. He never put any deciding matter in her hands before, nor did he share that much from clan matters, even when he suggested she could be involved as much as she wished.

“I want your word that he is a good man.” She said finally. With her glass in hand, she sipped the fiery liquid, scrunching her face at the taste. “Promise me, Yoongi,” her voice trembled, the plea she had held within her finding its voice. “Promise me that he’s a good man, that she’ll be safe with him.”

“Of course, he is. She’ll be better off with him. I promise.” He answered. A softness lingered in his gaze, a tenderness that bore the weight of unspoken promises.

“Father will be pissed.” She said to him, expecting any reaction. Y/N’s grip on the glass tightened, the cold surface pressing into her palm.

A wry smile tugged at his lips, a fleeting acknowledgment of the complexities that had marred their familial relationships.

“We have weathered such storms before, my dear.”

“Something tells me, this isn’t why you wanted me to come.” Said she, with determination in her tone.

A sigh escaped him, the weight of his responsibilities etched into his features. His hands raked through his dark hair; a gesture borne of frustration. “Can’t I just simply long for spending time with you, my dear?” his voice is gentle and inviting.

“It’s more than that,” she pressed, a knowing glint in her eyes.

“You constantly keep disobeying me, love.” He said a bit more harshly than he wanted. Y/N frowned slightly. She knew he was right; she had been defying his orders and going against his wishes, seeking an escape route whenever she could.

“How did you manage to sway them all? My mother, my sister, even Kai.” She asked suddenly, her voice held a venomous edge. A chuckle escaped him, laden with both amusement and resignation. Frustration bubbled within her, an anger and sorrow that had remained carefully concealed.

“Maybe because they know this is God’s will, and it was meant to be.” He straightened himself in the chair, fighting his own fight with his frustrated mind. The young leader thanked and prayed to God every night for granting him her as a life companion. He, however, knew that she needed to be tamed.

Frustration bubbled within her, an anger and sorrow that had remained carefully concealed. The next words just happened to be forbidding the unforgivable.

“To hell with you and your God,” the words escaped her lips in a defiant hiss, a proclamation that cut through the air like a blade. And this was the last straw for Yoongi.

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coming soon

©pennyellee. please do not repost

Don't be a silent reader, comment, re-blog, heart, asks are more than welcome ♥

keep in mind - I'm not expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction.

let's be friends chummers ♥

lots of love, 𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖞𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊

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[al-astakbar]

☆ The Gift -- Thrawn x reader ☆

> title ☆ The Gift ☆part 7/?

> summary ☆ As congratulations for his recent promotion to Grand Admiral, Emperor Palpatine gives Thrawn a gift -- a young woman who has been trained as a pleasure companion.

> pairing ☆  Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [2.2k] ☆ warnings for this part ☆ sex, mentions of bondage > series warnings ☆ dubious consent; sexual slavery; concubine/ sex slave AU; will add more warnings as more parts are posted

>series navigation ☆ part 1 ☆ part 2 ☆ part 3 ☆ part 4 ☆ part 5 ☆ part 6 ☆ part 7 ☆ part 8 ☆ part 9 ☆ part 10

> posted on ao3

author note!! To be very clear, in this story reader is a concubine against her will and is gifted to Thrawn, but there is at no point any noncon between Thrawn and reader. Reader is never noncon with anyone, either referenced or explicitly, and there is never any explicit noncon. However, this is a darker take on Thrawn and he doesn't really have many hangups about putting his gift to use...

When you get back to his quarters, he puts you over his desk and gives you a slow, thorough fucking. Compounded with how you had denied yourself the night before, he leaves you tender and aching with need. 

It need not be like this every time. 

He cleans you up again. Gentle attention that you think the schedule of a Grand Admiral should not have time for. He does it as intently as you’ve seen him do everything else, a lingering touch as he wipes his spend from your thighs. You can’t help a quiet moan nor the quiver that goes through you when he runs the cloth over your labia.

“Would you like to be alone?” His voice is low, soft, his expression knowing. 

Damn him, you almost--almost-- say yes. “No.”

/////

For you, the rest of the day is quiet. You stay in the small sitting area, reading on the datapad, or else looking at the art or out the viewport at the blue stream of hyperspace.

If this is a template for how your days will be aboard the Chimaera, you suppose you will have to get used to monotony and loneliness. In the time Thrawn is at his desk, he hardly acknowledges you. After a lunch without conversation (he eats nothing), he goes into another room of the suite that is locked to you and does not come out for several hours.

By dinner you are restless, and almost glad for his company.

Two serving droids bring the meal and lay out two place settings at the small dining area next to the huge viewport in his main cabin. 

When the meal is cleared away, Thrawn’s plate again untouched, he tells you that you may spend the rest of the evening reading. That is better, you suppose, than what was permitted during your training in the cloister on Coruscant, where you couldn’t access the holonet. Still, you miss having embroidery to work on, and nameless, faceless friends to whisper to while doing chores.

Several times, you glance up from the datapad to find Thrawn looking at you appraisingly, as if trying to decide what to do with you. 

/////

The rest of the trip to the Outer Rim passes in much the same way. You were expecting the passage of time in space to feel strange, after so long planet-side, but for the most part it doesn’t. The ship maintains its own day/night rhythm. The lights cycle on and off. The crew work in shifts, though there isn’t much to do yet, this early in a deployment. 

Thrawn wakes you at the same time every morning, you go to the bridge with him and observe silently from a corner. Ronan, to your frustration, continues to pretend like you don’t exist. 

You find little ways to annoy your new master: leaving your clothes all over the floor, blowing bubbles in your drinks, persistently asking him questions while he’s trying to work. More than once you push him too far and he strips you naked, ties you kneeling beside his desk. Sometimes a gag if he particularly wants quiet. Every time he does, you sit there fuming, petulant and humiliated, but you never fight him on it. Not really. You’d never admit it to him, or to anyone, but the restraint is almost calming.

Thoughts of your time on Coruscant linger in your mind most days, especially with little else to occupy you. The datapad, you’ve found after more searching and testing, has limited accesses, so you can’t get much new to read or watch. Thrawn’s art collection, while interesting at first, becomes familiar and mundane. By this point you think you could name each piece in order with your eyes closed. 

“I miss my friends,” you say aloud one evening. You don’t even really mean to say it to him, he’s just there, as always, reading quietly. 

He looks up. “Your friends on the city planet?”

You nod, suddenly a little shy. He actually sounds interested.

“The two who were with you at the ceremony did not seem friendly.” 

“Not the ones you saw. Mirri and Solis. They weren’t-- they weren’t nice. They were always there, they made sure we didn’t misbehave.”

Something flashes in Thrawn’s eyes-- perhaps he has something to say about the ineffectiveness of their methods when it comes to your own behavior. But instead he just asks more about what it was like, and you find no reason not to tell him. You were not supposed to use your own name, or anyone else’s. Your face was nearly always covered, so you had never really known what any of the others being trained looked like-- only brief glimpses. Shadowy impressions, a beautiful girl with light hair and eyes, a boy younger than you with curly brown hair and full lips, countless others.

None of you were supposed to acknowledge each other in any way that could remind you of your individuality, but you had still talked to them. Learned who they were by their voices and brief glimpses of exposed hands. You could tell a lot from that. From the skin tones and length and number of fingers. Not all were humans. You had seen other skin tones, like blue and green and yellow and orange, and some you could tell had to be Twi’leks from the way the hoods draped over their heads and lekku. Some wanted to be there, thought it would raise their social standing. Some were like you, unwilling and defiant. Some were broken, with no voice. 

They were all strangers, essentially. You had traded stories in hushed whispers, of others who had come before you, and their fates with cruel or kind masters. But most who left the cloister just disappeared. You would have no way of finding them again. 

“They were still my friends,” you add, a little defensive.

Until now, Thrawn has listened intently as you tell him all this, but offered no comment or reassurance. “I have no doubt,” he says softly.  

In his quarters, he fucks you efficiently and regularly, driving you closer to madness and relief every time. He knows what he is doing to you. He tells you he can feel how slick and tight you are, how good you feel, your lovely cunt takes my cock so well. He knows how his voice affects you, he feels you push your hips back to meet his when he murmurs obscene praise against your neck. He knows you still deny yourself pleasure, even as you moan his name and spread your legs to take him deeper.

At meals, you eat methodically while he watches you and eats nothing. Not even a sip of water, caf, nor the emerald wine served with supper, which is delicious. It makes you lightheaded, since you haven’t had alcohol since before arriving on Coruscant, over a year ago. The food is much richer than you’re used to as well. You mention both of these things to him one evening, instead of accusing him of being a creep for just sitting there staring at you. 

“It’s the standard meal served in the galley,” he explains. “Breakfast and lunch, too. Other than these accommodations and my pay, I claim few privileges. I eat the same as my crew does.”

You snort, taking a pointed sip of wine. Was that pronouncement supposed to win you over? “I’m sure the crew appreciates your humility and all the sacrifices you’ve made.”

“Perhaps.” 

“I’m willing to bet they don’t get a wine ration either.”

“They don’t,” he confirms. 

You have a moment to feel smug, having gotten him to admit some small hypocrisy. 

“You speak as if you’ve been in their position,” he says. “Have you served aboard a starship before? Prior military, perhaps? Or mercenary work.”

You freeze, glass halfway to your lips. For a moment, you consider denying it, but he misses nothing. Your reaction has already given it away. But if he guesses anything more specific-- it’s something you’d really rather not admit, especially to a Grand Admiral. “How’d you get that from wine rations and humility?” 

“You aren’t particularly… cordial… with officers. You know enough about ships to be impressed with the Chimaera-- on the approach the other day,” he specifies. 

“Anyone would be.”

“You have a sense of how ships function, how information flows among the crew-- “ he pauses with a slight frown. “My apologies. There is a word for it in my native tongue. I do not know its equivalent in Basic.”

“Gossip?” 

He shakes his head. “It is slang for the spread of rumors among the junior enlisted, as both an information network and a pastime.”

“How do you say it in your language?”

Thrawn hesitates. You think you might see some odd reluctance in his expression, but he masks it quickly, and answers. “Csarrob.” 

You try repeating it, but can’t quite form your lips and tongue to mimic the sounds. “The ships I was on called it the underground. Or the mafia, depending on what ship and what part of the galaxy.”

Thrawn goes quiet for a moment, the type of quiet you’ve come to recognize as the times he is thinking, and about to say something inconveniently perceptive. He sits back in his chair, one arm crossed over his chest, his other hand touching his chin. You’ve seen the same pose on the bridge-- with a dangerous edge to his usual even tone, he says one word that makes your heart drop. “Rebel.” 

There’s no way he could have known, nobody could have told him-- coming to the cloister, everyone’s identity was wiped clean. No one there had known, there were no records. You’d been given a new name, a new chain code. 

“You served on Rebel ships,” he presses.

You swallow a large gulp of wine and nod. 

His eyes seem to glow brighter. “And your position? Not very high, I would imagine, given that you’re here.”

Your mouth feels too dry. “Yeah, I was-- I was nothing, really. I was nobody. I served meals and mended uniforms. Fixed radios, cleaned blasters. Anything that needed to be done.” And though you’re loathe to admit it, your time so far with Thrawn has been luxurious compared to your short stint in the Rebellion. You had barely thought about it for so long, you’d almost forgotten. It had been buried, deep, and you’d never even thought to worry someone might find out.

“And you believed you needed to conceal this from me,” he says. “Explain your reasoning.”

“Other than…” you gesture at him. At his uniform. His rank. He gives you a level stare, as if to say ‘continue.’  “Fine. Well, I wasn’t trying to hide anything. It’s not a very exciting story. I was captured. Eventually sent through the ISB system. They interrogated me and then recommended me for the training.”

“So. You’ve been… domesticated.” He puts a sly twist on the word, suggestive in a way that makes arousal knife through you.

Your instinct is to glare at him, but you only manage to sound petulant. “Should I be kneeling at your feet during meals?”

“Perhaps. You might find that you enjoy it.”   

This sets your mind spinning, and it’s all you can think about the rest of the evening as you try to read on the datapad. He has unbalanced you so easily. The incisive deductions about your past -- ‘Rebel’ in his smooth, modulated voice replays in your mind over and over-- though he does not seem angry about it, or hateful, like you would expect of an Imperial. Only intrigued. 

As for the idea he’d put in your head… kneeling at his feet. During meals, or maybe while he’s working. He already makes you do it while restrained, but to settle there at his side by your own choice… Somehow the thought of it is calming, almost a fantasy. Sitting on the couch, you steal a glance at Thrawn, who is engrossed with something at his desk. You take a deep, slow breath. He might let you lean your head against his leg. Stroke your hair idly as he occasionally reads aloud from whatever he’s working on, his voice cool and soft. He seems to like your hair. He often touches it when he has you over his desk, brushing it off your face or combing his fingers through it as he fucks you and fills you over and over. 

Later, through the night and the following days and weeks, you try to keep yourself at a distance from him. It doesn’t really help. You find yourself unable to keep your eyes off him. Even in the privacy of your own thoughts, he holds this power over you.

You sit up attentively when you hear the hatch opening which signals his return. You listen when he speaks, though that isn’t often. He rarely chooses to share with you, and it only makes you more curious for information about him, his thoughts-- anything. In the meantime, you watch him, observing carefully, entranced by his quiet manner and his utter command over himself and his ship. 

Noticing that he was attractive before that was different, you rationalize. Anyone could see that. Just as anyone could pass a particularly attractive person on the street and notice them, but not spend the next month falling under their thrall. And each time you spread your legs for him, you tell yourself it’s because you agreed, because he convinced you that all the alternatives were worse. Not because you might, just a little, like his attention.

☆ link to part 8 ☆

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[queerprayers]

1/2- Sorry if this is a weird ask. You're a person of sincere faith who doesn't judge and I'm desperate for outside opinions. I've recently learned that many modern tarot readers don't believe in divination or spirits, but rather that the images on the cards can help us think about things and bring out deeper ideas from our own subconscious. Zero future telling, only for self reflection. That sounds ok to me, and using the cards for visio divina has done really good things for my prayer life.

2/2- But still I worry- what if the more conservative types are right and all use of the cards is bad? What if it's displeasing to God? I beg and pray but I can't seem to find any peace or inner sense of guidance on the topic. Can you please pray for me, and share any wisdom you might have about this? Thank you so much.

Hello, beloved--I don't think this is weird at all! There's so much fearmongering among Christians about things being Satanic or pagan or whatever else, and it's important to not give into that panic while also taking our faith seriously.

None of the people I know who have been interested in tarot do it as a religious or really even spiritual practice--for most of them, it's been a fun thing, like getting your fortune read at a county fair, and it's not something to "believe in" so much as do and think about. I also know people who, as you said, find it useful for reflection, usually for finding new ways of looking at things. I'm not scared of tarot, and I don't think it's demonic.

Christian history is full of things like opening your Bible to a random page to see what God has in store for you or protecting yourself from evil spirits or saying a certain prayer so that a saint will do something for you. Everyone has these superstitious instincts, to find stories in chance, to not waste the few things that are in our control. I don't think there's inherent evil there--evil comes when we trust these things more than God, when we look in our own actions more than God's, when we think we can know the full story, when we try to pin God down. And I don't think superstition with Christian wrappings is any less superstitious, or any more truthful, to be honest.

A lot of people fearmongering about stuff like this are scared about where it might lead--that you'll end up somewhere chanting around a human sacrifice. And of course there are people who start with harmless religious experiences and end up in evil places--lots of Christians go to a potluck and end up believing in prosperity gospel and putting their kids in conversion therapy. But I don't hear you in danger of abandoning God or of harming anyone. And any religious practice can go too far, no matter how pure its roots. What you bring to the practice makes up most of whether you are reaching out toward God with it, and we can balance it with other traditions and other impulses.

In case someone's using the Bible to scare you: what the Bible tells us about fortune-telling/magic/communing with spirits is from a very specific Ancient Israelite perspective that I'm not qualified to unpack, but we don't find it an applicable worldview today. We have different ideas of how to live in community with other religions, and religious practices serve very different functions. We don't follow Ancient Israelite cultic practices--nor do modern Jewish people, for that matter. Christian practice has developed in the past two millennia in so many directions, and barely any of it would be recognizable to the Biblical authors. I obviously trust that God gave us these writings for a reason, and am not saying to ignore them--we can find useful ideas, but not a rule book.

The tarot deck most people know was created in 1909 by an occult secret society, who used symbols from Christianity and astrology. I think it's misguided to find truth in them as they exist, but neither do I think they're inherently evil--they're archetypes, stories. They're just human. I find occult secret societies generally more silly than demonic--although there is lots of racism/cultural appropriation in their histories. I respect those who avoid tarot based on its origins, just as I respect those who won't do yoga because it's a Hindu practice. But so many things come from non-Christian origins, and we cannot throw away the world if we want to live in community with it. (Yes, we are called to be set apart from the world as Christians, but also to love it--there is the line we must walk.)

There is real Biblical precedent for avoiding a practice associated with things outside of your faith--ancient Israelite religion was very concerned with these associations. Paul did not think meat that had originally been offered to pagan gods was sinful to eat, but basically advised people not to eat it because of how it would affect others or perhaps normalize idol worship. These are things we're continually navigating, and in any Christian community you're gonna have to be clear where your faith lies and probably answer some questions. I think it's a good thing that we're called to be purposeful, and to be aware how our actions affect others.

So my general advice would be to really think about it, to do it all purposefully, paying attention to how it affects your life, relationships, and practice, and whether it's bringing you to the life you know God wants from you (one of love). But this sounds like what you're already doing! I think you care more about this than most people I know, and you're coming to God genuinely--these are gifts.

Prayer is sensory, story-filled, interactive. It's a way of moving through the world. You say this has done good things for your prayer life, and I believe you. Contemplation is a major Christian prayer tradition. Anything can give us a new perspective, anything can shove us toward the truth. You're not causing harm, and neither are you abandoning your faith. There are other people navigating the same things as you--Contemplative Tarot is a book by a Catholic tarot practitioner, and it looks really interesting. I know people who have made their own tarot cards, and I wonder what that would look like with more intentional Christian symbolism/stories, even saints. Sometimes I pick a random prayer card to say--this is coincidence, and while it's not something I'm depending on, it does affect how my day goes.

Don't fall for anything or anyone that claims to know the ultimate truth, don't fall for the people who say that tarot has ancient Egyptian/kabbalah roots, don't fall for people who are just selling you things, don't believe anyone who tells you the truth is inside you if they aren't making clear that it's God that's living there, don't base your entire religious practice on something like this. But don't throw away a way of looking at things if God has led you through it. Don't put your life in the hands of cards, but move through your life with stories and new perspectives and contemplation. God's mercies are new every morning.

I don't know if I've given you peace--maybe just more questions. The good news is, you don't have to figure it all out now, and the bad news is you'll never figure it all out. Religious practice is a continuous dialogue and negotiation with the world. I have faith in you, and in the ways God is moving in your life. Bring Jesus with you, wherever you end up--he'll come regardless, of course, but see it happening. A man with a sword or a cup doesn't know your future, nor is he doing anything--but you know that. You're seeing more of the story, you're contemplating the wonders of God, you know the swords and cups that matter, and they are present with you, and seeing them everywhere is a gift.

Something my mother says before I start anything new, or go anywhere important--what she said when I went to the psych ward, and on the first days of school, and when I go to a protest--is "remember your baptism." I think my grandfather said it to her, too. I don't know whether you've been formally baptized, but remember your calling. Remember the beginning of your journey, and why you're still on it, and how you're being a representative of it. Remember your baptism, whatever that means to you. We have been marked with the cross of Christ forever.

<3 Johanna

[cookiesupplier]

Every Rose Has Its Thorns - Part Twenty-Nine

pairing: Ricky Olson x ofc x Chris 'Motionless' Cerulli

warnings/tropes: slow burn, soulmates, strangers to enemies to lovers, betrayal, angst, fluff, smut, language, panic attack, stalking, online bullying.

summary: In a world where soulmates inexplicably receive a tattoo that will match that of their soulmate the moment they turn eighteen years old, being famous and covered in very visible tattoos can make finding your true soulmate a questionable fate. For everyone involved.

author’s note: Unbeta'd, readers beware as always lol.

tags: @tearfallpixie @cncohshit @jordynyingling0219 @faceless-mirror @nyxthedestroyerofworlds @wild-child-7747 @witchyweeb34 @black-damask1999 @jilliemiw86 @ilovesamkiszka @lyschko666 @lacktoesandtoddlerants @bngurngheart @collapsedglasshouses @laurpartyprogram @sunsshinesunny @malerieee @talialovesmiw

Tag List is Open, please let me know if you would like to be added to it or in general.

What. The. Fuck.

The doctor had been no help at all. If anything he’d been worse than no help because the man had pretty much told him from the tests he’d gotten back during his post tour check up, he seemed like he was in perfect health. When Chris had told him about his shoulder, of course, he’d examined him, but then he’d come up with nothing. Nothing. 

Hearing that had echoed in Chris’ head, over and over, even as the doctor ordered more tests, an ultrasound, and x-ray, just to cover their bases, make sure that nothing was going seriously wrong with his joint. He might not be an athlete, but performing was a part of his life, he’d rather not do it in pain, and having a doctor that understood that was important. But mostly Chris was just lost in his head right now as he left the office.

He was sitting in his car thinking about the fact that right then, at least, he’d found nothing. He could tell Ricky that there were still more tests, but, would that matter when Chris, Chris had felt his mark, it had reacted yesterday. It had been reacting, he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t, but it had been aching, hurting, and it just.. What was happening.

Should he call one of his friends that did the soulmate research? Should he log in to one of the message boards to see if anyone else had heard of people with deceased soulmates getting this kind of, of, sensations?

He was so confused.

The most confusing part was that fucking kiss, if he was honest. It had been barely a peck on the lips, and it had turned his head around, but that had been from the tingle in his skin that had followed it.. The tingle that screamed at him, why did he bother coming to the doctors at all, when the tiniest kiss had made the very skin his soulmate mark sit on, feel like that? Because his soulmate was dead, that was why. Furthermore, Ricky was Talia’s soulmate, not his. End of story. 

It wasn’t even the first time Ricky had kissed him, nor the most intense. They’d completely made out before, years ago, before he’d gotten engaged to Julia, or Ricky had met Grace.. Before either of their lives had gotten fucked up. Had his mark reacted then? No. Not at all. So why was it reacting now? It didn’t make any sense to him. 

Should he ask the boards, call one of his researcher friends.. Or, should he do as he had promised yesterday, just go home and talk to Rick about what the doctor said, and go from there?

Split the difference, he wasn’t calling his researcher friend yet, because this wasn’t just about him, this was about Rick, and in turn Talia too. Chris wasn’t going to talk to anyone else without them agreeing first. However, he could do something anonymously. He pulled out his phone, made sure his VPN was running, and went to post a question to the board as a guest only.

Ever heard of anyone with a Passed Soulmate, that's started experiencing strange sensations from their tattoo, during specific moments. For e.g. Intimate contact, aka, kissing? Strange sensations such as distinct tingling, almost burning up etc.

Chris paused, before sending the message from his phone and posting it on the board, not sure what kind of responses he would get; after he did that, he closed the window so he wasn’t tempted to just sit there and keep refreshing the page and waiting. Even then, it took a moment of restraint for him to not open his phone again and check the post almost instantly. Chris knew he wasn’t likely to get a response already, didn’t make it easier not to feel the need to want some sort of answer, something, anything to sooth this feeling inside of him. After a moment, he knew what he should do, go home, go home and do what he said he was going to do, touch base and talk to Ricky. Last time, he learned the hard way that he needed to talk to thigh around him more, to connect with others and stop isolating himself, just like he’d watch Ricky do dealing with Grace despite his warnings. As difficult as all this was, as painful as everything was concerning losing his soulmate had turned out to be, which was shocking because for the longest time he had been so in love, so happy, he’d convinced himself he didn’t need a soulmate, and then it all slipped through his fingers.. 

He didn’t know which had hurt more, losing his fiancé, or his soulmate.

One knew him and still chose to walk out of his life, and the other, never got to make that choice. Neither would be something he wished on anyone else. As he drove, he tried not to be distracted from the buzz of notifications of his phone, forcing himself not to look, his car system not telling him they were texts or calls so they weren’t important. Even if they were from the message board. They could wait until he got home.

He pulled over to the side to check a second later. He was too impatient to wait until he got home, obviously. 

Oh, it was a reply to his message alright, another anonymous one. 

Man, sounds like you got a tattoo STD, be careful you going kissy kissy with 😘😘😘

Chris threw his phone down on the seat of his car with a groan. 

“Shit.”

The message board was only for those with tattoos, eighteen and up with verification, but it never stopped underage little shits from getting in.. and even then, he couldn’t even be sure it was someone that was underage. For a board that was supposed to help people, some of them were complete morons despite claims to have lost their soulmate. There were days that some people just seemed to only want to be there to spread the pain, and it made Chris irate sometimes. Massaging his temples, he started his car again and continued to drive home. 

Ricky had been messaging Talia most of the morning, worried about Chris. He found himself wanting to make sure that she was doing okay as well, knowing that she had to be dealing with a lot, not just with her break down, but also after the backlash with Grace. He was thankful, though, that the general response to his video had so far seemed to be positive in light, or at least, what was still visible.

By the time he had gotten online to check to see what was happening with social media, so much had already happened. Even though he’d turned off the ability to comment on the video he had made himself about the soulmate situation, the fans always found a way to talk about it. Whether it was commenting on past videos, past Instagram posts, tweets, or whatever you called them on the X app now, there was always a way for the fans to make themselves known, whether it be for good or bad. 

Ricky had a feeling there was at least a lot of hate that had disappeared before he got online, probably that he would never have seen anyway, considering he’d been informed that Grace had deleted all of her online profiles. An in pouring of support had come for him, Talia, Ava, and Vinny after the way they’d been treated after Grace’s Instagram live. After the hate that they’d all gotten for the way she claimed they’d acted in her version of events. Was it horrible that Ricky almost felt bad that he could cause a person's opinion to turn on a dime with nothing but his word?

Almost.

He’d been honest, though, and Grace hadn’t. She’d forced his hand and if she’d left well enough alone he would never have made the video. If she had left it as an amicable breakup it would have never come to this, but she hadn’t. Grace had been the one to push, and the tide had eventually turned against her. He might feel the tiniest bit bad that they’d turned on her on only his word, and he had no proof of her actions other than that, but he’d done nothing but tell his truth.

None of this however was making him feel good.

According to Talia, Vinny and Ava were happy with everything that was happening. Ecstatic even. Ricky, however, he was still worried. He’d thought Grace was gone before, he’d broken up with her, kicked her out of the house, changed the locks, up the security, blocked her. Stalkers were dangerous, the problem with them, was not knowing where they were going to pop up next.

Ricky would have preferred if she had kept her accounts online. At least then someone would have been able to see what she was doing, wherever she was. He was taping out a message to Talia, she had asked if he’d heard back about Chris yet, just as he heard his car coming up the drive. Deleting the message he’d been writing about the fact he wasn’t home, sending instead that he was just getting in, and he’d let her know, just as Chris was walking in through the door. Slipping his phone into his pocket then, Ricky just glanced up at him slightly, but other than that, he didn’t say a thing. He didn’t want to put any pressure on Chris, even if he had said he’d talk to him.

Chris saw Ricky the moment he walked into the sitting room, he was just there, waiting on a couch, typing on his phone like it was every day, like that peck on his lips yesterday hadn’t changed everything. Sure, his shoulder had already been playing up, but that kiss and the feeling that had come with it had been intense and absolutely impossible to ignore. It hadn’t just been some almost random ache in his shoulder.. while watching his best friend with his soulmate..

Fuck.. fuck, was he jealous of Ricky, was that what this was? Talia was amazing though, And Ricky’s mark reacted to her, why was Chris reacting to him? It wasn’t like he wasn’t attracted to Talia too, he was, he couldn’t hurt Jelly Bean like that, he wouldn’t.

Swallowing..

“He didn’t find anything.. Ordered some more tests, x-ray, ultrasound.. But uh,”

Chris was looking down at his hands as he started pacing along the length of the couch, off to the side from where Ricky was sitting. He didn’t even dare to look up to see if Ricky’s attention had come up from his phone when he continued to speak.

“I know it’s not my shoulder, I know that you were right. Something is happening with my mark.”

Closing his eyes as he held his breath for a moment. When Ricky didn’t say anything, maybe he wasn’t even listening, who the hell was he kidding, of course Rick was listening. Glancing up from his hands, his thumb digging into his palm nervously, instantly, his amber brown eyes meeting Rick’s stormy blues and his mark was tingling again, shit.. Shit shit shit..

“Chris-”

Before he could continue, Chris cut him off.

“It tingled when you kissed me, Ricky.”

That, was not what Rick expected him to say about his mark. Not from what he’d observed when it came to the moments Chris reacted to his shoulder..

“Me? Don’t you mean Talia? Your shoulder is always playing up around Talia.. When she was upset, when you were sitting with her the other night, and we were joking around..”

Shaking his head, he had been sure that Chris was forming some sort of attachment to Talia. He knew it was going to be difficult enough considering the way Ricky’s tattoo had been reacting to thinking about them together, but he had noticed since Talia’s breakdown, his hadn’t had any of those darker reactions about Chris. Then again, he hadn’t thought of them alone like that quite the same way. Seeing the two of them together, wrapped up almost with both of them on the couch, it had felt.. Different.

“It has?”

Ricky nodded.

“I saw it, the other day, multiple times, it's why I brought it up yesterday, why I asked if you were okay.”

Looking at him, Ricky hated how nervous Chris looked, he hated that he wasn’t sure what he could do to help him.

“Well, I don’t, I don’t know what's going on, because it tingled when you kissed me, and Talia.. She’s your soulmate, your real soulmate, Ricky. Not me. My mark, I don’t know what's going on, and, and it’s freaking me out. This isn’t something I’ve seen theories of.”

Ricky set his phone aside and patted the cushion beside him for Chris to join him. They needed to work this out, and doing it alone wasn’t going to help anyone.

“Come here. How about we call Talia? We’ve learned the hard way all of this crap isn’t something we should work out on our own, because it just blows up in our faces, and we do stupid things.”

Like fucking in bathrooms and kitchens where anyone could have found them while they were spurred on by mystical tattoos.

Chris sucked in a shaky breath before he moved to the couch and sat beside him, leaning into Ricky’s side, bring his head down onto his shoulder not caring if it was awkward, he needed it. He shuddered a little at the feeling that ran through his shoulder when he did.. Shit, if that was the feeling that had started driving Ricky and Talia from the start.. Well..

“Yeah, okay. Don’t get any ideas, though, I am not fucking you in the bathroom.”

“Oh my god.”

Worth getting hit by the couch cushion.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics