#the cold floor being a grounding space for the two of them - but it barely cools down the spark and frantic fire between then

[gomzdrawfr]

Do you think Price and Nik would fall low enough to make out on the floor of a random toilet

[pandapetals]

sunlight & sawdust

chapter one: marigolds & measuring tapes

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summary: For two years, Joel Miller has done nothing but scowl at you from across the room, barely tolerating your warmth, your kindness, and your ever-present sunshine. And for two years, you’ve told yourself his gruffness doesn’t bother you—that his clipped words and cold stares don’t matter. But then, out of nowhere, he offers to fix the damaged floor in your flower shop. For free. Suddenly, the man who could barely stand to look at you is showing up every day, fixing things that don’t need fixing, sharing quiet lunches, and—most shocking of all—getting along with Ellie, your daughter, who has never warmed up to anyone as quickly as she has to him.

pairing: joel miller x fem!single mom reader - no outbreak/au

content warnings: slight reader description, no y/n used, grumpy joel, grumpy x sunshine trope, ellie is reader's daughter, reader is a single mom, tommy being a meddler, reader is friends with tommy, au setting in Austin, joel is a carpenter, reader owns a flower shop, fluff, angst and eventual smut, joel is bad at feelings, sarah mentioned

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics.

Joel pushed open the glass door to the run-down diner, the bell above it jingling in protest. His eyes immediately found Tommy, already settled in one of the front booths, grinning like he had no place better to be. Tommy had insisted they get lunch—something about "brother time." Whatever the hell that meant, Joel wasn’t sure—it sounded like an excuse for Tommy to talk his ear off.

Still, Joel trudged over, sliding onto the worn leather seat across from him. He barely had a second to get comfortable before his stomach twisted—because, of course, you were here.

Standing at the counter, you leaned forward slightly as you spoke to the waitress, your voice too soft for Joel to hear over the hum of the diner. But he didn’t need to. He knew how you sounded—warm, patient, like everything that made his skin itch.

Tommy was your friend, though Joel never understood why. You doted on him like he was some kind of damn prince, always checking in, always making sure he was taken care of. It was ridiculous. You weren’t his wife. Hell, you weren’t even his girlfriend, but you looked at him like he hung the damn moon. And the worst part? Tommy let you.

Joel hated it.

He hated how you laughed at Tommy’s stupid jokes, the way your hand would rest on his arm absentmindedly. Hated how you never showed that same effortless affection toward him. No, with Joel, it was different. More careful. More…guarded.

A shadow passed over the table as you approached, carrying a plate and two steaming mugs.

"Got you some coffee and pancakes," you said, setting them down in front of Tommy with a smile that could warm an entire room. Your touch lingered for a second, fingers grazing the edge of the plate like you cared whether he ate enough. Then, your eyes flickered to Joel—briefly, uncertain—before darting away like you hadn’t looked at all.

"Coffee, just how you like it," you added, softer this time. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, "Mind if I sit?"

Tommy beamed, already scooting over to make space. "Course you can. Joel and I were just catching up—having some brother time."

Joel grunted, his gaze locked on you. You knew, didn’t you? Knew damn well that he didn’t like you, didn’t want you here. And yet, you smiled anyway, sliding into the booth beside Tommy like it didn’t bother you in the slightest. Like he didn’t bother you.

"That’s good," you said, reaching for your coffee. You didn’t look at Joel or acknowledge him when you spoke.

It shouldn’t have annoyed him.

Tommy threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning. "So, how’s business?"

Joel clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around his coffee cup. The heat bled through the ceramic, grounding him, but it wasn’t enough to stop the irritation from creeping in.

It was one thing to tolerate you. One thing to see you in passing, to nod stiffly when social politeness forced him to.

But sitting here, watching you smile at Tommy and lean into him like he was the only person in the world worth your warmth—that was something else entirely.

"It’s been good, actually." You traced the rim of your coffee mug, voice light but edged with something quieter. "Didn’t think the flower shop would ever take off."

Your eyes flickered to Tommy, soft with appreciation—but there was hesitation there, too, like you weren’t entirely sure you believed in your own success.

Tommy, ever the optimist, gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "C’mon now, you do a real good job running that place. ‘Course it was gonna be successful."

Joel curled his fingers into a fist under the table, nails pressing into his palm. The whole exchange—it was too much. Too easy. Too natural. How Tommy touched you like it was second nature, the way you let him. The way you looked at him.

His irritation boiled over before he could stop it. "Do you two always gotta be so goddamn buddy-buddy?" The words came out sharper than he intended, a growl low in his throat.

Your head snapped up, a faint scowl replacing the warmth on your face. "Tommy’s a good friend to me."

Joel huffed, eyes narrowing. "Oh, really?" His voice dripped with doubt, the kind that crawled under his skin and stuck.

You frowned, glancing at Tommy as if he might have an answer for Joel’s problem. "We’ve been friends for… two years now?"

Tommy nodded. "Something like that."

Joel leaned back against the booth, arms crossed over his chest, his stare heavy on you. "Y’all hang out a lot?"

There was something in his tone, something pointed—but you couldn’t tell what. Suspicion? Judgment? Something else entirely?

"Whenever we can." You lifted your coffee to your lips, pausing before adding, "Usually, we grab lunch or go to a bar..." Your voice trailed off, confusion creeping in.

Why did it feel like an interrogation? Why did Joel always act like you were the problem? And despite the sharp edge in his voice, why did it seem like he was daring you to push back?

Joel scoffed, shifting in his seat like he was settling in for a fight. "Oh, I see." His arms folded tightly across his chest, muscles taut beneath the worn fabric of his flannel. "You two are just best of friends, then." The words dripped with something bitter, something he barely bothered to mask.

You exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around your coffee mug. Without thinking, your eyes flicked to Tommy, silently pleading for him to smooth over whatever this was.

Tommy sighed, setting his fork down with a clatter. He’d known Joel all his life—stubbornness was in his damn blood—but this? This thing he had against you? It never made sense.

"Joel," Tommy said, voice edged with exasperation. "Stop bein’ so damn rude to her. She’s my friend."

Joel’s jaw ticked.

You stayed quiet, watching the tension stretch across the table like a rope about to snap. Tommy was trying to keep things light, to brush past Joel’s temper like it could be ignored. But you weren’t stupid—you could see how Tommy’s shoulders squared, and Joel’s fingers drummed against the table like he was holding something back.

Joel wasn’t just being difficult. He was being deliberate.

His gaze flickered between you and Tommy, unreadable. "Why should I?" he shot back, low and cutting. His knuckles pressed against the table, a restless energy rolling off him in waves. "I’m not obligated to play nice, y’know."

Joel couldn’t understand what made you so damn special. Why Tommy liked you so much?

What did he even see in you?

You were a pain in Joel’s ass, all sunshine and softness in a way that rubbed him the wrong way—too warm, too open, too damn much. Why couldn’t Tommy see that?

But before Joel could snap out something sharp, you spoke first.

"Joel’s right."

The words came easy, calm. No bite, no sarcasm—just simple, matter-of-fact acceptance.

It caught all three of you off guard.

Tommy’s brows shot up. Joel blinked once, slow, like he hadn’t heard you right.

"He doesn’t have to play nice just for my sake," you added, lifting your coffee to your lips like his attitude didn’t touch you at all.

The silence at the table stretched thick and unmoving.

You exhaled softly, carefully setting your mug down before turning to Tommy. "I should go anyway."

Joel expected sarcasm, a little sting in your tone—hell, a glare at the very least. But instead, you smiled at Tommy, warm and genuine, like this wasn’t anything new. Like you weren’t the least bit bothered.

And that somehow irritated him more than anything you could’ve said.

"No, stay," Tommy insisted, cutting in before Joel could protest.

Joel’s jaw flexed, something unspoken brewing behind his eyes. His patience was already thin, but now his damn eye was twitching as he scrambled for a response—anything to regain some kind of ground. But for once, he had nothing.

You stood anyway, smoothing out the wrinkles in your sweater. "It’s okay," you assured Tommy, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "I gotta get to the flower shop."

Then, just to twist the knife a little deeper, you reached down and patted Tommy’s cheek, all affectionate and casual, like it was something you’d done a hundred times before.

Joel’s stomach tightened—with what, he refused to name.

"Enjoy the pancakes," you said, flashing Tommy one last smile before turning on your heel and heading for the door.

Joel watched you go, watched the way the early afternoon light spilled through the diner windows as you stepped outside.

The door shut behind you, the bell chiming softly.

Tommy shook his head with a low chuckle, reaching for his coffee. "Y’know, for someone who claims to hate her, you sure as hell stare a lot."

Joel gritted his teeth, reaching for his coffee like it might wash away the irritation—or whatever the hell else was creeping in.

"Shut up, Tommy."

Joel’s eyes stayed locked on the door, his fingers absently tightening around his coffee cup. He told himself he was just zoning out—but his damn gaze lingered like he was waiting.

Waiting for you to walk back in.

Waiting for another glance, another soft word, something he wouldn’t name.

Tommy watched him, unimpressed. "Stop pulling my leg," he said flatly, his stare pressing into Joel like a weight.

Joel grunted in response, ripping his gaze away from the door and taking a slow sip of coffee. He avoided Tommy’s glare but could feel it—heavy, expectant like Tommy was waiting, too.

"What the hell’s your problem with her, anyway?" Tommy finally asked voice edged with irritation. "Why do you even care if she’s my friend?"

Joel scowled, his grip tightening around the ceramic mug. "I don’t care."

His voice was too sharp, too quick. Even he could hear the lie in it.

Tommy snorted, shaking his head. "Bullshit."

Joel exhaled sharply, pushing Tommy’s plate away as the pancakes had personally offended him. "She’s your friend, not mine," he shot back, the words coming out harder than he had meant them to.

Tommy leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes narrowed. "She is my friend. That’s why I care. You’re bein’ a goddamn asshole to her for no reason."

Joel scoffed, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the conversation. "I don’t have to play nice with her just ‘cause you do, Tommy." His voice was low and tight, but something else was creeping in—something defensive.

Tommy let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Jesus, Joel."

Joel ignored him. "She’s annoying and stubborn, and I—" He stopped himself, jaw clenching before forcing the words out. "I don’t like her."

They felt wrong the second they left his mouth, as if he was trying to convince himself more than Tommy.

Tommy stared at him, unimpressed. His expression slowly morphed from frustration to something closer to realization.

"You are so full of shit."

Joel bristled. "I’m full of shit?"

Tommy huffed out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "You do like her. You just don’t know what the hell to do with it."

Joel shot Tommy a warning glare, but his brother wasn’t backing down. If anything, he looked more pissed off by the second.

"She ain’t stubborn or annoying," Tommy said, voice edged with frustration. "She’s the most kind-hearted person I’ve ever met."

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers curling into a fist beneath the table. Of course, Tommy would say that. Of course, he’d defend you like you were the damn saint of this town. It only made Joel’s irritation settle deeper, hot and restless in his chest.

He scoffed. "Sure she is," he muttered, rolling his eyes. The words were dry, dismissive—meant to push Tommy off his back.

But even as he said them, something about them didn’t sit right.

Tommy shook his head, muttering as he cut into what was left of his pancakes. Joel tried to ignore how his brother glared at him like he was some lost cause.

The diner felt too warm, too small.

Joel shifted in his seat, fingers drumming against the table, trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling gnawing at him. It didn’t make sense—none of it did.

Because, sure, you were annoying. Always so damn nice, always doting on Tommy like he was something special. And that smile of yours? That soft, warm, inviting smile? It pissed him off for reasons he couldn’t explain.

His scowl deepened. You were just some irritating… too-kind… beautiful—

Joel cut the thought off before it could go any further, clearing his throat like it might scrub the idea from his brain.

He didn’t like you.

He didn’t.

But then why did it feel like every conversation with you left him stuck in this goddamn cycle—him pushing, you barely reacting, just meeting him with that quiet, knowing patience that somehow made him more irritated?

Why, even now, long after you’d left, was he still thinking about you?

[aakeysmash]

Pregnancy cravings

Farmer!Sukuna’s masterlist

Farmer!Sukuna thought dealing with your pregnancy cravings would be a walk in the park. I mean, come on, you two are basically self sufficient: he’s literally a farmer, what could you possibly crave that he doesn’t already have planted or stored?

Your cravings hit at the start of your second trimester. You’re barely showing, and probably the fact that nothing you eat stays in your stomach for more than two hours isn’t helping your case.

It’s winter and it’s snowing: your fields are currently covered in snow, your chickens are huddled up in their coop, your cows are sleeping in their heated stable… and you? You’re reading a book right in front of your fireplace. Sukuna gets home with his arms full of logs to keep the fire alive all night. He sets them on the ground before plopping down next to you with snow clinging to his hair.

“Get off, your nose is cold,” you mumble, pushing him away when he tries to give you a kiss. He raises one of his eyebrows, kissing you on the cheek either way (two times, to spite you). You let out a dramatic whine.

He chuckles, ruffling his hair and wetting your book’s pages with a couple of snowflakes. Annoyed, you roughly close the book, and turn around to give him a piece of your mind, just to find yourself wrapped in his arms.

“I said get off,” you repeat, softer, leaning in despite your words. His body heat is doing a better job than the fire at thawing the chill from your limbs.

“And I don’t care,” he replies nonchalantly. He kisses your temple, cocooning you deeper into him by opening his legs and tucking you into the space in front of him. You grumble something unintelligible.

“How are the only two people I can stand doing today?” He asks you, rocking you side by side. Seeing you pregnant makes him feel uncomfortably soft. And seeing you pregnant with his child? Oh god.

“I want ice cream.”

He stops.

“Huh?”

“More like your offspring wants ice cream,” you sniffle from under his jaw.

“I don’t think we have any in the freezer,” he responds, looking you in the eyes. Your lip starts wobbling.

“But I want it,” you brokenly say, trying to swallow your sobs. His heart clenches.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to have it today,” he says, and immediately regrets it when your eyes well up with tears.

“C’mon, don’t cry now, it’s just ice cream,” he tries to comfort you. Apparently he does a horrible job, because you start bawling.

“But I want it! And I hate that I want it so bad! You know how much I hate playing the weak and fragile woman part, why are you being mean?” you wail, shoving him away and getting up. You quickly go to the kitchen to drink a glass of water, the duvet that was covering you mere seconds ago acting as your cloak.

“No, babe, I’m not-“

You snap your head back angrily, levelling him with a hostile glare. “Yes you are! You’re being mean when it’s your fault I’m like this!” You motion to your body.

“Actually, you begged for it, wife,” he shrugs, a corner of his mouth lifting. He doesn’t expect the punch you throw at his chest.

“Don’t ever come near me again,” you seethe, drinking your water and flying up the stairs. He sighs, rubbing his temples, wincing when he hears you sniffle again.

After ten minutes he knocks on your bedroom door- the same one you not-so-gracefully threw in his face.

“C’mon. Get out,” he grits out. Who knew dealing with a pregnant woman would strip him of the little patience he still has left?

“No. You value me less than ice cream.”

He sighs. “What can I do t’ make you forgive me?” He hears the soft pit pat of your sock-clad feet on the floor before the door creaks open. From the last few months, he'd say your mood swing should be finished by now.

You gently lower the handle, looking at his condescending espression. Then you sag your shoulder, gazing at the floor.

"You big crybaby. C'mere," he smirks, opening his arms. You bury your head in his shoulder, and he pats your hair mockingly.

"I still want ice cream, though," you mumble.

"I'll go get it at the city right now if ya stop crying," he chuckles. He widens his eyes, realizing that... he caught himself too late.

You abruptly step back. He winces.

"And you'd leave me here all alone?! Why don't you love me anymore?!"

[rottiens]

⊹ ˚. RYŌMEN SUKUNA┊ "Not on my legs." He clarifies. "On my stomach." You ignore the flutter that lands on your belly and force yourself to concentrate on keeping your legs steady.

𖤐 about. being taken away from your village, you have to try to live and survive on your own with the king of curses.

𖤐 cw. mdni. true form sukuna x afab!reader, dubcon (since the reader is forced to be a servant), you ride the mouth on his tummy, choking kink, sadistic sukuna if you squint, dirty talk, overstim, oral ( m -> f ), set in the heian era. divider creds: cafekitsune.

Sukuna is not familiar with giving up power, though it is not surprising, after all a man who has achieved so much power to the point of being revered as a god would not expect anything different. He is not used to being commanded, though not many have tried it and lived to tell the tale anyway, yet when you told him you wanted to do it tonight, without his help (you trying to prepare yourself, stretching yourself before taking it), fiery flames charged with lust and pride covered his devilish eyes, turning them a darker red than you are used to.

Drunk with control, Sukuna is always the one who dictates when and how things happen, ordering around those who serve him, as his word is the word of a king. He doesn't remember the last time someone addressed him with such arrogance and pride in their mouth, he should punish you for speaking before he allows you to but tonight he is feeling benevolent.

"Come here." His husky voice gave off hunger and poured over your limbs like honey. The purr in his timbre brought life to your muscles which tensed and contracted with anticipation.

You rose from the floor where you lay on your stomach with your forehead pressed to the ground in submission, and walked silently to where he is. His chambers are covered by a veil of absolute silence that is interrupted from time to time by barely audible vibrations coming from sukuna who lets them out every time he exhales through his nose, something very similar to the purring of a beast.

Filled with insecurity, you get ready to climb into his lap when you are close enough and it is only at that moment when he speaks again, freezing you on the spot.

"Not on my legs." He clarifies. "On my stomach." You ignore the flutter that lands on your belly and force yourself to concentrate on keeping your legs steady.

You take a long look at his figure and end up on his stomach, where you were ordered to sit. To describe sukuna as big is an adjective that would be too small for him, the houses in your village are big, the horses are big, sukuna… was huge. A monster, was what they called it in your village and even that word might not be enough to describe the creature that stood before you.

His four arms are a wonder to behold face to face, especially up close. Two hold him on his elbows gracefully, semi reclining on the futon where he expands his body further to give you the space you need to climb to his belly; while the other two…there is one holding his jaw and another resting above his hips.

Just like his arms, he possessed four pairs of eyes that don't let a single detail escape; all of these were set on you, you could feel them moving on you, there was no way to escape from him.

And finally, in his belly there was a mouth capable of tearing off the lower half of your body with one bite if he set his mind to it.

For how exposed he was, vulnerable even (bare belly and exposed chest, his arms in a resting position), sukuna was very relaxed and which makes you wonder if perhaps he doesn't think you brave or foolish enough to try to attack him, although it's not the right time or place, you couldn't do much if you were to hurt him sufficiently to try to escape, not with his subjects scattered all over the temple at least. Before you could get to the door his servants would have you imprisoned in one of the cold, dark rooms you've already been in.

Clearly impatient, thanks to being too occupied by your mental wanderings, the hand that lay on his hips gently pushes you into the position he ordered you to. You take a quick glance at your new seat, you find yourself just above the curved line of a smile on his lower abdomen. You look up to observe him, rather than relaxed he is now uneasy, concern is marked on your face as you recheck the mouth on his stomach closed in a tight line.

The posture is awkward thanks to the width of his body, your thighs are stretched to the max and your feet dangle from his body like an uncomfortable horse ride.

The imposing mouth suddenly opens suddenly revealing a thick and grotesque tongue and gives you a quick lick immediately wetting your crotch, the moan of surprise that escapes you makes the pair of cocks tremble under the piece of cloth that holds them captive.

Sukuna licks you again slower this time, taking his time to savor your taste. A murmur of approval makes the mouth on your stomach vibrate along with the purring that seems to increase and you hear clearly now that you are close to him. Then you realize it wasn't some noise he was making or your imagination, it was the natural purr coming from a predator and the contrast terrifies you since it sounds as soft as a lullaby.

"Give me more of that sweet taste." You clench. Your eyes, your thighs, your cunt.

The intruding tongue seems to be all over your slit at the same time, it's feather soft yet has just enough pressure to have you sobbing and dripping from how accurate its lashes are.

Soon you feel unsteady, dizzy, you try to grab hold of something firm but there is one of his hands imprisoning your wrists in your lower back and another firmly squeezes your neck making you unable to escape. "You're not going anywhere, little one," sukuna growls.

The soft muscle, coated with an excess of saliva completely covers your pussy in sweet ecstasy, you feel its edges even wet your trembling thighs, the sensation is crushing. Your whole body is charged with a strange static after the intruder moves imitating a wave, attacking your aching clit, squeezing your pussy lips and spilling your arousal into the monstrous mouth that licks and licks and then swallows.

"I want you to ride it." Four fingers pinch your nipples at the same time. "Ride my tongue, you said you wanted to get ready but I do not see you doing anything but being lazy on me," he reminds you, in that teasing tone that could make you cum right then and there.

It's too much. You want to let him know, your cheeks are about to boil and you don't know how much you can hold back the tears. The sensation of pleasure was overwhelming, the line between pleasure and too much of it causing pain was very thin. You wanted to run away, to ask him that you needed to rest at least for a moment but you know what that could cause.

"I do not want to repeat it, woman."

You don't seek to anger him because his punishments are far worse, so you find the last shred of willpower in you and rotate your hips in weak circles along with a broken gasp. He grunts in response.

You're close. Very, very close. The grip on your wrists increases and you slurp through your nose. You rub it desperately up and down, grinding your sensitive clit in the process, you do small bounces on the fully hanging tongue that reveal sticky clicks that expose how wet you are, your own juices mixed with his saliva spilling down the length of your legs and soaking his hips.

"Cum for me." He commands firmly, manifesting small mouths on his hands that are tasked with torturing your tits, sucking and biting your nipples mercilessly as he delights in watching you squirm under his touch.

"Sukuna!" His name feels sweet on the roof of your mouth and rumbles between the walls of his chamber as your movements descend to gradually fade away.

Then you hear a chuckle, the mouth you just rode, a grotesque cackle that bristles your skin and makes you moan at how sensitive you are as it gives you one last lick and then disappears completely into the cavity, showing you just as it did at first a tight line that could pass as a scar if you weren't paying attention.

Abruptly, his fingers dig into your cheekbones, sinking your cheeks so that your lips can pout adorably. His purr is much louder and harder now.

"If you want to make your king proud you will have to do more than that." Your eyes snap open. "You're ready to take my cocks at the same time, I promise I'm going to use that body of yours tonight until you pass out."

This is a repost! <3

[storiesfromafan]

Just His Best Friend

A/N: I am back with Mattheo and angst. The two go well together, haha. Maybe part two?

Pairing: Mattheo x Longing!Slytherin Reader

Warning/s: angst, spelling/grammer mistakes, briefly revised

“I can’t imagine who I’d be without you in my life” were the greatest words to hear from Mattheo's lips, which held a warm smile.

Your heart skipped a beat. Tingles running up your spine. This was it. The moment you’d been waiting for. The last five years of friendship leading to this, Mattheo's confession. Finally hearing the words you’d been longing for, craving for. The validation that you were something more, something meaningful. And yet once more you were wrong...

“How could I be here without my best friend!” He sounded so pleased, the giddy chuckle leaving his mouth.

Your heart stopped, no longer skipping a beat. The tingles, doused with a wave of a cold chill down your spine. Five years of friendship, which was really longing and hoping on your part. Crashing down by just those words, his best friend. That validation for your place at his side, actually the space behind him. That seat at his side, his arm around them belonged to another. Any other that wasn’t you.

You forced a smile, hoping the crushing of your heart doesn’t show. “A-ah, yeah...right b-back at ya" you sputtered. Not really like you, but it’s all you could muster right now.

Your mind though, you could only imagine it as mini yous running around, screaming and cursing. Some throwing paper, while some kicked chairs or turning over desks. No doubt one was in a corner crying, bawling out their eyes. What you’d like to be doing, but remaining steadfast and strong.

Mattheo clapped you on the shoulder before something behind you caught his eye. The sly smirk that crossed his tempting lips told you all you needed, he’d spotted his next target. “I’ll catch up with you later (Y/N/N). I see someone begging for my attention”.

And with that he slipped past you. You stayed where you were, eyes looking to where the boy you loved once stood. You heard his cheeky hello, along with a sweet giggle. That snapped you out of your comatose state. Holding the strap of your bag for dear life, the last thing grounding you, you took off in a hurry. Back into the castle, back to the dungeons and back to your room.

You didn’t take in the halls or people you past, didn’t even make a snide comment when you bumped into any students. Your focus had been returning to your sanctum, your space. You were glad none of your room mates were there, for as soon as the door was closed, and your back against it did the tears fall. Big, warm tears cascaded down your face. Your face heating up from the humiliation and heartbreak.

Pansy and the other girls of your dorm room told you this would happen. The day would come when it finally reached heartbreak. That Mattheo wouldn’t see how you felt, how you cared for him. Or see how much you did for him. Rather he expected it now. And you had only yourself to blame. You had opportunities to shoot your shot. But you always crumbled, chickening out. If the moment wasn’t ruined by someone else, you’d always come up with an excuse to put it off. And look where it had gotten you. Best friend zoned.

The next two weeks you mopped and cried in bed. In class you remained blank, reserved even, almost on autopilot. You went through the motions, barely passing. And that was only because of Pansy. She was the one there for you, helping you and pushing you. After being the one to find you on the floor crying your eyes out, Pansy had said told you so but didn’t hesitate to hold you. You were grateful for that.

At the start of week three you were finishing getting ready to head to breakfast when Pansy stood by watching you. You didn’t even notice her, just putting on your cardigan before grabbing your bag. The moment you turned for the room door was when you finally noticed her. She stood there with a concerned look upon her face, her hands on her waist. You had a feeling where this would go, and weren’t looking forward to it.

“That’s it" Pansy started. “This has gone on for long enough. It’s time to move on”.

You flinched, knowing she was right and yet part of you couldn’t let him go. “I-I can’t”.

She sighed, arms dropping to her sides. “Yeah, you can. It might take time, but you have to start somewhere (Y/N/N). You can’t give him this power!”

The logic part of your brain agreed with her, while your broken heart protested. How could one just get over Mattheo Riddle? It wasn’t possible. The girls who want, long for him. The girls who’ve had him pine for him. And the girls who didn’t stand a chance – where you sat – dreamed for him. Mattheo was a parasite you couldn’t just remove, once infected you were like that for life.

“I-it’s not so easy, Pan...” you muttered, feeling like a child being scolded. And you kinda were.

Pansy moved to you, hands taking hold of your shoulders. Her eyes looking right into yours, and your soul. “I get it, really...but this isn’t good for you. The best way to get over a guy is the move on to another...”

The look on your face hearing her words was pure shock and horror. The suggestion of another guy was blasphemy. Who could be better than Mattheo? No one. Not to you, not to the girls who worship the ground he walks on. And you voiced that, minus the worshipping part.

“There are other guys, believe me. Ones who actually like you!” Pansy stated, as if it was common knowledge. But not to you. “There’s Patrick Darby in our year, he’s asked me about you before. Or Kellen Barlowe – in the year above us, who Mattheo detests! I know he would die to have you look at him!”

She went on to state a few more guys from your year or the next up, or other houses. Your head was swimming from the new information, the boys who like her. You’d never known this, never been presented with the opportunity of another. Of someone who wasn’t Mattheo. But could you do that? Just turn your back on your feelings? Yet could you continue to stand behind Mattheo, waiting for your chance, however long that could take?

“I-I...h-how?” You found yourself asking, all you could ask.

A soft smile formed on Pansy's lips. “Just start with a hi, maybe a conversation".

You nodded slowly, mulling over her suggestion. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was a start. You would try it her way. And if it didn’t work, you’d return to your solitude and misery. Back where you belonged.

True to your word to Pansy, you said hi and struck up a conversation with Kellen Barlowe. It was at lunch in The Great Hall, you were heading to Pansy when you noticed him smile at you. And you took that as a sign to take a leap. Awkwardly you had slowed down, before stopping by Kellen, who’s smile just widened.

“H-hi" you greeted. Simple and a little stupid really. But it worked.

“Hey (Y/N)” Kellen replied in a warm, airy tone. “Morning classes went well?”

You put on a smile, trying to be nice. Though you wanted to run away, for this didn’t feel right. It felt so, so wrong. Sure, the boy sitting before you was gorgeous, on the same level as Mattheo. But he wasn’t Mattheo. He didn’t have the chocolate brown eyes that held your attention. Nor did he have the brown messy curls that Mattheo has. But his green eyes and mousy blonde locks was still appealing, just didn’t have a lasting hold on you.

“T-they were alright...McGonagall was tough, as always" you supplied, with a sigh.

Kellen chuckled. “Yeah, she’s a tough nut to crack".

“How about your classes?” You enquired, feeling it only right to ask him the same question.

He sighed dramatically. “Absolutely draining. Snape was on the war path, not even us Slytherin’s were spared. If you have potions later, best be prepared".

You nodded, believing his words. “G-good to know, thanks".

A bit more small talk was made before you moved on, quickly scurrying to Pansy. As soon as you took your seat did the girl bombarded you with questions, as well as praise to have followed her advice. Not long after did a familiar body fall into the seat across from you both. Mattheo looking to you with a raised eyebrow.

“Friends with Barlowe, huh?” Came his offended tone, shocking you.

“A-ah, wouldn’t s-say that" you replied. “I was just being nice...”

He nodded. “Hmmm, alright. But keep in mind Barlowe goes through girls like socks".

Pansy laughed. “You’re one to talk, you’re worse than him!”

Mattheo rolled his eyes. “Please, I’m not like him, nor am I worse!”

That fired up Pansy. She and Mattheo going back and forth, voices rising with every second. You don’t know what came over you, or why you did it. But you slammed your hands on the table, rising to your feet. Both parties stopped their bickering, eyes flying to you. You took a deep breath, realising that frustration and anger got the better of you. But you couldn’t shy away now. Instead you cast a quick look to Pansy, before moving to Mattheo, where your eyes stayed. You hoped he saw how upset you were, he needed to know this wasn’t right. He couldn’t come in, trying to dictate what you can and can’t do.

“Matty, you don’t get a say in who I say hi to, or who I have a conversation with" you took a deep breath before releasing it. “I-I can do what I want".

And with that you grabbed your bag, and headed for the hall’s doors. Lunch not even dished up, let alone eaten. None the less your appetite lost. You could feel the eyes on you as you made your escape. Of course you’d have an audience, a loud noise would get attention. The moment you left the large room did you feel the air return to your lungs, the weight of everything lifting. That moment was broken when a hand grabbed your upper arm, causing you to jump.

“Easy (Y/N)” came a soft, airy voice.

Upon turning to the new presence, you were surprised to find Kellen. He looked concerned but wore a faint smile. Wanting to not come off as suffocating or over bearing. You could see the questions in his eyes, those forest green orbs of his.

“You alright?” He asked in a tender voice.

You nodded, remaining silent. Unsure if you could be convincing in a lie. As you weren’t all right. You weren’t sure how you were feeling. That was the first time you’d done that, stood up and made a scene. You were so fucked up right now.

“Hey" came Kellen's voice, face moving closer. “It’s alright, don’t cry".

You brought a hand up, and sure enough there were a few fallen tears. Turning away you wiped them away in a hurry, embarrassed to be caught like this. You weren’t supposed to cry outside your room. This was not how it was supposed to be. Either you shouldn’t have spoken to Kellen, or Mattheo could have just let you be. Maybe then you wouldn’t be standing here like an idiot, fighting back tears.

Kellen moved around to stand before you, hands on your shoulders. Those forest green eyes of his peering into yours, concern shining in them. “It’s alright, you’re alright” – he looked back to The Great Hall for a moment – “come on, let’s get out of here, yeah?”

Slowly you nodded, letting the older boy lead you from the doors of The Great Hall, down a hall and off to a courtyard. Away from those in The Great Hall, and those chocolate browns of Mattheo Riddle. Who’d headed for you, but stopped upon seeing you with Kellen. And how he had his hands on you.

Seeing that sight, Kellen so close to you, and you letting him be. It stirred something in Mattheo. Something he hadn’t felt before. Sure, he hated the male who pulled you away. But this was jealousy, the green eyes monster. Yet, why was Mattheo jealous? Why would he be jealous of Barlowe? Maybe it was the way he looked at you, was close to you just now. Whatever it was, Mattheo did not like it. At all.

[organic-bloodbath]

Knife Princess – Part 6

Chishiya x Reader

Summary: You and Chishiya get trapped in a closed space together, both of you getting strange flashbacks.

Warnings: Claustrophobia, panic attack.

A/N: I didn't plan to write this so fast but i just blacked out when i started writing it.

Chapters

♤♡♧◇

Niragi's friend, Jae-sung, gave you a place to stay for a while until you'd find your own place. It was rather small apartment, but you and Niragi got the room which belonged to Jae-sung's roommate, who apparently would be visiting his in-laws in Korea for three weeks. Or something like that. You and Niragi would have about two weeks to find another place to stay the night.

The room had one single bed, so you slept on it and Niragi would have a mattress on the floor, being the usual gentleman he always was (not). You didn't personally know Jae-sung, but by the first impression you got from him, he seemed nice enough. Not anything like Niragi atleast, but what did you know.

For the first few days you didn't do much else than rest and go for a walk. You met up with couple of your friends, who luckily had been out of Tokyo that significant day. You didn't keep regular contact with them anymore, all of you having your own lives, but hey had immediately reached out to you when they heard you had been one of the victims.

Your boss had given you two weeks to rest and recover, which was more than you were prepared to have. You worked an office job as a graphic designer so you could have easily started the job sooner since you weren't physically restricted to work which was mostly sitting around. But your boss didn't want to take chances on your wounds suddenly getting worse in the middle of a work day. You knew you'd get bored after a few more days, since your social life was overall extremely dry as well.

You had decided to go to the grocery store nearby, craving for something sweet. Cookies, ice cream, chocolate – probably all of them.

You arrived back inside the building, carrying a bag full of groceries with you. You decided to walk up the stairs, your eyes on the screen of your phone, typing a text to your friend. You would have taken the elevator, but it was all the way up on the 9th floor so you'd rather walk up, getting a little exercise too.

But you didn't manage to reach the stairs at all when you crashed on someone's chest, stumbling back but managed to keep your balance. Although, the crash made you drop the bag on the floor by your feet, spilling some of the items out, making you curse under your breath.

You looked up and saw a familiar face in front of you. Well, not exactly familiar, but a face which you'd seen before not long ago.

"We should stop crashing on each other like this," the guy suggested, slight smirk on his face. The same guy who was at the hospital and fell on you the first time you met him.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, furrowing your eyebrows, and kneeled down on the floor, bare knee touching the cold ground. You started collecting the packages back into the plastic bag.

"Well, i happen to live here," he answered and lowered himself to your level to help you gather the items. "I haven't seen you here before."

"Might be because i haven't been here more than a few days by far. It's just for couple of weeks," you said, making eye contact with him as you stood back up. A small smile appeared on your lips, though you weren't sure if he noticed it. "Don't worry, then i'll be out of your way."

"Your home got destroyed, huh?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, a genuine apologetic look on his face. You didn't want strangers to be sorry for you, but now you kind of appreciated that, surprisingly.

"Thanks," you said quietly and started to leave, walking past him back towards the stairs, like your original intention had been. "Well, i'll be seeing you then, i suppose."

"See you." He was watching after you for a moment, until he spotted something on the floor by his feet. "Hey, Y/N?" the guy shouted after you, making you turn around.

You furrowed your eyebrows as he approached you again.

"You, um, dropped this," he said and handed you a cookie, but you didn't immediately grab it.

"How do you know my name?" you asked, narrowing your eyes.

He fell silent for a moment, not knowing the answer himself. It had come out of his mouth so naturally he didn't know what to respond. Like he had always known it without needing to ask about it. It had only appeared in his mind just by looking at you.

"Uh, i probably overheard it when you were talking with your brother," he figured out. "Not that i meant to eavesdrop." Maybe he had overheard it but just forgot when it happened? He had always had a good short-term memory and would certainly remember where he had learned your name. Especially since he hadn't known you long at all.

But he didn't remember the reason. No matter how hard he tried to think, he couldn't grasp why he knew it.

"Hm, i guess," you mumbled, feeling suspicious. He was still handing you the cracker.

Stuff these into your pockets, your voice said when you grabbed the cracker into your hand from his hold.

"What?" he asked.

"What what?" you asked.

"What did you say?"

"Um, i didn't say anything," you denied.

He went silent for a moment, just looking at you in your eyes.

"You're a strange man, you know that?"

"So i've heard," he smiled. "I'm Chishiya, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Chishiya," you smiled.

Your smile made his heart flutter and twist his stomach in knots.

You were gone before he could say anything else. Chishiya didn't know how long he kept standing there after you had left, but it took him a while to get himself together and continue his way back to his apartment.

♤♡♧◇

Two days later, you had gone to a library to read for couple of hours, not wanting to stay in Jae-sung's small apartment the entire day. You had visited this library once in a while when you were younger, but hadn't been here in a long time, not after you moved further away from here. Now, you had taken a comfortable position on a couch which was usually taken but was now available to sit.

After a while, someone approached you. You looked up, your heart starting to beat faster when he looked at you.

"Y/N?" the man asked, furrowing his eyebrows but then his eyes brightening. "Hi, how are you doing?"

Your throat felt dry when your one-night hookup was looking down at you.

"Um, fine," you mumbled.

"May i sit?" he asked, pointing the spot next to you on the couch. You only stared at him for a while, until slightly nodded. "What have you been up to?"

"You lied to me," you said quietly, not able to start doing any small talk with him. You weren't going to cause a scene in a damn library but you weren't going to pretend acting friendly either.

"Lied about what?" he asked, genuinely confused. He had seemed to be in a good mood before he approached you, but now it started to fade when he saw the unwelcoming look on your face.

"That we slept together," you gritted between your teeth.

"Um, i already told you," he said. "Nothing happened. For real."

"Okay, so how am i pregnant then?" you spat, anger starting to boil inside you.

His eyes widened. "You're pregnant?"

You crossed your arms against your chest, leaning back against the couch. "Yes, thanks to you."

"I swear, Y/N, we didn't do anything after you told me to stop," he insisted, starting to panic. "I remember it well enough to know that we did stop. After you passed out i simply went to the shower and then fell asleep next to you, okay?"

You eyed him for a moment. He seemed genuine, truly meaning every word, but you weren't buying it. Just because there was simply no other way how you could have become pregnant. If you weren't bearing a child inside you, you might have actually believed him.

"I swear through my mother's grave, hand on my heart, that i did nothing to you. I'd say it directly in front of God," he promised, starting to be desperate, seeing the look on your face – both hurt and angry. He could tell that you weren't so sure to trust him. "Can't you take, like, a paternity test or something if you don't believe me? It's not mine, i promise."

God, how much you wanted to believe him. He looked so serious and genuine it was hard to blame him on things you didn't even remember.

The moments you remembered with him, he had been gentle with you and asked for final permission on everything. When you had said 'no', he had let you go.

"Please," he pleaded. "I did nothing to you. I don't sleep with unconscious women, no matter how wasted i am."

You shut your eyes and held your forehead. How could you believe him when there had been literally nobody else than him?

"I, i came to talk to you now because you forgot a few things in my apartment that day," he said. "I thought i could meet up with you later so i could return them. You just never left your number so i couldn't reach you."

You did forget some of your things in his place but had just accepted the fact that you'd never see them again.

"You can keep them."

"We don't need to hang out, i can just-"

"Keep them, okay?" you insisted and got up from the couch, leaving him to sit by himself without another word.

♤♡♧◇

On your way home, you tried your best to calm down your racing heart and keep your breath steady, but it was turning out to become challenging. You wouldn't be about to cry in public. All you wanted to do now was scream, but you couldn't do that either at a bus stop.

You had promised Niragi to be back at the apartment in about 15 minutes because he wanted to introduce you to his friends and be social, since all you did right now was mostly staying by yourself.

The elevator in this building was ancient and looked like it could break any time soon. The sound of the floor creaking under your feet with every step didn't make you feel very safe either. Still, you stepped into the elevator, pressing the button to the 6th floor, not having the energy to walk all the way up there.

The door started to slowly close until someone's foot stopped it and opened the door again, letting the person to the elevator as well. You locked eyes with Chishiya.

"You're literally stalking me," you stated as he came to stand next to you. It wasn't a big elevator at all, it was made to fit to exactly four people. Three if you wanted to move a little and not only stand with your arms touching each other, not able to take a step to any direction without stepping on someone's foot.

"We live in the same building," he pointed out.

"And yet i haven't bumped into any other neighbor except you and someone's grandma. You now twice," you said back.

"I suppose we have similar daily routines," he responded.

"Mhm," you said, lifting your left eyebrow and turning away from him.

He was going to the 7th floor, only one floor above you. You didn't speak anything, just stood next to each other in silence, an inch between your shoulders. You felt awkward, but didn't care to start even more awkward small-talk.

You were on the 4th floor, when suddenly the elevator stopped, so hard as if it had hit a wall, making you almost lose your balance.

"What the hell?" you mumbled. The doors didn't open and you assumed you were between two floors. Anyway not able to get out.

You suffered from claustrophobia and being trapped in a small space with no way to get out was one of your worst fears. You had never been a fan of elevators, but you had gotten used to them, as long as you didn't have to stay in one for a long time.

You started breathing more rapidly, feeling like the air was running out and you were going to suffocate. The elevator started shrinking, the walls coming closer to you. Chishiya looked at you, worried look on his face.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked softly.

You didn't answer, you were too caught up in the panic attack that was about to start. Your hands were shaking and you just really, really needed to get out of this elevator, starting to hyperventilate. You felt pain on your chest, pressing your trembling hand against your racing heart.

He put his hands on your shoulders, turning you towards him. You avoided eye contact with him at first, looking at the wall over his shoulder.

"Hey, hey," Chishiya said, realising what was going on. "Look at me. Y/N, look at me."

You turned your face towards him, allowing yourself to make eye contact with him.

"Take a deep breath in a count of three, okay?"

Your eyes started to water as you looked at him, having a really hard time to take deep breaths and calm down. You tried your hardest, his hands gently rubbing your arms. Eventually you were able to calm down.

"That's good," Chishiya smiled. "You did really good."

"Is it weird if i hug you?" you asked quietly, nervous for his rejection or making him uncomfortable. Chishiya contemplated your request a little bit, until gently wrapped your arms around you, massaging your back with his hand.

Another person's presence and touch always, or most times, managed to calm you down properly. You heard his steady heart beat.

Was there someone else? Or was i... was i your only one?

You pulled away from him, furrowing your eyebrows when you looked at him in his eyes. "What do you mean someone else? We're alone here."

"I didn't say anything about someone else," Chishiya mumbled, furrowing his brows too.

"Yes you did, i heard you," you insisted.

You were always really embarrassed when someone saw you have a panic attack and you could feel your cheeks burning up this time as well, now that you had properly recovered from it and realized the entire situation.

"We've been trapped in this elevator for barely ten minutes and you already start to hallucinate," Chishiya stated. He sounded serious, but the small smile on his lips gave it away, wanting to cheer you up and lighten your mood.

"Shut up," you mumbled and hit his shoulder, his words making you a little amused as well.

"I'm going to make a call to get this thing fixed and us out of here. You okay now?" he asked and after you nodded, he took his phone from his pocket and dialed the correct number.

You were afraid of getting another panic attack if you had to be here for a long time, you didn't want to go through that again in such a short time. At least i'm not alone here, you thought. Right now, you were more than glad that he had put his foot between the door and stepped inside with you, even though it had been awkward at first.

"Alright, they said they'll be here as soon as possible, but it might take a while to get this running again," Chishiya explained turning to look back at you.''

"Amazing," you huffed.

"Hey, it could be worse," he pointed out.

"Mhm, and how exactly?" you asked, crossing your arms against your chest.

"Well, you could be stuck with one old man from the 2nd floor, who doesn't shut up about facts about toilets and bicycles," he answered.

"Toilets and bicycles?" you huffed.

"Yup. So, be glad it's me and not an even stranger man than me."

You looked at him for a moment, until you narrowed your eyes, looking again directly at him. "You sabotaged this thing, didn't you?" You widened your eyes and pointed a finger at him. "I knew you had been flirting with me at the hospital!"

"Hey, even if i wanted to get to know you better i wouldn't go to the length of trapping you in a small space with me," he swore, one hand on his heart and the other up in the air.

"Mhm," you hummed, crossing your arms. Then, you pouted a little, pretending to be upset and tilted your head. "So, you don't want to get to know me better? At all?"

You were incredibly close to each other, a few inches between your bodies.

"Well," he said slowly, glancing at the ceiling for a moment to avoid your intense gaze. "I didn't say that."

"But you implied it."

"You're putting words into my mouth," he stated when he had locked eyes with you again.

He wasn't matching your 'i'm just joking' vibe at all right now.

You eyed him up and down, starting to grin. "You're kind of cute, you know that?"

"Cute?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows.

"Yup," you confirmed and bit your lip. "Nobody told you that before?"

"Hm, not that i recall." You smiled wider when you noticed his cheeks turn slightly pink.

"So, you figured out already where you know me?" you asked.

He narrowed his eyes. "You admit that we've met?"

"No," you said. "Other strangers just haven't thought before we might know each other – without considering it flirting."

"Well, i haven't found an answer to that yet," he admitted.

"Hm. Well, let me know when you do."

Your phone let a sound of a new text message, making you take your phone from your pocket. You were feeling hot and pulled your sleeves up to your elbows as you took the phone in your hand.

Assface: are you still out? we're running out of beer

When you had exposed half of your arms, the tattoo on your arm was revealed – two knives crossed with each other, surrounded by roses and couple of skulls. It picked Chishiya's attention, making him analyse it with his eyes.

I didn't find a pen and paper. And i'm bored.

Chishiya looked at your face when he heard those words, your lips not moving at all. Not letting out a single syllable. He could swear that he hadn't imagined those words, spoken by your voice in his head, by himself.

I have a second knife, you know.

You turned your face towards Chishiya when he had fallen quiet, noticing his concentrated stare on your lips.

"What, you want to make out?" you asked with a playful smile, then biting your lip.

You put your phone away and backed him against the wall, standing barely an inch away from him, playing with the collar of his shirt.

"We can play 7 minutes in heaven if you want, now that we have enough time to spare."

Chishiya's face turned red, eyes widening. He swallowed the lump in his throat, stomach feeling funny. His usual calm demeanor shifted completely to something else he had very rarely experienced before. Probably never before. He shook his head a little to get a grip of himself.

"Oh, no, i didn't-"

"I'm just kidding," you giggled, enjoying what kind of effect you managed to have on him. "But it's okay, Chishiya, i know i'm pretty," you grinned and put your finger on his chin. "You can admit it."

"I'm not denying that you're pretty but i wasn't thinking of kissing you," he stated as seriously as he could but even he could tell his voice was trembling a little. "I was just, looking at your tattoo."

"My tattoo is on my arm, not on my lips," you hummed, then started to smile. "So you think i am pretty, hm?"

"Will you shut up about that if i say yes?" he asked, resting his head against the wall.

"Maybe, no promises though," you shrugged. "Well?"

"Fine, you're pretty," he admitted. "Now, end of discussion."

You just smiled, turning into pouting right after. "So, no kissing, hm?"

He couldn't help but glance at your lips but then he cleared his throat. "No kissing."

"Fine," you huffed, acting all disappointed even though you were just teasing him, and backed away from him. You sat on the floor, back against the wall, Chishiya sitting down next to you.

"Can i ask you a serious question?" he asked, the tone of his voice to a lot more serious one, he was back at his normal self. You listened to him now with closer attention. "Do you feel any different after the accident?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like," Chishiya started, trying to gather his words together to make sense. "I feel like there's a large piece missing inside me, you know?" You furrowed your eyebrows. "I don't know if that sounds dumb, but-"

"It's not dumb," you interrupted. "I do feel like that too."

"You do?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows in surprise.

"I mean, kind of yeah," you admitted, hugging your knees against your chest. "I feel weird. Like there's something crucial i don't remember. I can't really explain it. But i've just figured it's due some survivor's guilt and trauma or whatever, i don't know. I'm just trying to leave the entire thing behind."

Chishiya knew, was absolutely sure, that it was something else than simply survivor's guilt.

"Perhaps," he mumbled and looked into his hands on his lap.

You didn't know how much time passed the two of you being trapped in the elevator, but you'd guess it was anything between 30 minutes to one hour.

Suddenly, the elevator started to move again, startling you so badly that you collapsed against Chishiya, grabbing his shirt on an instinct.

He looked at you, hanging on him, until you turned your head towards his gaze, eyes widening.

"I'm sorry," you apologised, letting him go. "I just got really startled."

"It's alright."

Chishiya stood up and took your hand in his, pulling you up from the floor just as the elevator's door opened.

"Well, i guess this is my stop," you announced, suddenly feeling a bit awkward again, just like the moment in the beginning when Chishiya had stepped into this elevator. "See you around, Chishiya."

"See you around, Y/N."

♤♡♧◇

You walked inside the apartment, Niragi and two of his friends sitting at the table, playing cards together and drinking beer. Apparently they had found more beer somewhere after all.

"What took you so long?" Niragi asked, clearly not pleased for having to wait for you so long. "Did you bring more beer?"

"Got stuck inside the elevator," you stated. "So, no. I didn't."

"That shit finally broke?" Jae-sung asked and let out a laugh. "Took long enough."

"Join us, we saved a seat for you," Niragi invited, patting the chair next to him.

"Oh, i think i'll just go to read and-"

"Don't be silly, one game," another guy pleaded, you had never seen him before.

You rolled your eyes and sighed. "Fine, one game."

But one game turned into another and yet another, until it started to get really late. You were having a lot of fun, though, and you managed to win surprisingly often, shocking the guys a little because they had thought of being some sort of masters in card games themselves. Niragi knew you were a challenging opponent though, so he was amused by the reactions of his friends.

You now held the King of Spades card in your hand, looking at the King's cartoon face and felt it staring back at you, a little too intensely. You got a weird twist in your stomach, suddenly feeling sick.

Uncomfortable pressure formed inside your skull, some sort of flashes running inside your mind. The card dropped from your hand as you held your head in your hands, shutting your eyes.

You heard rapid shooting and screaming everywhere around you.

A man in a long black cloak approached you, pointing his gun at you, but someone pulled you out of the way of gunfire.

Swimming in a lake, being held against someone's bare chest but not seeing the person's face. An explosion somewhere in the distance.

Finally, Chishiya's face looking at you with worried eyes, a tear falling down his face and blood on his cheek. Saying something to you but you didn't hear what.

Every flash didn't last longer than one or two seconds, feeling like they were splitting your brain in half.

You felt a hand on your shoulder, Niragi looking at you with a worried expression on his face. You jumped on your seat, him scaring the crap out of you.

"Y/N? What's wrong?" Niragi asked.

"My, my head just hurts," you muttered and stood up. "Migraine. I think i'll go to lie down." You were already walking away until turned around one more time and gave the guys a smile. "It was nice to play with all of you though."

You went to the spare room and sat on the bed, hands grabbing the edge of the bed.

What the hell was that?

♤♡♧◇

Chishiya fell asleep fast that night, faster than usual, even though his mind wasn't even closely free from all the storming thoughts about you and everything going on in his life right now.

He saw a dream which felt too real and familiar to be only a dream. He felt like there had been more to the dream, and he remembered only a small part of it.

He saw your face. You were standing in front of him. With a smile on your face, you pulled him into a kiss, hands on his cheeks.

You pulled back after a while, still holding his cheeks as you looked into his eyes, challenging look in them. "I've never done it in a lake, though."

Chishiya woke up, for a moment trying to comprehend where he was after opening his eyes, then fully realizing he had only dreamed the entire thing. You weren't there holding his face. You weren't there kissing his lips. You weren't there at all, your touch had been only his own imagination.

Had the moment between you two in the elevator really affected him that much? Surely not. No, definitely not.

His heart fluttered and for some reason, he had liked it. The idea of you being close to him.

He wanted to slap himself on the cheek which held a ghost of your touch, just to get this feeling spat out of him. Touch which hadn't been there at all in the first place.

He didn't know you. You were strangers to each other who simply went through the same trauma. He had never felt like this about a woman who he only knew by a name. He knew nothing else about you besides getting injured when the meteorite hit Tokyo.

He could tell you were beautiful and would get any man on their knees by your feet, he wasn't going to deny that.

Was this some sort of "love at first sight" moment he was experiencing? Definitely not. He didn't believe in love at first sight, no. It had to be something else.

Chishiya groaned, absolutely frustrated, and wasn't able to sleep anymore.

♤♡♧◇

A/N: Hope i didn't forget to tag anyone <3 The next part won't be posted this fast lmao don't get used to this.

Taglist:

@audiiix

@valexqpt

@spencersoneball

@queenofviolenceandnerds

@moonchild323232

@lizxoxeth

@crazzzyyyy

@kimsrie

[oaksgrove]

A Place to Call Home

pairing: Keegan Russ x Reader

synopsis: After months of deployment, Keegan finally returns to the apartment you’d both barely settled into before he left. What was once an empty, impersonal space is now a warm, inviting home filled with your touch. As the two of you reconnect over dinner, the love and comfort you’ve created together remind him of what he’s been fighting for.

warnings: None, just tender, heartwarming fluff.

word count: 1805

a/n: is all about love in the little things. Hope you enjoy this cozy slice of domestic bliss!

The apartment was empty, save for a few boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner. The walls were bare, the hardwood floors scuffed, and the faint scent of paint still lingered in the air. You stood in the middle of the room, hands on your hips, surveying the space that would soon become your home.

“It’s a bit… sad, isn’t it?” you said, glancing over your shoulder at Keegan.

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room. “It’s a blank slate,” he said simply, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll make it ours.”

You grinned at his optimism, turning back to the room. “Ours,” you repeated softly, the word wrapping around you like a warm hug.

The two of you spent the next few hours unpacking, your voices mingling with the sound of tape ripping and boxes being shuffled around. Keegan insisted on doing the heavy lifting, even though you playfully argued that you were just as capable.

By the end of the day, the apartment still looked sparse, but there were signs of life—a cozy blanket draped over the couch, your favorite mugs lined up on the kitchen counter, a Polaroid of the two of you pinned to the fridge.

Keegan pulled you into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s a start,” he murmured.

“It’s perfect,” you replied, leaning into him.

But perfection was fleeting. Just weeks later, Keegan was called back to duty.

The morning he left was quiet. Too quiet.

You stood at the door, your arms wrapped around yourself as you watched him lace up his boots. His duffel bag sat by the door, a stark reminder of the goodbye you were about to say.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, his voice steady, though you could hear the tension beneath it.

“You better be,” you replied, forcing a smile. “I’m not finishing decorating this place without you.”

He stood, pulling you into his arms. His embrace was firm, grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself believe that time would fly by.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

“You too,” you replied, your fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket.

When he pulled away, his lips brushed against your forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said, your voice trembling.

And then he was gone.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. The apartment felt cold without him, the silence oppressive. You threw yourself into work, into little projects to pass the time, but it was never quite enough.

Until one day, you decided to change things.

You started small—string lights hung above the windows, a tapestry on the wall to add some color. You printed out photos, memories of the two of you, and pinned them up in the hallway. You found an old record player at a thrift shop, and soon the soft crackle of vinyl filled the apartment, chasing away the silence.

Piece by piece, the space transformed. It wasn’t just an apartment anymore. It was a home.

The apartment smelled like garlic and rosemary, the faint crackle of something sizzling on the stovetop breaking the silence. Keegan stepped inside, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his boots heavy against the polished wood floor. He froze just past the threshold, his breath catching at the sight in front of him.

You stood at the counter, your back to him, swaying slightly to the soft hum of music playing from the kitchen speaker. The oversized sweater you wore hung loosely off one shoulder, and your hair was messily tied back, strands framing your face.

It wasn’t just the sight of you that rooted him to the spot—it was the warmth of the apartment itself.

The last time he’d been here, the walls had been bare, the furniture sparse and impersonal. The place had felt like a waiting room, a temporary stop in the chaos of life. But now, it was something else entirely.

String lights curled along the edges of the ceiling, casting a soft, golden glow. Polaroids covered one wall—pictures of the two of you smiling, laughing, caught in quiet moments of joy. A tapestry hung behind the couch, its rich, earthy tones adding depth to the room. On the side tables, lamps with warm light bathed the corners, pushing away any lingering shadows.

It looked like home.

Keegan couldn’t stop watching you. The way your hands moved so naturally as you stirred the sauce, the way you hummed a tune softly under your breath—it all felt like a dream. Every movement, every little detail, reminded him of how much he’d missed you, of the pieces of himself that had been scattered while he was away.

He let his gaze wander again, taking in the transformation of the apartment. On the coffee table, he noticed a candle, its flame flickering gently, filling the air with the comforting scent of vanilla. A knit blanket was draped over the back of the couch, the kind you’d pull over yourself while reading or watching a movie. Small details like these made the space feel alive, vibrant in a way it hadn’t been before.

And you—his heart ached just looking at you. It had been months since he’d last seen you, months since he’d felt your arms around him or heard the way you whispered his name like it was the only word that mattered.

Keegan cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. "Hey."

You startled, spinning around with wide eyes, but the moment you saw him, the surprise melted into something radiant.

"Keegan!" you gasped, abandoning the knife on the cutting board as you rushed toward him.

He dropped his duffel just in time to catch you, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as you leapt into his embrace. The familiar scent of you—lavender and something sweet—filled his senses, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

"You’re home," you murmured, your voice muffled against his chest.

He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. "I’m home," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands framing his face. "You didn’t tell me you were coming. I would’ve—"

"Didn’t want you to wait on me," he interrupted, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "Wanted to surprise you."

You smiled, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You’re a good kind of surprise, Keegan."

His gaze drifted around the apartment, taking in every detail—the photos, the lights, the small touches of you everywhere. "You did all this?" he asked, his voice soft with wonder.

You followed his gaze, a hint of shyness creeping into your smile. "Yeah. I wanted it to feel like… like us."

Keegan shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It’s perfect," he said, pulling you close again. "You made it perfect."

The timer on the stove beeped, and you pulled back with a laugh. "Dinner’s going to burn if I don’t get back to it."

"Let it," he said, his hands refusing to let you go.

You rolled your eyes but kissed him gently. "I missed you too, but you’re not starving on my watch."

Reluctantly, he let you slip out of his arms, watching as you returned to the kitchen. He followed, leaning against the counter as you fussed over the meal.

"Can I help?" he asked, though the thought of doing anything other than watching you felt impossible.

"Just sit there and look pretty," you teased, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, before grabbing a chair to sit by the kitchen island. His eyes never left you as you moved around, his chest full of a peace he hadn’t felt in months.

Your smile softened, and you stepped closer, holding out the spoon. “Taste this for me?”

He leaned down, letting you guide the spoon to his lips. The flavor was rich and comforting, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the food.

“Perfect,” he said, his voice rasping slightly.

You grinned, pleased, and turned back to the stove.

Keegan stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. You stilled for a moment, but then relaxed into his embrace, leaning back against him.

“I missed this,” he murmured into your hair.

“Me too,” you whispered. “I kept trying to imagine what it’d feel like when you finally came home. I don’t think I imagined it being this good.”

He tightened his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder. “This is better than I ever could’ve imagined. You’ve made this place… you’ve made it feel alive.”

You turned in his arms, your hands sliding up to cup his face. “It didn’t feel alive without you, Keegan. It didn’t feel like home.”

The weight of your words settled over him, his chest tightening. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your back. “I’m sorry it took so long to come back,” he said, his voice heavy with regret.

“You’re here now,” you said softly, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “That’s all that matters.”

The oven timer went off, breaking the moment, and you laughed lightly as you pulled away. “Go sit down. Dinner’s ready.”

Keegan watched as you plated the food, every movement so familiar, so effortlessly you. The table was already set—another small detail that tugged at his heart. Candles flickered in the center, their warm glow adding to the cozy atmosphere.

“Do you like it?” you asked, breaking him from his thoughts.

“Like it?” he echoed, his voice quiet. He gestured to the room around him. “I love it, sweetheart. I love everything you’ve done here. It’s… it’s us.”

As you both sat down, Keegan reached across the table, taking your hand in his.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice low.

“For what?” you asked, tilting your head.

“For all of this,” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “For waiting for me. For turning this place into something I want to come back to. For being you.”

Your eyes shimmered, and you squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to thank me, Keegan. This is what we do. We’re a team.”

He nodded, his throat too tight to speak. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt at peace. Sitting there with you, in the home you’d created together, he knew—this was where he belonged. This was everything he’d been fighting for. For the first time in a long time, Keegan felt like he could breathe. The apartment, the food, the warmth—it wasn’t just a place to return to.

It was home. And so were you

[the-midnight-blooms]

from the artist's studio | cs

pairing: painter!choi san x painter!reader AU: historical au, joseon dynasty word count: 10.5k

masterlist

I reach out to my lover, he’s trapped within a painting. The muse of a Renaissance artist- he’s so divine he may have even started the movement.

Her feet pattered down the cold floorboards, pushing through the salmun doors-the fabric of her purple hanbok bunched up in her palms. The midnight bloomed in the depth of the spring, where the cherry blossom trees roared with the wind. A captivating beam from the candle paved the way to the front doors, her heart lurching in her chest as she felt an enchanted soul beckoning her name; her vessel bowed in his essence as if the rapping of the door knocker was to the beat of her name, echoing every syllable. With her hand outstretched for the doors, she hauled it open finding a man whose eyes were squinting as the the coarse rain battered against his supple skin; his teeth chattering with the cold. With a brown leather bag sloped over the shoulder of his light yellow hanbok; hands gripped steely over the handle of his heavy cases. He was tall, with broad shoulders, she quickly discerned but his face almost seemed obscured by the dark clouds and the night slowly filtering into the star studded sky.

"Please, Miss, I'm here to see Mr Yim. I'm a new apprentice at the local government office." His voice was almost mellowed by the crash of thunder against the sky, which had them both flinching at its mercilessness. A surge of relief rested upon him as a slender arm in purple outstretched towards him; the warmth easing the shattering goosebumps bestowed upon his delicate skin. With a contented sigh, the figure in front raised the candle to his face; the soft glow illuminated his crescent eyes which bored into another's burgeoning with curiosity.

"Your name, Sir?" Her honey like voice, slid into his ears; lashes gently fluttering as he breathed in the sight before him the beaming light from the candle forging a halo around this angel. Her tight jaw and deadpan expression was immediately dissolved between the influx of enigma that flooded into her eyes.

"Choi San." Nodding diligently, she gesticulated for him to follow her to her father's study. The hallways of the Yim estate were particularly large, a few candelabras were perched on top of the drawers plastered across the panelled walls-the smoke infiltrating into the empty space. They graced the floor with minimal sound, as if there were ghosts traipsing the corridors rather than real people.

Stood outside the large door, she dipped her head in politeness as he gently caressed the lumber; soft knocks restituting off the walls. With the candle perched within a hand of his own, yet another door opened; the esteemed artist tumbled through the doorway into another life.

Just over two decades ago, on a winter night, where the trees were bare of crisp leaves and the ground was brazen with purest of snow; a couple sat by the fire in their bedroom: a new-born cherub encapsulated within her mother's arms. Mr Yim, the father of the child, was a member of a group of scholars who advocated the need for the government to foster commerce, industry, and technology. He was a part of one of the four schools of thought in Joseon that shifted from speculative theory to attending to more taxing socio-political issues. Therefore, despite being renown for his hard work, and steadfast nature, he was also known for being quite reserved- to put it nicely. There were no 'good mornings' or 'good afternoons' from Mr Yim. Nor were there dirty looks and unwelcoming mannerisms bestowed upon his acquaintances. He liked to keep to himself, Mrs Yim being the only woman in the world capable of seeing that man smile.

"Would you like to hold her, dear?" His wife called, the gentle babbling of his child sending a jolt of fear rushing through him. Eagerly, he dismissed the opportunity, to which Mrs Yim had sighed staring down at her beautiful daughter. "She is your daughter, too. You're going to have to hold her at one point."

"I'll hold her when she is a little older than what she is now."

"Before you know it, she will become a woman and you will reminisce all the opportunities you had to cuddle her when you could." Truthfully, Mr Yim was afraid of fatherhood; he never really understood the notion of it but if having a child would make his darling, Mrs Yim, happy then Mr Yim would give her all the children in the world. How could he raise a child when he was left to raise himself? What could he even teach except say to his daughter after every stumble, every mistake, every stutter, every cry for help but: 'find your way'?

Thus, his aloof nature extended to his daughter, who having been pinned by her mother's side until her unfortunate death, became wholly estranged from her father. He was no longer her mother's husband, but rather just a kind stranger who fed her, clothed her, kept her under his roof and gave her almost anything she wanted.

Miss Yim was rather bizarre.

Or at least, that's what the townspeople thought through her poignant introvertedness; maintaining scant friendships, rejecting all marriage prospects almost immediately preferring the confines of her large quarters-which in themselves were situated in the segregated division of the family home. Her rooms were not bright, but panelled with a dark wood that foremost created a dull atmosphere, there was minimal light other than what streamed in through the open doors and windows that overlooked the vast lawn. A porch ran around the whole building, where Miss Yim frequented, all year round, as she drew.

Oh! The most compelling thing about Miss Yim was that in contrast to her academic father, she had particularly excelled in the arts, often taking on commissions from local noblemen requesting venerated portraits of their wives. As well as the opportunity to put her skills to practise, she saw it as a way of putting a few extra pennies in her pocket. In alignment with her reserved nature, Miss Yim found that she preferred to draw using defined, darker mediums such as charcoal, ink and graphite pencils. There was something so true about the loneliness that could be felt from the intricate brushstrokes as the ink spilled across the page. As if the figurines were her, simply founded to be a mere prop in a large frame.

Smoothing down the hairs on her head, she snapped away her gaze from the mirror to the window overlooking the side of the garden, the silhouette of the hanok roofs, carving elegantly into the sky. The trees rocked and the grass rippled with the pending ferocity of the wind. Indeed, the storm would not subside within the next few days. The door to her bedroom slid open, the older maid stumbled in settling the tray upon her bench.

"Will I not be eating with my father today?" Ina looked up from where she was kneeled on the floor, settling the bowls onto the bench.

"Mr Yim is currently accompanied with Mr Choi. Your father requested that you eat by yourself for the duration of his stay, you know how it is." Nodding, she took her seat opposite Ina patiently awaiting for the maid to stop assembling her dishes in a neat line in front of her. Whilst women typically dined by themselves, her father had allowed her to eat with him almost daily; except when there were guests. Despite his neglect towards his daughter, he still valued her feminine dignity and did not trust the vulturous eyes of men that rested their predatory gaze upon her.

"Who is this, Mr Choi, and how is it that I wasn't aware of his arrival until he was knocking on our door?" She questioned, Ina's careful gaze flickered to her before staring out into the open space in contemplation.

"A new apprentice. He’s appointed here, on request of his father." Leaning forward, Ina's voice dropped an octave. "Apparently his father says he's been 'engaging in sin' so he's been estranged from his parents until he gets his act together." Raising a questioning brow, she looked down at her bowl.

"Is he a homosexual?" Immediately, she was wacked on the back of her head by the older maid who didn't miss a single second in scolding her. Her hand sped to the back, rubbing the jolt of pain that seared through her, a temporary look of irritation glazed over her eyes.

"You insolent girl! How could you say such thing, you know how disgraced that is!"

"You said ‘engaging in sin'. I can't think of anything more sinful other than fraternising with men or women." Ina's dirty look penetrated through her bones, provoking a sense of humiliation that would rattle through her in the depth of the night. Scowling at her mistress, she rolled her eyes before getting up from the floorboard.

“Hurry up and eat your food. You need to go to Mrs Kang’s today." Following Ina's orders she gulfed down her food, drowning out the maid's muttering about her being crude and dishonourable.

The light chatter from the front room fell deaf at her ears as she sauntered to the entrance, which the two kitchen maids scuttled in through. Bowing at their mistress, they made a fowl attempt at suppressing a fit of giggles as they subtly snuck a glance into the room. Following their gazes, she warily traipsed in, catching her father converse with their new guest.

"Ah, speak of the devil! Mr Choi, this is my daughter." He teared his gaze away from his mentor to draw his eyes across the room and find the infamous Miss Yim perched by the doorway, gripping onto her onto the full skirts of her dark blue hanbok.

It was hard to deny that Mr Choi was amiable. He was tall, well-built with a toned torso that was still perceptible through his uncreased peach coloured hanbok, dimples adorned his perfectly structured cheeks. He nodded with such elegant eagerness, at her father's command harbouring the position of an obedient son, almost leaving her wondering what was so 'sinful' about that man in the first place? What could he have possibly done so wrong that he had practically been disowned by his family?

"Miss Yim, it's nice to formally meet you." She gave him a polite nod, choosing to stay silent than say something and be met with her father's harsh stare.

"Mr Kang told me you've been over at his home, a few times." Her father spoke breaking the awkward meeting. A breath became lodged in her throat as she anticipated some sort of wrath, after all Mr Yim was supposed to be oblivious to her going out and painting other women for a light commission. She didn't exactly know how he would react to that. "He appreciates your help with Mrs Kang's pregnancy." Mrs Kang is pregnant? That would explain the engorging belly, the mood swings and the other number of odd behaviours that she was listing off in the past few weeks she had been challenged with drawing the difficult woman. At times, Miss Yim thought she ought to have more empathy, it wasn't that she lacked it, it was that she tended to not gift her empathetic abilities to the prejudiced. It was women like Ina, and the cooks that worked in the kitchen that deserved her compassion. Women who strived to be breadwinners, even if it was due to poor socio-economic circumstances. Because women like Mrs Kang were hypocrites to be preaching the old values, pre-Confucianism, when they neglected their own sex.

"Yes, she's been enjoying my company. I intend to go again to deliver herbs she’s asked from Ina’s garden.” She recalled glancing down the extensively large page, as Mrs Kang moaned and groaned when the servants were too late to serve her namul and kimchi.

"Red raspberry leaf, dandelions, echinacea." Grimacing, she looked over her sheet to give the woman a look. "You can just get this from the market, why do you need this from Ina's garden?" Mrs Kang simply pouted rubbing her belly. Now that she thought about it, how did it not occur to her that she was pregnant? Perhaps it was because they begged to slim down her figure in the painting.

"Fresh herbs are good for babies." Were the herbs from the market not fresh enough for her? “I need them picked before they’re here.”

"Perhaps I should add lemon balm to burn that fat." A discourse of exasperated gasps rippled over the room, Mrs Kang waddled out of the room wailing for her husband. It was ruthless and unkind, keeping the unsympathetic Miss Yim awake at night before she travelled back to the Kang estate to see a very unhappy couple.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Kang. You’re beautiful just the way you are, even more with the little belly.” The pregnant woman’s tight grip around her neck, as they hugged, almost choked her to death.

Mr Yim's eyes outcasted through the doorway, there was a light patter of rain yet the howl of the wind had subsided significantly. He let out a small hum before returning back to the young pair staring, ardently, back at him.

"I say Mr Choi, should be your chaperone. It's a little unsafe to be going out by yourself." Before she could open her mouth and argue, her father held out a hand to silence her thoughts. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she nodded once more, before dashing from the room to have a flustered Mr Choi following her.

Hitching up her skirts, she trudged through the field, the sun had filtered into the sky radiating its essence onto the young souls as they surpassed the reams of houses. Had it not been for the joyous discord of infantile laughter, it would have been quiet; San mustering the courage to initiate a conversation. He cleared his throat, she merely blinked at his futile attempt at grabbing her attention.

"Miss Yim, you must slow down I can't keep up with your pace." He declared, striding faster towards her, the tall grass brushing against his knees.

"I think you can cope, Sir. Your legs are longer than mine." Walking through the grass wasn't difficult but when her hanbok was floor length, lifting up the heavy fabric proved tiresome and not to mention her shoes were sinking into the muddy fields, squelching miserably under her heavy steps. Eventually, San matched her pace as they made their way up the steps to the Kang estate.

A shrill voice eructed into the airs, the domestic staff worked at a proficient speed as they amended the damages inflicted from the storm. As a group of servants raised the logs from the path, San ran to their aid significantly lightening their work load. His charity had left her silent contemplating her initial thoughts on his persona. There must be something impure under all that. Surely? There had to be some reason why his father practically disowned him.

Kang Yeosang stood by his front doors, watching as his staff worked the lawn and through the large home. He sought the enigmatic painter launch up the steps, with an unreadable look painted on her face.

“Good Morning, Miss Yim.”

“Morning, Yeosang.” She greeted, he laughed a little at her dull tone.

“I take it, there’s nothing particularly good about this morning.” He jeered, she huffed at his characteristically exuberant manner.

“Not when my father’s spy is here to be my chaperone.” She turned around on the steps, the pair looking down at San moving the heavy logs from the path, dirtying his robes at that. “He’s the new apprentice at the local office, Choi San, I think he said his name was.”

"Oh, the country boy." Country boy? "He's from Yangdong, have you not heard? His family is amongst the richest, they're both scholars and farmers, now." Across the country, Joseon farming techniques had taken a turn within the last few decades, especially with the establishment of irrigation and rice transplantation methods- bringing Joseon to a state of flourishment. It was safe to say, which farmer wasn't rich now? The admirable farm boy was pushed away by the servants, making his way up the steps. Leaving him with Yeosang, she made her way in the direction of the couples' shared quarters, Mrs Kang draped over her bed, her wrist dramatically resting on her forehead.

"Hello, Mrs Kang." The woman jolted up from her seat, an obnoxious groan emitted from her as she propped her back up against the wall. "I brought you your herbs."

"Thank you, my love. You left your paints, they're just on my dressing table." The herbs were exchanged from her paints, digging into the pockets of her hanbok. The older woman began to natter, the discordant tonality rattling in her ears. Mrs Kang loved to talk. Even if it was about absolutely nothing, that woman talked for the whole of Joseon.

I'm leaving this place with a headache.

She often wondered how it was that Yeosang put up with his insufferable wife. Was it love, or a promise that he had made to Mrs Kang's parents that he would never leave her? The thought made her sigh in pity- to be permanently bound to someone in matrimony seemed like too much effort at times. Perhaps the effort itself is what subdued her mother to misery, the poor Mrs Yim eagerly handing her soul to the Angel of Death. Or maybe Miss Yim had possessed a stone-cold heart frozen over by the neglect of life's intimate essence; overpowered by a sense of maturity held over by her mother's early death. She took it upon herself to make it clear that by the time she was thirty, if there was no proposal that had come around she was going to wholly abandon the idea of marriage and work herself to death.

"That man is so pretty." She spoke, dreamily, Miss Yim's eyes lazily fled in the direction of Mrs Kang's. Her head poked through the doorway where both Yeosang and San were travelling down, engaging in intelligent discourse. "Not Yeo, the other one." The pregnant woman clarified.

"He's ok, I suppose. Not bewitching enough to tempt me."

"That has to be the biggest lie I have ever heard."

"What is Miss Yim lying about now?" Yeosang provoked as both men entered the room. Both women shared a look before the painter slumped onto the dressing table chair. "I suppose you're awaiting your payment."

"Well, my services aren't free." She declared, pompously. Yeosang rolled his eyes before he moved to the opposite end of the room, San had almost drawn his body out of the bedroom, a little embarrassed as the pregnant Mrs Kang ogled her eyes at him. Stretching her limbs, she got up taking the velvet bag. "Thank you, Mr Kang. I'll visit when the baby arrives."

His perfection had her repleted with such distaste for him. Simply put, Miss Yim hated Choi San because he was loved by all. Her father loved him, Ina adored him, the maids were constantly drooling over him it shot her with a sense of annoyance. He quickly became a household name, spoken of when he was at the office with her father and even when he was at home. Everywhere she went it was just him, him and him. The worst thing was, was that he was even trying to be nice to her prevailing through her grim looks and hard words.

“San this, San that. Honestly, he’s not even as esteemed as everyone claims, Ina. He’s just a man, like every other man. And all men are the same. So what if he's good looking, does that suddenly make him god’s greatest gift?” Burying her face into the pillow, an exasperated huff escaped her lips. Ina fell onto her bed, reaching her arms out to stroke her mistress’ back. With a contented sigh, she felt her eyes drooping a little as the maid's soft caresses were gently lulling her to sleep. Her touch felt like that of her mother's, soothing the aches of her heart whilst simultaneously provoking the nostalgia of a mother's love. To have her mother again, to have that woman encircle her into her arms. Rock her back and forth. She longed for her mother's scent again, often chasing the whiff of her familiar saccharine redolence as one chased butterflies in an open field.

“Yet you think of him often. He occupies your thoughts as much as he occupies ours.”

“Hardly, I-,” She stammered in a desperate attempt to recollect her thoughts into a single ambience. “I envy him. How is that he steps into this home for a second and I see my father smile?” Ina’s face dropped, a breath caught in her throat as her mistress spoke aloud the forbidden words she denied her staff to even breathe. The older maid had been rendered silent for too long, giving Miss Yim all of the answers she needed to press forward with her wistful assumptions.

"Perhaps if you grew to understand him, you would know why your father has inhabited such emotions for him. Think of him like a son-in-law. He will love him but not as much as he loves you." The maid reasoned.

"Then that makes him my husband." She grumbled, pulling the duvet over her shoulders.

"Now is that so bad?” Ina teased, before pulling her weight off the bed. With no strength to argue, her eyes fluttered to a close; her soul being dissolved by the night.

The following morning, it was too cold to be even sitting on her porch and with eyes tired of the same dreary scene, she ventured out of her quarters, delving into parts of the home she had missed. By the kitchens, the late Mrs Yim had reserved herself a small room decorated with the tools of all her hobbies in order to enact time alone for herself, away from motherhood and social responsibility. The room was consistently cleaned but usually left empty having it being full of painful memories of the beloved mistress of the household. For the first time in a long time, Miss Yim had felt the drive to find the room again and read her mother's poetry she had spent hours pouring over in the rooms.

Yet it had been almost shot stone-cold dead when the door opened to find San sat by the window hands raised towards the canvas. The anger within her refused to simmer or boil, it was rather the smooth swaying of the soft waves lapping the crust of sand. Her hands feebly reached for the poetry book on the table.

"I didn't know you were a painter, Mr Choi." She proclaimed, her breath hitched in her throat as her eyes sought the intricate details on the canvas. Her eyes glossed over the colours, the succinct shapes, drawing on the brushstrokes herself with the sharp movements of her eyes. It moved her. When was the last time she had been left this breathless?

"You never asked, Miss Yim." Immediately she felt intimidated by his artwork, her own revered drawings felt meek in comparison to his. A mere apprentice in an important official’s presence. To even be this close to him was considered a blessing. "You can sit next to me. I don't bite." Tentatively, she drew closer seating herself on the floorboards next to him; the brush of their fabrics sending a tidal wave of timidness over her. Where was the bold, steadfast Mrs Yim? Long gone, lost to the large expanse of the sea. Drowning under the ocean of his perfection. She didn't even want call for help, allowing herself to be enveloped by his allure. You draw so beautifully, she wanted to say. It's perfect, like something-someone even.

"You should have been a royal painter." The remark was swallowed into a melancholic void within his heart. Sparing a glance, he dipped the tip of the paintbrush into the crevice of the cerulean blue paint before raising to illustrate the canvas.

"Don't say that to my father." She sought the gloom glossed over his brown eyes. Was he, too, held down by social responsibility and expectations? She didn't think it was possible for a man's dreams to be mauled over by society; for she saw it with her father who had the whole world at his feet-picking dreams as if he was picking daisies from a meadow. Dropping her book onto the floor, she rested her head on her knee, solicitude fulfilled the serene atmosphere. Her eyes fell over the fancy metallic pots situated around the easel, which she knew to be various colours of paint pigments. Resting her head on her knee, she tenderly rocked her body from side to side as she watched his hands elegantly work through the canvases.

"Did you ever consider pottery? That's supposed to be quite popular now." Her question breaking through the quiet airs, the delicacy of her voice startling San. It was devoid of boredom, or disinterest like he had always perceived. No lace of judgement like he was silently praying to be diminished from her soul.

"It'll grow out of popularity soon." He stated, resting the paintbrush down to exercise the tense muscles in his hands. "I heard this was the late Mrs Yim's room, I hope you don't mind me being here." It, too, came as a shock to her when she shook her head-with no care in the world that he had colonised the room that she was once sure was hers.

It was sunny for once, which was odd for this time of year-she thought throwing open the door to the porch finding San surrounded by a large number of logs and an axe.

"What's he doing outside?" She pondered, Ina folding up the washed bedsheets before tucking them away into the drawers.

"They stopped properly chopping up the logs so we can use them for the fire, so Mr Choi offered to help." Wandering out through the doors, a smooth current of air tousled her hair, a book held tightly against her chest.

God, he really was toned. Rolling up the sleeves of his hanbok all the way to his bulging biceps, the maids all stopped in their path to rest their elbows on the low garden wall overseeing the vast expanse of grass. Effortlessly he picked up the axe, raising it over his head to slice down the log of wood. She rolled her eyes at her maids, as they watched him with dreamy faces. They nattered in hushed tones, giggling amongst themselves unbeknownst that their mistress was stood behind them. Leaning down to where they were sat on the garden wall, she poked her head in between the sea of charmed maidens.

“What are we looking at?” They squeaked, jumping up from their seats upon sight of their mistress- flapping their hands as some rushed back into the kitchen and others tended to garden duties. “Well? I would like to know too.”

“You wouldn’t understand Miss Yim.” Yes, yes she was the narcissistic Miss Yim who harboured no feelings for men and couldn’t deduce their charming airs. She was the Miss Yim who rejected countless marriage proposals, not based on looks but merely because she found that no man possessed the kind quality in a man that she was seeking. No patience, no loyalty. They were not even ruled by a sense of ambition. So how could she be hypnotised by the sacred beauty of a man, specifically, Choi San.

“Yes, I don’t understand why you’re not doing the job that we’re paying for you to do. All of you, out of the garden, it’s already been tended to!” She shouted, in an instant all of the maids dispersed back into the home. Huffing, she slumped onto the garden wall, glazing her ink pen over the defined lines on the page. Occasionally, she’d peer her eyes over the pages at San, tending to the curve of his body, and the horrific cinching of his waist. When he looked to his side, she hastily returned back to her sketchbook, feeling a blush decorate her cheeks as his steady gaze burned into her skin.

“Very accurate, Miss Yim.” Jumping up from her seat, she screeched the pot of ink spilling onto his face and neck. Whoops.

“Oh goodness, I am so sorry. Ah.” She let out a pained sound, battling with her internal conflict as she grabbed his hand rushing them into the direction of the porch that led to her quarters. Powerfully, she slid the door open darting inside and towards the washroom. Hauling him down to his knees in front of the washing basin, with a soaked rag in hand, she scraped away the ink splashed across his face. “Take this off.” She ordered, signalling to his hanbok.

“W-what?” He stammered, his face heating red.

“Well you’ve got ink and dirt all over it. I can get a new one for you.”

“I can’t just return back to my quarters and change?”

“Well no because then my father will see you and he’ll know I stole his ink again.” An annoyed huff escaped from his lips as she handed him the rag to clean himself. “Here, I’ll go get you a spare set of clothes.” Jumping up from where she was kneeled, her foot slipped over a puddle of water his arms snapped out towards her waist. Gripping his shoulders for stability, a faint blush trickled over her face, their noses barely an inches distance.

"Be careful." Quickly unravelling her hands from his shoulders, Miss Yim ran out of the room towards his quarters. Slipping past the double doors, she rummaged through the drawers for his clothes-picking up a light green set.

"Mr Choi?" A maid's voice called out from behind the closed door. Discerning their shadow moving closer, she made a beeline through the open doors leading into the garden. Scuttling into her washroom, she practically launched the hanbok at him before hiding in her room.

A breath of relief had finally escaped from her when he left from her room, both of their faces burning red in the midst of this shameful meeting. Yet San seemed persistent to know her, feeling that there was still something beneath the stone-cold façade she had constructed; something emotional and raw that he had felt he had to know. And Miss Yim was too becoming more curious, by the day, as to what Choi San’s secret was and why his father perpetually hated him.

Ina had forced them to go on a walk together, she groaned, silently, as they left the home behind making their way down to the meadow. At first an odd tranquillity permeated the air, eventually she grew tired of the jarring dissonance of absolutely nothing.

“A penny for your thoughts?” She inquired.

“I’ll keep the penny. I almost feel you’d judge me for having thoughts.” San bemused, she rolled her eyes, a faint of a smile on her lips. Just the tiniest, but it was practically gone within the same second.

“I don’t judge you, Mr Choi. I do, however, envy you. You’ve taken the place I wanted in my father’s heart.” She confessed, he looked towards her sympathetically, with knowingness that she was indeed right and the Mr Yim, famous for being just as aloof as his daughter, had somehow softened a little upon his arrival. Perhaps it was a son that he had always wanted, not a daughter but the scholar was reserved; San being too terrified to pry.

“Your place is best occupied elsewhere. Somebody else has it, I’m sure. He keeps it safe with love that is too potent that even dreamers can’t feign.” Of course was reading her mother's poetry, she didn't think many could understand the abstract nature of her words; of course it was him out of all who admired her poetry as it was his own.

"I am not pretty enough for that." Miss Yim argued, looking down at her feet. After all, the marriage proposals were not because of her vague good looks, but mainly because Mr Yim claimed an abundance of wealth.

"I disagree with you on that." Her face heated with his affirmation.

"Well, I am no Jang Ok-Jeong."

"There are many beautiful women in Joseon, not all of them have ever been recorded."

"She caught the eye of the King, a man who has a kingdom at his feet, he is supposed to be too superior to even look at his subjects. And he looks at her? Is that not a beautiful woman?" They were both fuelled by this argument, the debate igniting a set of powerful emotions that roared within them. This, was what they both deeply felt conversations were supposed to be. Potent discourse about society, literature and art. Not idle chatter on the weather, marriage and the social laws that subdued them.

"A man is supposed to be ruled by his head, not emotions. I say if any man bestowed more than a single glance, on a woman, and his breath was taken away, then she is more gorgeous than Venus herself."

"Not that wretched painting. It's so...vulgar." San snickered, squeezing his eyes as he let out a melodious laughter. "It says so much about the male gaze." She spat out as they trudged through the fields back in the direction of her home.

“I wonder if you like any art, at all? Other than your own?” He questioned.

“Owon is good. Apart from the vulgarity of Renaissance paintings-,”

“Which I must say is the majority of the whole movement, pray, continue.” He teased, his pestering smirk seemed to stitch wings on her heart, for it fluttered at his amiability, his devoutness to mankind and all of its endearing qualities and his perseverance. Despite her uncompromising attitudes and distasteful demeanour, he seemed compliant with listening to her, talking to her, truly trying to understand her and not just turning a blind eye. Choi San truly wanted to know her, for her; and not follow some false allegation that she was devoid of a heart or soul. He commended she had both and they were wrought with an existentialist quality that he wanted nothing but to huddle in the corner of a library and read away his life until it dissolved under the cover of her persona.

"What about you?" She questioned, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her own ear. At once, San was drawn into the world of virtuosity describing each of his favourite pieces as if it could be encapsulated into a single globe. The sweet dissonance of his voice lugging her into a dreamscape as they gently glissaded through the empty hallways of the Yim estate. They sought their eyes over the panelled wall, following the intricate lines of carved wood. They could almost be called mad people loose from the dreaded ward. For their eyes did not see the same way a normal persons did. He saw the shimmer in the air, the light poring through the crevices, the faint blemishes on a skin unseen with a naked eye-too vague to be called a taint, a mark, a scar. And she would see what he saw, whether it was not there she could reach to the depths of her sanity and pour out the image before her eyes to satisfy him.

It became a wonder to her how they spent several nights, the light patter of her feet as she rushed to his quarters with fulfilling arguments over art pieces, sharing techniques, rifling through each other's sketchbooks. His style was a stark contrast to her own: luminous watercolours, velvety acrylic paints, oily crayons. His muses were full of life and wonder, the strokes brimming with fruition. It was if a single segment of his painting held more hope than what could exist in her whole being.

There was something about him, too. She could see it now, his compassion, his adoration. As the weeks spun by, she became less repulsed by his sincerity and opened up to it more, almost finding herself craving his attention. His affection was much welcomed; she often wondered what it would be like to be so loved by him.

In her mother's old drawing room, she found him again, his large hands drifting over the pages again. Peering over his shoulder, she softly blew into his ear; the warmth tickling him.

"What are you drawing?" Her eyes scanned over the cartridge sheet, its intimacy striking her. It looked like her. Every sketch line, every shade, every little detail, every little blemish on her face.

"You." He answered, he didn't dare tear his eyes away from her for her hair was falling down her face in perfect waves that lured him into uncharted depths.

"You drew me so pretty."

"I only drew what I saw." Her heart wavered in piety, his devotion provoking an arrangement of madness. He was going to drive her insane and she was content with it.

"I wonder, what was it that you were excommunicated for?" Her silence broke through the passionate airs, culminating the objectivity that fulfilled among them as his sins held heavy on his tongue.

"I am not a scholar, a farmer or a devout son. I am an artist, a man who sees the world despite all of its maliciousness. I see the world so raw, it almost disgusts me but I am not terrified by its honesty. I find it so beautiful, it belongs on a page: drawn." Her body swayed towards him, hypnotised by his delicate words drawn his intoxicating tenacity, filling her with such immitigable rage that within that severe moment all she wanted was him. "I was 'excommunicated' because I am not the man my father wants me to be. I return as soon as I am devoid of all the emotions he renders vile." Tentatively, her fingers curled through his hair his eyes fluttering shut under her gentle touch.

"What about you Miss Yim? Why are you so solitary?" He murmured, their quiet voices serenaded the room.

"I am not solitary by choice. It's been enforced upon me and I know nothing and no one else but myself." Her whispers, though full of hurt and pain, were seldom dulcet. He thrived himself upon her words alone, it was enough to send him into delirium but her whole unmatched beauty with her words? He was sure to be sent to the wretched institute.

With an envelope gripped in her hands, she made her way over to his quarters slipping into the warmth, his smile greeting her as she slumped onto the chair in front of him.

"Mrs Choi? Your mother?" She inquired, handing over the envelope. San snickered at her nosiness, rolling her eyes as he took the sheet from her grasp, ripping open the seal to reel his eyes down the page.

"Actually, it's my wife." He announced, sparing her a single glance as he continued to read the words sprawled across the page. A sharp pang penetrated through the barriers in her heart, she felt her feet slipping under the ground, the walls pulverising as they caved in on her. For some reason, the room felt much more smaller than it was. Her heart was beating faster than any poetic declaration he had bestowed upon her, any time he had made her feel as if she was truly a worthy soul of being loved. Her heart palpitated faster than when he made her feel she would not die from a cataclysmic loneliness.

"I didn't know you were married." She breathed out, gripping the sage green silk in hand; feeling almost disgusted with herself for fixating her whole being on a man who never belonged to her in the beginning.

"We'll be officially married when I return back home." With a teasing smile on his lips, he grabbed a clean sheet from his desk and began elegantly carving the characters onto the page. "I'll be sure to send you an invite, if you'll come?"

“Of course, I’ll come. You know, for the food.” She quipped, his dimpled smile shattering the months of pining she had set for this revered soul. “I’ll take your leave, San.”

She fled from the room her bare feet blessing the sweet earth, the velvety wisps of the wind taunting her as tears welled up in her eyes. With a breath hitched in her throat, she fell onto her bed; bottom lip quivering as pearl tears escaped from her eyes dribbling down her cheeks before splattering onto the bedsheets. Her painful howl terrorised the desolate quarters as she had done on several dispassionate nights, the skies mimicked her torment, the light patter of rain hit against the window as if it understood all her wretched emotions. As if it understood her anger, hatred and hurt. As if it understood how disgusting it felt be left vulnerable by a man who could never be hers.

Was it some false delusion that she had been seduced by? That he, who was carved from a sculpturers most wild emotions, by all of his tenacity and his violent rage that he wished to create a being made of light: could truly be hers? By his yearning and pent up sentiment, by his dying wish that this world was not at peace until some divine figure from a concealed land would touch her world? Her hands shook as she sought to remove the tears streaming endlessly down her face. After all it had now made sense to all of the sympathetic souls that had heard her be plunged through such pain, to read her tale and understand the reason for her aloof nature.

Up the walls went back up. Brick by brick.

Curse you, Choi San, for breaking them down in the first place.

San had not seen Miss Yim for the remainder of the week or the subsequent. Granted, he had been flooded with an overwhelming amount of work but such was to be expected with the incredible staff shortage and Mr Yim’s high expectations. Regardless, he missed the snarky comments and unrelenting stares from across the room. He missed her moodiness, how ever infuriating it was at times; he missed the sense of quietude she presented at his feet and its ability to render his mind numb. Overall, he missed her. Yet, she seemed to be nowhere in sight and in fact missing even under the cover of the night.

“Ina, do you know where I can find Miss Yim?” He questioned, the agony rupturing the sutures of his weak heart apart.

"In her room, Mr Choi. She's, specifically, requested not to see anyone." Oh. His mood deflated after that concession, wracking his mind for all the things he had said in their last engagement; anything potentially hurtful or offensive but he didn’t recall anything particularly endangering. His quest to venture into her quarters, despite her ruthless commands which had the servants petrified over her uncharacteristic (but not abnormal) behaviour, had been cut short by Mr Yim’s desire to keep a tightened hold on the apprentice. He thought about bringing it up as he ate dinner with his mentor.

“How is Miss Yim? I heard she’s isolated herself in her quarters?” He raised, tentatively, as Mr Yim’s eyes scoured down the reports. Her father was a little too quick to dismiss her actions.

“Never mind her, that’s not something new. I was surprised she was even roaming around the house when you arrived…” Mr Yim trailed off as a thought infiltrated his mind, shutting the book close, his furrowed brows silenced the questions in San’s mind.

The moonlight spilt in through the window, the luminous shadows dancing with the light breeze. With dried tear tracks staining her puffy cheeks, she circulated her finger around the cotton sheets pulling up the heavy duvet over her shoulders, a trail of heat comforted her. The door to her room, silently, slid open; oblivious to the soft bustling of footsteps she stretched her limbs sitting up in her bed.

“Miss Yim?” Her head snapped up at the deep voice, its familiarity sending an agonising wave of heartache through her being. There he was, the perpetrator himself, settling in front of her with a teacup in his palms as if nothing had happened in the first place. “Are you ok? I know you don’t like echinacea, so I got you lemon and ginger tea.” Placing the tea cup on her night stand, he rested his palm against her forehead.

“What are you doing here, San?” Huffing, she fisted up the hair in her palms before sticking a dry paint brush through it to create a tight knot.

“You’re burning u- were you crying?” His finger lightly smoothed her damp skin, shaking her head she pushed his hand away from her face. God, she felt awful for his wife who had to endure his infidelity. “What’s wrong, jagiya, speak to me?” Biting down on her lower lip, Miss Yim threw her gaze out of her window, she sought the light shimmering as her vision blurred.

“Just leave, please.��� There was no more hostility left in her tone, a coarse throat lacerated with the phlegm that built up from endless nights of sobbing herself to sleep. Tiredness gnawed at her, she just wanted to dissolve back into the covers. Pleading, begging she’d do whatever she could to force him to leave because if he didn’t then she would tear down the path to the Angel of Death and beg him to take her dwindling heart. On her knees she would go, for the mere sight of her lover crumbled the steadfast walls she had tried so hard to rebuild.

“Are you upset because I’m going home next week? If that’s the case-,”

“San, are you dense?” She interrupted. He was subjugated to silence, a look of hurt flashing over his face. “Leave means leave.” Adjusting her body so she could slide under the covers, she stridently hauled the fabric over her head, gripping her lips tight shut, so no more pitiful sobs escaped her and she was no more a servant to his cruel love.

The Yim estate was left with a melancholic air as the venerated bachelor made his preparations to leave the home. The maids were forlorn as they’d no longer have the privilege of seeing his striking face to bless their monotone days. Miss Yim had finally mustered the courage to take a stroll through the garden, avoiding San's quarters at that. Lingering by the flowers, she wrapped her arms around herself to manifest a sense of warmth that failed to prevail with the awful weather. She didn't notice her lover tear down the garden to her, his heart leaping within his own chest.

"Miss Yim?" Her body whipped around upon his words, her hands balled up into fists the anger displaced by fear. "Do you know how painful it has been for me to go days without seeing you? I am leaving for Yangdong, today, and god knows if I didn't even so much as see your face I would have gone feral."

"I- why?" She stuttered, at a desperate attempt to collect together her words and form a sentence. How and when did he culminate such passionate feelings for her?

"Why? Isn't it obvious? I am in love with you." He declared, she shook her head, profusely, at him.

"How can you say that?" Her voice raised an octave, parrying against the harsh winds that blew at them.

“If being in love with you is a deadly sin, then I am the greatest sinner there is. I will walk up to the gates of hell and open them myself. Hand over my arms and ask them to bound me to its greatest depths.” His chest heaved up and down, tears brimming at the front of her eyes. “I cannot live without you. I would not even do so much as breathe unless you asked me to. If you asked me to stop breathing, I would!”

“You’re a married man, San. Do you know how god awful that sounds?”

“I’m barely married but engaged. When I go back home, I will once again beg to not be wed off to her. I don’t love her, how can my father expect me to marry her? How can you expect me to marry her?”

“I don’t think you understand, San. I can’t love you.” His arms outstretched for her waist, hauling her towards him, the rain beating down on them both. With the gentle flick of his finger, her head tipped up to peer into his eyes.

“Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t love me, or even feel as much as a small emotion for me. One word from you, would silence me forever.” She bit furiously down on her lip as his vehement fixation tore through the borders of her soul. When did she fall so vulnerable in his conquest for her being?

“I don’t love you the same way you love me. I am incapable of doing so.” His own brown eyes fulfilled with hot tears, pouring soundlessly down his cheeks. Her heart wavered with misery as he ripped away his grip, stumbling backwards upon her untruth.

“I understand. Thank you, Miss Yim. For the first time in my life, someone saw me for who I really am and not who I am meant to be.” Once again, the thunder cracked against the sky as San turned his back on her striding back into the home. The maids ran out to shut the doors, summoning their mistress back in but she sunk to the floor erupting into a fit of sobs; a wave of shock rattling through them. Her heart burned with such pain, even as Ina cooed lifting her up from the floor to guide her back into the home. Melting into the older woman's arms, her ears drowned out the distant sound of her lover ambling far, far away from her to a land in which even its notion would never grace the depths of her mind.

Her father's office was warm, but not the comforting kind as the biting airs of Joseon persisted. It was more suffocating as they sat across from each other in his office, discussing the state of her future now that he had managed to complete some of burdening tasks at work. He had several proposals lined in front of her, some prospects from his workplace, some from Mr Kang and even Ina had managed to find one or two seemingly agreeable men within their social class. A sigh fulfilled her, it would be a lie to say that she didn't look for the smallest hint of San within them all.

"I'm sorry Father, I don't like any of these men." He closed his eyes in indignation, rubbing his face before collecting the sheets from in front of her and throwing them into the fire. The embers cackled in a slow, seething ferocity as he leaned back in his chair.

"I honestly don't know what to do with you anymore. You won't marry, you won't leave your quarters. You've stopped helping around the house. All you want to do is sit in your room all day and stare into space." He scolded, she shook her head before raising from her seat. "You are becoming a burden to me."

"Well if I am such a burden to you, then just get rid of me." She taunted. An animosity truanted through him at her discourtesy.

“What do you think I have been trying to do since your mother left us? It should have not been your mother that had died! It should have been you! I would trade my soul to have your mother in place of you.” He blurted, before quickly slapping the palm of his hand to his mouth, cursing him for the spoiled words that left it.

“I would trade my soul too, to have my mother where you stand. You are a poor excuse of a man and to call you my father is an insult to me.” She hissed through gritted teeth, the shock reverberating at Mr Yim’s core; the severity of her words pulsating through his blood.

“You shouldn’t have been a father if all I was going to be to you was a pretty doll in a picture. The truth was she didn’t die because she was ill, it was the heartbreak of carrying a whole marriage on her back. It was the fact that you didn’t care about her wants, but your own.”

"You are in no position to say that to me. I loved your mother like it was breathing, I loved her as if she was the greatest blessing, as if God had granted me mercy for all the times I had done him wrong." His chest suspired, brittle hands shaking as a heavy tension remained suspended in the air between them; Ina loitering outside afraid to walk into the war zone.

"But you didn't love me! It was my mother who loved me, and I wasn't allowed to have her! I wasn't my mother's daughter, or my father's. I was a daughter of a servant with my name merely attached to you." At the end of the day, she was the figure in those paintings. Trapped within a frame, four equidistant lines on a piece of cartridge paper, bound by brushstrokes, sketch lines, constricted and held down by the artist. Subservient and stuck to a position in which she could not move.

Mr Yim deserved the brutal honesty of those words, no matter how harsh it was, and with a pounding headache, she ran out of his office ignoring her father’s calls for her to return to his side. This was it, there was nothing and no one by her side now and she was now the destitute figure that she had feared she would become.

“What’s wrong my dear? What’s hurt you so much?” Ina’s soft voice dilapidated at her mistress’ gloom, one she had seen prolong within her late madam too. Squeezing her eyes shut, she summoned the courage to spill her heart to her maid. She told her of how much she adored him, how deeply she wanted him and the ways in which he had made her fall in love with him. And how he had hurt her too.

“So call me heartless and apathetic all you want but I couldn’t take another woman’s man from her.”

“My love.” Ina’s weak fingers travelled through her hair. “You are far from heartless and apathetic. A man who you love is your whole life, you gave your life away to another woman.” She looked over to Ina, falling into her motherly embrace, breathing in her scent. There it was. The same scent that her mother had, the scent she was dreaming to come back to her in the midst of the night, and her a fool to dismiss that it was in front of her the whole time.

“What should I do now?” Her weak inquiry, breaking her heart, sinking deeper into the void than she already was.

“Go back to him and tell him you love him. He is a gentleman who accepts despondency like a soldier. So you, his general, must go back and tell him to return home to you.”

“Ina-,”

“Do not deny yourself of what you deserve. Your mother did, I won’t see you walk the same path.”

“I will let time run its cycle. Time will tell if he is meant to be mine.” She declared, to which the maid rested her palm on her cheek.

Mrs Kang’s baby boy, Kang Minho, was indeed a beauty. His bedazzling little eyes stared up at her in wonder, babbling as she lightly drew the tip of her finger over his chubby cheeks. It was astonishing for Mrs Kang to see that it was merely a little baby that would eruct a smile out of the secluded Miss Yim. It had been about four months since San had left the estate, and a while it took for her to leave the confines of her quarters. Once again, she took requests after requests painting and painting until her hands became stiff and sore. And so even more marriage prospects came, and her eyes lingered slightly over a potential husband. Both Ina and her father were pleased when she stayed a little longer at the doorway of their home talking to one of the young apprentice’s at the office. He was tall, handsome and kind; perhaps it was flickers of San she saw within him that had her thinking that spending the rest of her life with this man: wouldn’t be particularly gruesome. Regardless, she made no firm decision but still, for her father this was significant progress.

“He likes you.” Mrs Kang chimed, grinning down at her baby. She hummed carefully, softly tickling his smooth cheeks.

“Maybe I like him too.” Her gaze lightly flickered to the elated mother. “Where is Yeosang? I didn’t see him on my way in?”

“Oh he’s in his office with San.” Her head snapped up from the baby at the sound of his name. Goodness, how long had it been since she had heard that single syllable name, forever it seemed it would merely reverberate inside her head. “Did you not know he was in town? He came to see Minho.” Shaking her head, she got up from the bed consoling herself.

“I- I think I’ll leave now. I’ll come visit another time.” She announced, before awkwardly patting Mrs Kang’s head; a poor endeavour at affection but for Mrs Kang this affection was whole-heartedly appreciated. Her footsteps sped down the hallways, she came to an abrupt halt at the exist of the Kang estate.

There he was, stood there with Yeosang conversing if they were age-old best friends her heart palpitated with anxiety, knowing that she’d have to walk past him again. The sight of him almost triggered her, she gripped onto her deep purple skirts, his own yellow hanbok beaming like the sun.

“Miss Yim! I didn’t know you had arrived, leaving so soon?” Mr Kang chirped from the door. She shook at her head at him.

“I’ve been here for over an hour and a half. I’ll visit another time, especially since Minho is the only tolerable person in this household.”

“Just say you love him.” A grumble erupted from her lips, she rolled her eyes- with a delicate playfulness- before squeezing past the pair of men. A pounding of footsteps travelled after her as she trudged back through the fields in the direction of her home.

“Miss Yim, allow me to accompany you.” San professed, breathlessly. With a diligent nod, she transgressed forwards ignoring his burning gaze into her skin. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine. What about you?” He responded he was great all the same, reporting that the weather in Yangdong was a little warmer than in her hometown.

“When is your wedding date? I’m still awaiting on an invite.” It was a joke, nonetheless, but one that didn't hesitate to puncture holes in her heart.

“We broke off the engagement, it was mutual really. She was in love with someone else.” With a breath lodged in her throat, her stare tore away from the fields piercing straight into his eyes. It was then she had realised how burdened he truly was. Where was the San that always smiled and joked, and was so full of love it seemed inhumane to have so much of it? They didn't need to say anything to each other in that moment, they stopped walking subsided to a silent, paralysed position. "I think I'll just take your leave." His voice quivered, sending a jolt of agony through her.

Hadn't she made him suffer enough? After all he was the same man who loved her as if she was the vessel that kept the blood running through his veins, his heart beating and his feet walking.

Go back to him and tell him you love him.

Tell him to return back home to you.

His body almost disappeared behind the vast expanse of buildings, when she raced down the fields, as fast as her legs could carry her, ignoring the vicious ache gnawing at her muscles and the agitated pounding of her heart against her chest. Tearing down the path towards him, in the chance that if she didn't run any faster she was going to lose her lover to the wind.

"San!" Her shout echoed in the breeze, but reached to his ears anyway, a tug at the weak strings that had barely held down his soul. He turned, so desperate that she would come to him like she had done in the dead of the night. Feeling his lover crawl into his arms, pledging that she would never leave from his side.

"Miss Yim, what's wrong?"

“I lied to you, when I said I didn’t love you. I really, really do, I almost feel disgusted by it. I never thought, that someone as ruthless and as cold as me would be privileged enough to fall in love but when you entered my life I felt like my mother.” She sucked in a deep breath, her lover making gentle steps toward her as the wind whipped their hair. “I felt like her when she said: ‘If he was the muse in a painting, to be an object, a fleck of paint, or even dust on it would be my greatest honour.’” Warm tears forged in his eyes, biting down his bottom lip to prevent them from escaping. She wanted to outstretch her arms towards him but it was too soon.

“So, Choi San, it’s an honour to be loved by you. I came back, because I had to tell you that. I hurt you so much. I was scared that being vulnerable to love would only hurt me but the only person who gave me such torment was myself.” Her confession disturbed her, yet it was the unspoken truth that only he was entitled to. A tense silence suffused the air as she pended his response, but all he could do was try to convince himself that it was not a dream and she really had said all of the words he had spent countless nights praying that she would declare.

“I love you, Miss Yim. I loved you yesterday, I love you today and I will love you for eternity. There is simply nothing that one can do to tear my heart away from yours, not even you.”

"Do you mean that?" It was a stupid question, but she could not help the words be spilled from her mouth. He nodded violently.

"I do. With my whole entity." Choking back on her sobs, her arms reached out for him throwing them around his neck. Nuzzling her face in the crook of his neck, her grip tightened as he ensnared his hands around her waist; breathing in her scent as if it was oxygen. "Come home with me my dear, come home and be mine."

•••

All Right Reserved © the-midnight-blooms

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

'Yim' meaning light

A/N: the long awaited painter!san fic (with a twist 😏) that i've been waiting too long to put out. I hope you liked this one. :))

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!

tags: @n0v4t33z @potatos-on-clouds @jjongwho

[pbaz7]

It’ll Always Be Her Chapter 14

AN: Here’s a cutesy little chapter to offset all the anxiety and negativity anyone is feeling 🫶🏼. Let me know what you think! Also I want to start doing one shots and short stories so give me prompts if you have any!

Word Count: 3.8k

The next two weeks had been relentless. UConn’s schedule was a grueling one, with what felt like back-to-back games, long practices, and film sessions that drained every bit of energy from the team. The exhaustion was palpable in the gym, the locker rooms, and especially in the quiet moments between drills. They barely had time to breathe, let alone have fun. It wasn’t even March yet, but it felt like the postseason was already knocking at their door.

When they did get a rare break, the team found themselves sprawled out in each other’s rooms, barely able to keep their eyes open, let alone engage in conversation. It was in one of these rare moments of downtime after practice that Paige, sitting at the counter in the kitchen created for the athletic department, suddenly stood up and interrupted the idle chatter around her.

“I want to do something nice for Azzi today,” she said, her voice cutting through the noise of teammates munching on sandwiches and sipping from water bottles. “We have the rest of the day off, and I know she’s exhausted, but I feel like she deserves something special.”

The others paused, turning their attention toward her. There was a moment of silence as they processed what Paige had said.

“What, like a massage?” KK asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, not like that,” Paige said with a small laugh. “I mean, sure, maybe later, but something more… personal. Lowkey, but private. Something just for her. We’ve been so busy lately, and I know she’s feeling it just as much as I am.”

“I get it,” Ice said, leaning back in his chair. “You wanna give her a little break from all the noise. But what are you thinking?”

Paige’s gaze shifted to the floor as she thought about it for a second. “It doesn’t need to be big. Just something small but meaningful. I want it to be a surprise, though. Nothing too public. I don’t want anyone ruining it.”

The team began to talk among themselves, exchanging ideas. After a few minutes, they finally agreed. They’d create a quiet, intimate evening for the two of them—something simple but personal that would give Paige and Azzi a chance to reconnect away from the madness of their schedules.

The team quickly got to work brainstorming, their collective energy shifting from exhaustion to excitement as they plotted out the details. After tossing around a few ideas, KK’s eyes lit up, and she shot a glance at the ceiling, clearly visualizing the perfect setup.

“What if we do something on the roof?” she suggested, her tone a bit more animated. “You know, like a little oasis up there. Away from everyone. We could make it super private, and no one would bother you two.”

The room went quiet for a moment as everyone thought it over.

“Wow KK that actually sounds nice,” Ice said, clearly impressed. “We could make it romantic, too. Some lights, candles, maybe even rose petals on the ground leading to a little space where you two can relax. Create a cozy, intimate vibe.”

Paige smiled, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders. The idea was simple, yet thoughtful—exactly what she had envisioned. “Yeah, something like that. I want it to be a surprise for Azzi, so it needs to feel special without being over the top.”

“Rose petals are a must,” KK said. “We’ll make a rose carpet. Maybe get some string lights to hang around the area, too. Something soft and cozy.”

The more they talked, the more the idea started to take shape. They’d gather blankets and pillows to go in an insulated pod—something that would shield them from the cold wind, making it feel like their own little private hideaway in the middle of the chaos. The whole space would be adorned with candles to create a soft, warm glow. Paige’s heart fluttered just thinking about it—this would be a perfect way to unwind, to share a quiet moment with Azzi away from everything.

“Okay, but we need to make sure no one else finds out about it,” Paige added, her voice serious but filled with a hint of excitement. “I don’t want anyone crashing our little escape.”

“Don’t worry,” Ice said with a wink. “We’ll make sure it stays a secret. It’s your night, and no one’s gonna ruin it.”

“Perfect,” Paige said, already feeling the anticipation building in her chest. “I’ll throw in some money for whatever we need, and we’ll get this done. I’ll text Azzi and let her know I’ll be up to her room soon, but I won’t say anything more.”

The team nodded in agreement, rallying together as they began to coordinate the setup. KK was already making phone calls to get the supplies, while Ice and the others gathered the blankets and candles. Paige pulled out her wallet and tossed three hundred dollars onto the table, watching as the team sprang into action.

With everything in motion, Paige quickly sent Azzi a text: “I’ll be up to your room soon.” She smiled to herself, the excitement building with every second. She was finally doing something just for them, something that would show Azzi how much she meant to her, how much she appreciated everything they had together.

…

Paige entered Azzi’s room quietly, the door creaking slightly as she pushed it open. She found Azzi sprawled out on the bed, looking completely drained, her hair fanned out across the pillows, eyes half-closed as she absentmindedly scrolled through her phone. A soft chuckle escaped Paige’s lips at the sight—Azzi looked as if she could fall asleep in the next moment.

Without saying a word, Paige crossed the room and crawled onto the bed, settling beside Azzi. She lay on her side, propping her head up with her hand as she looked at her girlfriend.

Azzi let out a small sigh, barely acknowledging Paige’s presence at first. “You’re here,” she murmured, her voice thick with exhaustion.

Paige smirked playfully. “I mean, where else would I be?”

Azzi shifted slightly, her fingers tracing the soft scar above Paige’s eyebrow, the one that still hadn’t completely faded from the Notre Dame game. “You’re always getting into trouble,” she said softly, her finger lingering on the scar as she gave Paige a half-smile. “But this one, it’s kinda cute. Like a battle wound.”

Paige smiled, the comment making her feel lighter, and she placed her hand over Azzi’s. “Guess I’ll just have to keep getting into trouble, huh?” She rolled onto her back, gazing up at the ceiling as they both relaxed for a moment in the silence of the room. The weight of their exhausting schedules hung heavy in the air, but this quiet moment together felt like a small escape.

Azzi yawned, stretching out her arms above her head before pulling her legs back under the covers. “I’m so tired,” she mumbled, her voice trailing off as she cuddled into the warmth of the bed. “We need a break from all this. I’m not even sure I have the energy for anything.”

Paige chuckled softly, rolling onto her side to face Azzi. “I know what you mean. But hey, we’ve got all day. We don’t need to do anything crazy. Just… relax for a little bit.”

Azzi's eyelids fluttered, and she gave Paige a tired smile. “I’m honestly happy just being here with you.”

Paige’s heart warmed at the words, and she leaned in to press a gentle kiss to Azzi’s forehead. They stayed like that for a few moments, just enjoying the quiet.

But then Paige’s phone buzzed on the bed beside her. She glanced at the screen to see a message from Ice: Everything’s ready.

She bit her lip, looking down at Azzi. As tempting as it was to stay in bed all day, Paige couldn’t let Azzi miss out on the surprise.

Gently, she nudged Azzi, her voice light. “Hey, I need you to get up,” she said, trying to sound casual. “Get dressed—cozy clothes. We’re going somewhere.”

Azzi groaned softly, not even bothering to open her eyes. “Do I have to?” she mumbled, her voice muffled by the pillow. “I’m so comfortable right here.”

Paige grinned, fully aware of how hard it was going to be to get Azzi out of bed. She leaned in closer, her lips brushing the top of Azzi’s head as she whispered, “Please, baby? I promise it’ll be worth it.”

Azzi peeked one eye open, giving her a tired but skeptical look. “What is it? Another ‘trust me, you’ll love it’ thing?”

Paige gave her the most exaggerated, pleading expression she could muster—her big, sad blue puppy-dog eyes. She knew Azzi could never resist those eyes.

Azzi blinked, clearly fighting the urge to give in. “You’re killing me,” she said, but the smile tugging at her lips was already softening her resistance. “I just want to sleep.”

Paige leaned in closer, placing a soft kiss on Azzi’s cheek. “Please, I’ll make it up to you later,” she promised, her voice playful yet sincere. “I need you to trust me.”

Azzi let out a long, exaggerated sigh, but Paige could see her resolve crumbling. She rubbed her eyes and groggily sat up. “Fine. But you owe me big time.”

Paige’s grin spread wider as she slid off the bed. “Deal.”

As Azzi sluggishly got out of bed, Paige couldn’t hide her excitement anymore. She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her keys, offering a final, teasing glance at Azzi, who was now fumbling with her clothes.

“You’ll see why soon enough,” Paige said with a grin, her heart racing with anticipation.

Azzi shot her a curious look but didn’t ask any more questions. “I’m trusting you,” she muttered under her breath as she started getting dressed.

Paige waited, trying to contain the excitement bubbling inside of her. After a few more moments, Azzi finished getting dressed in a cozy hoodie and sweatpants, and they were ready to leave. Paige took Azzi’s hand, leading her toward the door, unable to stop herself from feeling giddy about the surprise she had in store.

…

After stopping to grab some food at Azzi’s request—Paige giving in after a little bit of playful whining from Azzi about how starving she was—they drove towards the athletic department. The ride was quiet, with Azzi occasionally sneaking glances at Paige, still trying to figure out what was going on. Paige could sense the confusion, but she kept her grin tucked away, excited for the reveal.

As they approached the familiar building, Azzi let out an exasperated groan. "I really can't stand the sight of a basketball right now," she muttered, half-joking, as she stared out the window.

Paige chuckled, glancing over at her with a teasing smile. "Trust me, I promise it’s not what you think." She reached across the console, giving Azzi’s hand a quick squeeze. "Just follow me, okay?"

Azzi gave a halfhearted sigh but didn’t protest further, which Paige took as a win. She pulled into the parking lot and stopped in front of the entrance. Paige was already unbuckling her seatbelt, grinning ear to ear.

“I’ll open the door,” Paige said, pushing her door open before Azzi could even react.

Azzi eyed her, clearly puzzled. “You’re really dragging me into the lion’s den for something,” she remarked with a smirk but unbuckled her seatbelt anyway, getting out of the car with a reluctant sigh.

They walked towards the building, and Azzi’s confusion only deepened when Paige steered them away from the locker room and toward the elevator. "What’s going on?" Azzi asked, now seriously curious. "Where are we going?"

Paige didn’t answer, only flashed a playful grin as she pressed the button for the roof. The elevator doors closed, and Azzi's brow furrowed as she saw Paige press the “R” button. "The Roof?" Azzi asked, eyeing Paige.

"Just trust me," Paige said with a wink, leaning back against the elevator wall.

Azzi crossed her arms, clearly still unsure but unwilling to ask any more questions. When the elevator doors opened, she was met with a cool breeze and the soft light of the late afternoon sky as the sun was setting.

Azzi stepped out, her gaze sweeping the area. At first, she didn’t understand what she was seeing, but as her eyes locked onto the rose petal carpet that stretched across the roof, her breath caught in her throat. Candles flickered softly along the edges, and delicate lights hung from the railing, casting a warm glow over everything. In the center, there was a cozy-looking insulated pod, filled with plush pillows and blankets—an oasis in the middle of the chaotic campus.

Azzi's jaw dropped as she took in the scene. Her eyes welled up with tears as she slowly turned to look at Paige, a mixture of disbelief and happiness in her expression. "Paige... this is..." she trailed off, unable to find the words.

Paige stood there, watching Azzi, her heart swelling as she took in the sight of her girlfriend’s joy. Azzi’s teary eyes met hers, and Paige could see the overwhelming emotion in them. She had done it—created this perfect, peaceful moment for the two of them, just as Azzi deserved.

Azzi took a step closer to Paige, her voice barely above a whisper. “You did this for me?”

Paige smiled warmly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind Azzi’s ear. “I wanted to do something special for you. I know things have been crazy, and I just wanted to give us a moment to breathe.”

Azzi shook her head slightly, the tears now streaming down her cheeks. “I feel so... loved. This is... beyond anything I could have imagined.”

Paige reached out and gently cupped Azzi’s face, wiping the tears from her cheeks with her thumb. “You deserve this, and so much more,” she said softly, her voice full of affection.

Azzi nodded, trying to steady her breath as the tears continued to fall, though they were happy ones. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Paige’s lips. “Thank you,” she whispered. “This... means everything.”

Paige smiled, her heart full as she pulled Azzi into a warm hug. “Anything for you.”

Azzi, still holding the take-out bag in her hand, finally glanced down at the food. “I’m not sure I can eat anything right now,” she said, holding it out. “But we can take this with us. I think this moment deserves to be savored a little longer.” She gave a soft laugh, though the tears hadn’t quite stopped.

“I’m all for that,” Paige agreed, grinning. “We have all the time in the world.”

They made their way to the pod, settling in with blankets and pillows surrounding them. It was their perfect little world, quiet and intimate. With the flickering candles casting soft shadows and the stars just beginning to appear above, they knew that, for tonight, nothing else mattered.

…

The soft glow of the lights around the roof and the comfort of the insulated pod had them nestled in a peaceful quiet, the world beyond feeling distant and unimportant. Paige and Azzi lay there together, tangled in blankets and pillows, lazily sharing their food as they continued to relax, their conversations light and comfortable.

Azzi finally finished her meal, letting out a satisfied sigh. "I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” she laughed, settling back into Paige’s embrace.

Paige smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair away from Azzi’s face. “Well, I’m glad you’re not too full to talk,” she teased, her fingers lightly tracing circles on Azzi’s arm. “I wasn’t sure how long I could just stare at the sky without saying something.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, though there was a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “What, you don’t like quiet moments?” she asked playfully.

Paige shrugged. “I mean, I do. But it’s more fun when I’m with you. You make everything feel... better.”

Azzi’s smile softened, her gaze drifting to the sky before returning to Paige’s eyes. “Well, lucky for you, I’m here. Though, it’s hard to compete with the stars when you’re just so...”

“...irresistible?” Paige finished for her, raising an eyebrow and grinning mischievously.

Azzi chuckled. “Exactly.” Her fingers lightly brushed along Paige’s arm. “Though, I’ve got to admit, I didn’t expect the view up here to be this good.”

Paige looked around at the setting she had set up, the flowers and lights reflecting off the gentle glow of the candles. "Yeah, well, the view’s way better when I’m with you,” Paige said softly, gazing at Azzi.

Azzi's heart skipped a beat, her eyes softening. “You’re good at this. Really good at making me feel special.”

Paige smiled warmly, her hand resting on Azzi's. "You deserve it. I feel like we haven’t had enough time like this, just... together. No distractions."

Azzi let out a content sigh, her head resting on Paige’s shoulder as they both relaxed into the moment, the world outside their little bubble of calm fading into nothing. The night stretched out in silence for a while, and it was peaceful. But soon, Azzi broke it, her voice quiet and thoughtful.

“I’ve been thinking a lot, you know?” she started, her tone serious. “About this season, about what comes after it.”

Paige glanced at her, feeling a shift in the air. “What do you mean?” she asked softly.

Azzi took a deep breath, then turned her head to meet Paige’s eyes. “I’ve been talking to some people... the GM of the Golden State Valkyries, actually. With Geno’s help.”

Paige blinked, a little confused. “I thought you were staying here for another year because of your injuries? We talked about it earlier in the season.”

Azzi nodded, but her expression was more resolute now. “Yeah, I know we talked about it. But... I’ve been having a much better season than I expected. I don’t want to risk an injury again. I want to leave UConn on a high note and I think we can win it all this year.”

Paige stayed silent for a moment, trying to process the change. She hadn’t seen this coming. “So... you’re leaving…with me?” she asked softly, her voice quieter now, unsure how to feel about it.

Azzi smiled gently, her gaze unwavering. “Yes…It’s time for me. But there’s more. The GM told me that Golden State has been in talks with Dallas about getting the #1 pick in the draft. If they pull it off... they might take you at #1, and me at #5.”

Paige blinked, unable to fully grasp what she was hearing. "Wait... you think you’re going to go 5?" she asked skeptically, trying to keep her composure, though the excitement bubbling up inside her was hard to hide. “I don’t know, Azzi. I mean, I don’t think you’ll drop that far.”

Azzi nodded, her gaze unwavering. “None of the teams with picks 2, 3, or 4 need a shooting guard. They’d be crazy to draft me. Plus Golden State is really interested in you. They’re doing everything they can to get the #1 pick and you’re clearly their top choice.”

Paige sat up slightly, her heart pounding as the news sank in. “And you? You’d go #5 to Golden State?”

Azzi smiled, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Yeah that’s the plan. The way they’ve been talking it feels... like it could actually happen. They mentioned something about giving Dallas their picks for the next two years.”

For a moment, Paige just stared at Azzi, her mind racing. Then, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She leaned forward, kissing Azzi’s cheek, then her nose, then her forehead, her lips scattering over her face with pure excitement. “Oh my God, this is huge!” she said breathlessly. “Baby we could be playing together again! On the same team!”

Azzi laughed softly, her heart racing as Paige continued to shower her with kisses. “I know! It’s crazy to think about.”

Paige pulled back, grinning widely. “This could actually happen. We could be teammates again. I can’t even—this is everything. I can’t even imagine playing with anyone else.”

Azzi laughed again, pulling Paige closer, her voice low and full of promise. “Well, you might not have to imagine it for long.”

After the whirlwind of excitement, Paige and Azzi were both still processing the incredible news of the draft. The moment between them felt like time had slowed, their hearts in sync as they basked in the idea of playing together again. But before they could fully settle back into the peace of the rooftop, a sudden sound caught their attention.

From below, they heard raised voices and a bit of commotion filtering through the surroundings of the building. Paige furrowed her brow, sitting up and leaning toward the edge of the pod. Azzi, noticing the same thing, followed her gaze and squinted at the scene unfolding below.

Some of their teammates, dressed in all black, were standing at the entrance of the athletic department. They looked like they were ready for action—arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and clearly blocking someone from entering. The whole scene seemed like something out of a spy movie.

Paige snickered and leaned back, trying to stifle her laughter. "Are we sure we’re not watching a secret agent movie right now?" she whispered to Azzi, who was equally amused.

Azzi shook her head, a grin spreading across her face. "No kidding. Looks like top-flight security on a mission. Who the heck are they keeping out?"

They both watched as their teammates, clearly in full force, kept their position and made sure whoever it was didn’t cross the threshold. The scene was absurd in the best possible way, with the team going all in on their antics.

Then, they heard KK’s voice ring out clearly from below. “This is private property, sir!” she announced with authority, causing the rest of their teammates, who were playing along with the act, to burst into laughter.

Paige couldn’t help but chuckle, nudging Azzi playfully. "I swear, that’s KK being all serious, trying to put on a show like she’s a real security guard."

Azzi laughed, shaking her head. “That was definitely too dramatic. I can’t believe she’s pulling the ‘private property’ line.”

The sound of the team’s laughter echoed up to them, and even the mysterious person who’d apparently been trying to enter couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation.

Paige rolled her eyes, still grinning. “Only here could something this ridiculous happen. I think we’re safe in our little pod for now.” She pulled the blankets around her tighter as she settled back down next to Azzi.

Azzi grinned, looking back at Paige. “Yeah, it’s nice to escape the chaos. But I have a feeling ‘security’ is still out there, keeping watch.”

With the laughter from downstairs still drifting up toward them, they both leaned back into the warmth of the pod. Their teammates might be handling their own version of "security," but for now, Paige and Azzi were perfectly content, tucked away in their private oasis, away from the madness.

[httpsdana]

hi girlll, i just love ur gavi fics, if your not busy could you write one with him and the reader, where they have an argument because he’s been really distant and she thinks he doesn’t love her anymore, so she moves away and he tries to get her back?? sorry it’s so long and a lil specific 💘

Distant Hearts~Pablo Gavi

*Pictures are from Pinterest*

enjoy <3

request from here

master list -> part 2

players/drivers I write for

The evening was quiet, the air thick with tension as y/n sat across from Pablo in their shared apartment. He’d been distant for weeks — late nights, brief answers, a coldness she couldn’t ignore any longer.

Tonight, she decided to bring it up, to figure out where they stood, but his indifference to the conversation felt like a slap to the face.

y/n took a shaky breath, eyes fixed on the floor as she gathered her words. “Pablo… do you even want to be here anymore? Because lately, it feels like you don’t.”

His face stayed expressionless, a slight shrug his only response. “It’s… complicated.”

She looked up, anger rising at his detachment. “Complicated?” she laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “That’s it? After everything, it’s just ‘complicated’?”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to tell me what happened,” she said, frustration leaking into her voice. “You used to talk to me, Pablo. You used to be here, not just physically, but actually here. Now, it’s like I’m living with a stranger.”

Pablo’s gaze fell to the floor, his silence digging deeper into the wound. “Things have been… difficult for me. I’m just trying to figure it out.”

“Figure it out?” she echoed, feeling a lump form in her throat. “What about me? Did you ever think about how I feel, wondering if you still care at all?”

His face softened for a moment, guilt flashing across his eyes, but he looked away quickly. “I didn’t mean for you to feel that way.”

“Then why didn’t you just talk to me?” her voice broke, and she felt a tear slip down her cheek. “I would’ve understood, Pablo. I love you, and I would’ve done anything to help you. But instead, you just shut me out.”

“I didn’t want to burden you,” he murmured, barely audible.

“A burden?” y/n shook her head, the words feeling hollow. “Being with you isn’t a burden. But you’ve made me feel like I am one.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Pablo’s gaze was fixed on the ground, his fists clenched by his sides, but he said nothing, didn’t reach out, didn’t even try to bridge the gap between them.

Finally, y/n couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed her coat and bag, her heart breaking with each step towards the door. “If you don’t want to fight for this, then I won’t stay and beg you to care.”

He looked up, surprise and something like regret flickering in his eyes, but still, he didn’t move. He stayed rooted in place as she opened the door and walked out, not stopping her, not even calling her name as the door clicked shut behind her.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

The weeks that followed were painfully quiet. y/n moved in with a friend, spending her days trying to keep busy, but the empty spaces where Pablo used to be haunted her. At night, the memories of his touch, his laugh, his voice — they filled the silence, refusing to let her move on.

But Pablo wasn’t faring any better. At first, he convinced himself it was for the best, that maybe he needed this space to figure himself out. Yet as days passed, the loneliness grew unbearable, gnawing at him in a way he couldn’t ignore.

Late one night, he found himself scrolling through old photos on his phone — pictures of the two of them laughing, y/n's face illuminated by sunlight, his arms wrapped around her. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until now, how hollow everything felt without her there.

That night, after wrestling with his thoughts, he finally caved. He grabbed his phone, dialing her number with shaking hands, his heart pounding as it rang.

When she picked up, her voice was guarded. “Pablo?”

“y/n…” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear, but I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for everything.”

Her silence was deafening, and he braced himself for her to hang up, to finally cut him off for good. But then, she sighed, the sound weary. “It’s been weeks, Pablo. Why now?”

He closed his eyes, guilt twisting in his chest. “Because I was stupid. I thought pushing you away would make things easier, but it’s just made everything worse. I miss you. I miss us.”

“Missing me doesn’t change what happened,” y/n said, her voice softer but laced with hurt. “You chose to push me away, to shut me out when I needed you.”

“I know, and I can’t tell you how much I regret it,” he replied, his voice raw. “Please… can we talk? I need to see you, to explain everything.”

There was a long pause, and for a moment, he thought you might refuse. But then, she sighed before speaking. “Fine. Tomorrow, at the café near the apartment.”

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

The next day, he arrived at the café early, nerves clawing at him as he waited. When y/n finally walked in, looking hesitant and guarded, his heart broke all over again. She sat down, crossing her arms and fixing him with a steady gaze.

“Alright,” she said, her voice cold. “I’m here. Explain.”

He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “I’ve been dealing with a lot of pressure lately, with everything after my injury and playing again, and I… I felt like I was failing, like I wasn’t enough. And I thought that maybe you’d be better off without me.”

Her expression softened slightly, but her voice remained firm. “So, instead of talking to me, you just… shut me out? How was that supposed to make things better?”

He looked down, shame washing over him. “I thought I was protecting you from my problems, that maybe if I distanced myself, you wouldn’t have to deal with my mess."

y/n shook her head, disbelief and frustration mingling in jer eyes. “Pablo, don’t you get it? I wanted to be there for you. I was ready to go through anything with you, no matter how hard. But instead, you made that choice for me. You left me alone, wondering if I’d done something wrong.”

He felt the weight of her words settle in his chest, heavy and suffocating. “I know,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I should have trusted you… I should’ve known that I could lean on you. But instead, I let my fears get the best of me. And I lost you because of it.”

Her gaze softened, though hurt was still etched in her features. “Do you even realize how much that hurt, Pablo? Watching you pull away, wondering if I meant anything to you anymore? I thought… I thought you stopped loving me.”

His head shot up, his eyes wide and filled with regret. “No. No, y/n, I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. I just… I got lost in my own head. I thought I was doing the right thing, giving you space to have a happier life, and I couldn’t see how wrong I was.”

She sighed, rubbing her temples as if the weight of the last few weeks was crashing down on her. “you don’t get to decide what’s best for me. That was never your choice to make. All I wanted was for us to be honest with each other, to face things together. But you shut me out, like I wasn’t enough for you to trust.”

He swallowed, feeling every word like a punch to his gut. “You’re right. I should’ve trusted you. I know I hurt you, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, but… I want to make things right. I want to be the person you deserve, if you’ll let me.”

For a moment, the silence between them was tense, stretching as they both processed the words left unsaid. y/n's fingers drummed nervously against the table, eyes cast downward, lost in thought.

“How do I know you won’t just shut me out again?” she asked quietly, her voice fragile, filled with the fear of being hurt once more.

Pablo reached across the table, his fingers brushing against hers. Sje didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean into his touch either.

“Because losing you made me realize how much I need you. I’ve spent these weeks replaying everything in my head, realizing just how much I took you for granted. I promise, I’ll never shut you out again. I’ll fight for us, every single day. Just… give me a chance to prove it to you.”

She looked at him, the vulnerability in his eyes pulling at her heart. “Pablo… you have to understand. This wasn’t easy for me. I loved you, I still do, but I’m scared. You broke my trust, and I don’t know if it’s something I can just forget.”

He nodded, squeezing her hand gently. “I don’t expect you to forget. I’ll do whatever it takes to rebuild that trust, to show you that I’m serious. If it takes months, years, whatever… I’ll wait. I’ll do it right.”

A part of her wanted to believe him, to take his hand and go back to the way things were, but another part — the part still wounded and wary — held her back.

Her hand tightened slightly around his, and he took that as a sign, a glimmer of hope. “I miss you,” she whispered, almost too quietly. “I miss the way things used to be. But I’m scared, Pablo. Scared that I’ll come back and you’ll hurt me again.”

He shook his head, his voice firm but gentle. “You won’t lose me again. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll talk to you, be honest with you, even when things are hard. I won’t let my fears come between us anymore.”

Taking a deep breath, she nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it. I need time, and I need to see that you’re serious. If we’re going to try again, we need to take it slow.”

A faint smile broke through his serious expression, relief shining in his eyes. “I can do that. As slow as you need, I’m here for it.”

After a pause, she added softly, “And if we do this, we’re in it together. No more shutting each other out, no more making decisions alone. I need to know that you’re really here.”

“I promise,” he replied, his voice filled with sincerity. “I’m here, y/n. I’m not going anywhere.”

The conversation hung in the air, a fragile hope between the two of them. And though there was still a long way to go, a piece of her felt the weight lifting, knowing he was ready to fight for her— for both of them.

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, prologue

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. 

This is the beginning of what you wished had no end.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, orange besties 🧡 See series masterlist for extensive a/n blurb and especially for trigger warnings. Tread carefully. Ily 🧡 Please be gentle, I'm terrified 🫣

Word count: 5.1k

[series masterlist] * [next]

Prologue: In The Beginning

He comes to you every Friday. 

He gets in after dark. He is gone before dawn. 

In this shady motel on the outskirts of town, where no one will recognise your car. The curtains are yellow, and the carpet is brown. There’s a dollar store painting of the Appalachian above the bed, and the tap runs either trickling and scalding or high pressure and cold. 

You hated that in particular, in the beginning. Now you don’t care. You don’t wash him off your skin anymore. Not until you’ve got no other choice. 

Because he can’t mark you, you’d been firm on that point, he likes to come on your skin. 

When he’d finally spoke, that very first time, he’d told you he was Frankie, but you assume it’s not his real name. Which is fine, you didn’t give him your real name either. 

“Frankie” had been far subtler than you, regretful, perhaps, you like to entertain the delusion, when he’d hinted that you couldn’t leave any trace on his body. 

And, in the beginning, you couldn’t imagine that it would ever matter. 

You were wrong. 

You were wrong about a lot of things, in the beginning. 

—

Friday night. Again. 

The swinging door creaks on its hinges to let in the regulars at random intervals. Mostly men, mostly middle-aged, mostly unshaven. Mostly clad in the working-class uniform of jeans, boots and t-shirt. Few of them sit around the round wooden tables. The bar isn’t large, there’s only four of those.  

When they come in small parties, the men favour the two pools on the right. They’re lined with blue felt. The casing is made of plywood. No one ever plays darts, no one ever feeds the jukebox. Its electric cord lays unplugged on the floor, coiled like a sad sagging tail. 

If they walk in alone, they tend to sit at the bar. Head turned toward the giant television screen hung on the wall to their left, where younger men in more colourful uniforms fight, run, kick or throw balls in all shapes and sizes. Its noise is at the forefront, the middle-aged men’s conversations a low humming sound that falls into the background. 

The long and angled bar itself takes up most of the rectangular room’s space. The counter is stripped-down to the bare minimum. Stainless steel, easy to clean, practical. Four beer taps and a gambling machine and beyond the counter, a large mirror with three rows of dusty liquor bottles. 

Food is served, occasionally, as evidenced by the paper napkins dispensers and the two yellow and red plastic condiment bottles on each table. 

The barman runs the place on his own. You drink here every Friday evening, and you’ve never seen more than six customers at once, you included. Admittedly, you might not be very observant. 

Being observant requires endurance, far more than you possess and are willing to deploy and direct towards others. You’re not selfish, not in the least. But you’re tired. You’ve been tired for years. There’s no rational explanation for your exhaustion. No honourable, awe-inspiring, valid ground. You don’t even know what wears you out. It might be sadness, disappointment, or boredom. Or all three in equal parts. All you know is that, come Friday night, your head needs the support of the gray wall behind you.

The creaking noise on your left signals the arrival of another customer, stomping in with a sure gait. Your eyes stay shut. You don’t come to the very aptly named Hole in The Wall seeking the company of other people, whoever they may be. 

You come here to hide for a few hours, between the styrofoam ceiling and the dusty carpeted floor. To drink your week away in peace, but not in nerve-racking silence. Alcohol, you found out at a young age, has interesting properties: it blurs out the sharp edges of your dark thoughts in just the right amount. 

Back in spring, when you stepped in here for the very first time, you looked comically out of place in your corporate attire, and you did raise quite a few eyebrows from the other patrons. Five months later, they must have learned to see past the charade of your overpriced clothes, because none of them pays you any mind anymore. It’s better than anonymity: it’s casual indifference.

You loosen your grip around your tall cocktail glass and let the condensation drip down onto the cardboard coaster. Reluctantly, you lift your weary eyelids to locate the square napkin lying somewhere on the table and dry your fingertips on it.

That’s when you see him taking a seat at the counter, directly across from your small table. 

Years from now, you will still remember the precise circumstances of your first, brief encounter, even though you’re not fully paying attention yet. Nothing indicates tonight will be any different. Nothing suggests you are about to live through a pivotal moment in your existence.

Details will stand out, however. Mostly visual, surprisingly, given the dim lighting of the place. The back of his trucker hat, midnight blue plastic mesh, flattening the dark curls on his nape. The washed out denim of his shirt, worked-in, greenish in the diffuse artificial light, pulled taut across his back, as he sits facing away from you. 

The square shape of his shoulders is backlit against the bar’s mirror. Your empty gaze finds the solid slope of his broad silhouette, and you let it rest there, lazily following his movements whenever he picks up his glass. It’s the same comfort you find when you rest your empty head against the hard wall. It’s aimless, inconsequential.

Later, on different kinds of Friday nights, the sight of his muscles bunching as he tugs off his shirt will bring you back to this very moment. The thought will reshape into a sharp, wistful ache deep inside your heart. What would have happened, to you, to him, if he had chosen to stop for a drink at another bar, somewhere further down the road? What if you had done the same, back in April? 

For now, your mind is blessedly blank.

Does he catch your reflection in the mirror? Does he feel your gaze on the back of his head? 

After a while, how long, you cannot tell, he pivots slowly on his stool, grounded and dense. Slowly, like a mountain would if a mountain came to life and decided to walk into the ocean. He doesn’t turn around completely, just enough to look at you, one of his arms still propped on top of the counter. 

The right side of his face is darkened by the shadow from the brim of his hat, but you can make out the pronounced crease in his brow. His eyes are black, and unfathomable, like the ocean at night, but alight with a bright glimmer. They find yours instantly. 

Something shifts inside your rib cage, something close to the heart, close to pain. 

You feel exposed, entirely bare. Your breathing subsides, you cannot move, trapped in a nightmare-like stretch of time as he glares down at you, immobile, impressive, gigantic. Dark eyes boring into yours. You’re drowning in them. 

You don’t want it to end. 

Inevitably, he breaks eye-contact, and swivels back toward the mirror. He sits still for a few seconds, before grabbing his glass to finish his beer in long gulps. 

You watch him lift his hat and brush his hair to the side with a large hand, and he’s out the door less than a minute later, without so much as a glance in your direction, a conscious choice, given the minute proportions of the place. 

He leaves you sitting there, with your brow pinched and your empty drink, struggling to understand the rippling effects of his massive presence on your body and your brain.

You bring your fingers to your chest and rub them over your sternum, where the shifting sensation continues to prickle. 

Neither a second drink nor a third helps dull the feeling, but a fourth one is not an option if you want to get home without a DUI. 

It follows you into the darkness of the deserted parking lot, on the drive home and into the glass prison of your clinically clean apartment. It’s there when you get into bed, when you lie wide awake at 3am next to your sleeping fiancé, and it’s still there when you wake up, hungover and sore, four hours later. 

Nestled between your lungs. The memory of his cold hard stare. Of his soft sad eyes. 

It bypasses your most foolproof diversions of painful pleasure and pleasurable pain. Your attempts at hard work and your compulsive distractions. It robs you of your appetite, of your lucidity, of your ability to rest. It corners you in the first floor toilet of your office building on a Thursday morning, on the verge of a panic attack, until you consider calling your sister for help. 

Ava would figure it out. She’d get you out of that loop in which you’ve locked yourself up, she’d know what to say. With her crude words and her unforgiving formulations, she’d admonish your silly overreaction and dismissively rebuke your daydreams over a mundane interaction, probably throwing in something about your heteronormative fantasies. 

Dude, you’re all worked up because of a staring contest with a rando in a dive bar? she’d say. She’d toss the rhetorical question at your face, you can hear her as if you’ve already sweated through the conversation. 

She’s often harsh but she’s always right. 

And normally, you’d be seeking that out. For your little sister to bully some good sense back into your nebulous brain. 

But something has shifted. 

Dark curls, thick fingers, flexing shoulders. Solid arms. Cold, hard stare. 

He abraded something on the surface of your skin, and you don’t think you’re capable of withstanding Ava’s sarcasm in your current state. 

By the following Friday, you feel so vulnerable you consider going to another place, or not going out at all. 

Only, the alternative is worse. 

You walk into The Hole in The Wall convinced that your unsteady gait is betraying your apprehension, squinting to adjust to the dim light of the place. The bar is nearly empty, as always, save for a couple of bearded graying men you vaguely recall having seen here before. They all look the same to you, anyway. Another thing you hate about yourself.

The barman tells you to sit while he prepares your drink. The gesture is kind but uncustomary, and it only serves to increase your uneasy feeling. 

Within an hour of waiting, because that's what you've been doing, you register with an icy trickle of shame dripping down your sides, you realise he won’t be coming. 

That man’s presence here last week is the very definition of sheer happenstance. Nothing more. Nothing else. If anything, you’ve been a nuisance to him, ogling him while he was simply trying to unwind with an afterwork drink. 

You’ll never see him again. 

And it’s fine. You’ll move on, drift back into drifting, avoiding at all costs to process what happened to you when you met his gaze. The tree hiding the forest. 

When you walk up to the counter to order your second drink, the question slips away from you. 

“Can I have the same thing the man in the trucker hat had last Friday, please?”

The barman looks up at you from the tray of clean dishes he's pulling out of the dishwasher and he huffs. He’s handsome, by most standards, you notice for the very first time. Very tall, and broad, green-eyed with a three-day stubble. He’s probably a couple of years above forty. His head is shaved bald. He’s manly in a burly, albeit fatherly way. 

“Oh sweetheart, d’you know how many guys with a trucker hat I see here every day?”

It’s not meant to make you feel small, his tone is gentle. It’s a straightforward, factual answer. 

“What do you wanna drink?” he asks when you don’t answer. “Tired of that G&T yet? Cos I got good beer. This is a beer place, you know? Wanna try a light blonde, to start? Something stronger? An IPA?”

What do you want. You’ve been drinking gin all your life because that’s what your mother always has. Starting at 5pm in the afternoon. Would you, indeed, like to try a light blonde? Something stronger? An IPA, to start? 

It’s a brand-new world unfurling in front of you, a yellow brick road paved with what-do-you-wants.

“Sure,” you nod, “I can try an IPA.”

—

The barman goes by the name of Mark. He’s also the owner of The Hole in The Wall, you learn. Bought the place two years ago, after a painful divorce. A cliché, he adds, with a charming, self-deprecating smile.

The interaction’s short and altogether not unpleasant, and the beer, to your surprise, is fresh and enjoyable. It’s much tastier, in fact, than the cheap, tepid gin you’ve been sipping so far. It gets you drunk just as fast, but this time when you leave the bar, your mind is quiet, if not at ease. 

The following week, a heatwave hits the Tampa Bay. The melting asphalt sticks to your leather soles, like your sweaty clothes to your clammy skin, like your brooding mood to your dampened dreams. In a couple of days eventually, August will draw to an end, but the summer won’t end with it. It never truly does. It taunts you all year round, a sweltering reminder of how much you hate living here.

And if it wasn’t for the humidity, you’d be jogging the short distance between your car and the cool haven of the air-conditioned bar. 

You push the swinging door forward, eyes shut in anticipation of the blinding darkness and you stand in the entrance for a few seconds. The familiar and comforting smell of moldy dust mixed with beer yeast greets your senses as you take in the chill air grazing your naked arms. 

And then you reopen your eyes. 

He’s here. 

Trucker hat, blue jeans, gray T-shirt. Different clothes, same silhouette. He’s sitting at your table, his position a magnified echo of yours two weeks ago, hand loosely wrapped around his pint, seemingly asleep with his head propped against the wall. 

Mark looks at you and tilts his head in his direction, wiggling an eyebrow with a silent question of “Is this the guy you were asking about?”

Your breathing’s so loud you think everyone must hear it over the droning television. Mark’s brow furrows with incomprehension at the alarm widening your eyes, and you anchor yourself to his face, walking toward him in slow motion, climbing on the first high stool you reach.

“Hey. You ok?”

You stretch your lips in a wince of a smile.

“So? What will it be today? Wanna try a Free Dive? It’s local.”

You nod in silence, but then he grabs a large glass, and you ask tentatively, “Can I have only half a pint?”

Fuck, your mouth is so dry.

Behind you, to your right, you feel more than you hear the man shift in his chair.

Mark sighs, his left hand paused on the tap handle. 

“I don’t have beer glasses this small, sweetheart. Get a pint, the first one’s on me, okay?”

You reiterate your silent nod. He places the beer in front of you, and you swallow the first swigs too quickly. The back of your throat throbs with the fast flowing intake of the cold liquid, or perhaps it’s because of the frantic beating of your heart.

He’s getting up now, you can tell by the friction sound of the chair dragging on the carpeted floor, and your frightened expression turns downright pleading as you hear him close the distance between you.  

He’s at your back, sliding his thick naked arm past yours to return his empty glass to the counter. His movements are slow, deliberate. You get a whiff of his scent, a masculine musk, with a faint smell of laundry detergent, it’s wholesome, safety, comfort. You turn your head. He’s looking at you. Looking at you with intent.

He’s so tall you have to lift your chin to hold his gaze. Hard cold stare, soft sad eyes, it’s swirling violently inside your exhausted chest and he’s leaving again already, walking toward the door like nothing just happened.

He pulls it inward and you watch him exit the bar into the dusk light.

Did he come back for you? Are you going insane? 

Sixty-seven seconds. Sixty-seven seconds is the time it takes you to decide your next move. The one that’s going to forever change your life. The one that could be everything or turn out meaningless. 

“I’ll be right back,” you tell Mark, sliding your handbag on the counter and you stand up to follow him outside.

The sunset sky is a pink shade of orange. Shadows are stretching long onto the asphalt, drawing a distorted world upside-down. 

He’s not here anymore, you waited too fucking long. You quickly scan the parked vehicles on the other side of the road to your right, and the parking lot in front of you, but it’s empty, save for your anthracite sedan, a black truck and what you assume must be Mark’s old SUV, because you see it every week. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, pressing your fingers to your sternum. 

You look to your left, where the parking ends. There’s a white utility vehicle advertising a plumbing service and a dark blue city car. Beyond them, the lot extends into a narrow stretch of gravel behind the small rectangular building. There’s a pile of junk, and the tailgate of a red truck.

Your hand drops to your side and you start walking toward it, going around the white van. 

He’s there. He’s waiting for you by the front of the red truck, behind the building. His hands propped on his waist, head down, hidden under his cap. 

You keep walking toward him, the sound of your shoes on the dirty ground grating your ears, but you stop short when he raises his head, fuck he looks even taller at this distance, with his elbows spread.

It’s like he senses your apprehension, or perhaps he shares it, because he folds his arms over his chest, hugging himself. 

For the very first time, you can fully make out his face. Strong features, a strong curvy nose, a patchy beard peppering a sharp jaw, and plush lips. Your gaze follows the solid column of his neck down to his suprasternal point peeking above the V-collar of his worn-out t-shirt, before it’s drawn back to his eyes.

He stands there perfectly still for you to detail.

Above you, the sky has turned a rusty blue. The humidity is stifling. It’s Friday the 30th, 2019, 8.17pm.

“What do you want?”

His voice is deep, and low, barely louder than a murmur yet intense, his words full and round. 

The question, however legitimate, hits you square in the solar plexus, right under your aching sternum. You fear that if you don’t speak fast enough, he’ll leave you again, alone with the memory of his soft sad eyes and his hard cold stare. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper, and god, if it’s true, what are you doing here? 

He huffs, and it’s the very sound of disillusion. His eyes grow dimmer, you think you’re not the one darkening them. Unfolding his arms, he removes his hat and takes a step closer, then another. You could touch him, if you reached out with your arm stretched. 

He looks at you like he’s already seen how your story ends. 

You could back away. You don’t. 

He moves slowly, thick body thrumming with undiluted strength and unreleased tension, eyes searching yours, giving you the time to leave, should leaving be what you choose, should you turn around and run before the hanging threat breaks like dark stormy clouds and drench you soaked. 

He slowly moves forward until he’s towering over you, until his chest touches your breasts, until the pilled cotton of his t-shirt catches at the satin material of your blouse. His scent floods your senses, he leans down into the curve of your neck and inhales you there, long, deep, unhurried. You hold your breath, still, in turn, for his exploration, nails digging into your palms, heart tripping.  

And then, he touches you. With his lips, a feather-like caress over the soft skin under your ear. Your eyes flutter shut, your thoughts are suspended.

“This what you want?” he murmurs.

His words sink under your skin, they harden your nipples, raise goosebumps on your nape in the muggy evening heat.  

“Yes.”

The cap falls onto the gravel. His hands go to your hips. Clutching you there with a rough grip and he’s tugging you closer, flush to his chest. He licks up a broad stripe along the line of your throat, pivots with you in his arms and backs you into the side of the truck, you have to grab his forearms to keep your balance. 

A guttural sound catches in his throat, like a grunt he tries to hold back, for your touch, for the taste of your skin, for your pliant docility.

Your head rolls back, you’ve gone weeks without a skin on skin contact, and now this man is hunched over you, his body swallowing yours, this stranger who’s infected your dreams with his cold hard stare and his soft sad eyes, his mouth roaming the expanse of your throat, short beard prickling your skin, and the shifting sensation inside your chest drops to your core where it catches fire.

His kisses are lips, teeth and tongue, rough and scraping at you raw in all the right ways, they trail up along your neck, under your jaw, and when they find your lips, he presses you harder into him. He tastes like beer, unfamiliar, you want to get used to it. 

The seams of your blouse strain when he pulls it out of your skirt with an impatient tug. His hands slither under the hem and find the naked skin of your back. His palms are strong, rugged and scalding and his fingertips calloused, they make your skin sizzle underneath their pressing, crackle like snapping wood, like fireworks at a summer county fair, like sweet candy wrapping. 

You're leaking hot and sticky between your hips, responding with your entire body, opening up for him, letting his tongue in past your lips with pathetic grateful little moans, winding your arms around his shoulders, over the cording muscles of his back, musky sweat dampening his t-shirt. The thick, solid shape of him, that got etched behind your eyelids.

You’re a want and a need and an empty flutter, entangled with him, whoever he may be, his tongue swirling inside your mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, his splayed hands covering your back, his knee spreading your legs open. 

He’s voracious, harsh in his own need, snatching from you what you’re already willing to give, angling your head with a sharp pull on your hair to deepen his kiss, grunting his approval when you moan at the sting. 

Arousal keeps dripping down your fold where his thigh prods firm and brawny against the black material of your skirt that hinders the pressure. 

He growls, frustration rumbling low and menacing inside his throat. He grabs your ass and squeezes, thick middle finger pushing against the fabric of your clothes into the cleft between your cheeks and you jolt, leaping forward further into him. His belt buckle bites into the soft flesh of your belly, right where you're burning empty and wanting and shameless for him. You feel him hot and hard against your hip, and he tightens his hold, cages you within him. 

He’s big all over, larger than life proportions, you surrender to the fact with your lust-drunk mind, from the height of his frame to the girth of his sex, from his grip on your senses to the sorrow in his eyes. 

It blooms inside you like pain, blossoms of mahogany red spreading along your limbs in relentless waves, the power he already wields over you and you don’t even know his name.  

You buck between his arms, a first and very last attempt at freeing yourself, unconvincing with the scrap of your fingernails along the pebbled skin of his neck, and you press back into him again, squirming against his throbbing length, offering him some friction.  

He pulls out all of sudden, breaking the kiss, and you're left panting, ankles swaying, you’d drop to the gravel without the support of the truck, still sun-warm in the early evening, yet colder than his feverish body. 

He shakes his head with a silent no, his shoulders heaving, a wordless warning hissed through his clenched bared teeth. The simmering anger under the surface only makes you want him more, the unyielding restraint shining dark in his eyes.  

But it’s over. You know it. He gave you this, and took it back. With shaky hands, you smooth down the wrinkles of your blouse where he’s bunched it in his fists. You lick his taste off your trembling lip. You will not cry. 

He shakes his head again, you watch him through welling tears, confused, eyes flickering between his. 

Behind him, the city car’s engine revs up to a start, aggressive headlights backlighting him. His throat bobs up and down in chiaroscuro as he swallows hard. You know what you must look like in the crude white light. Supplicant, dependent, awaiting. Disheveled by his hand. Tires grate on the gravel as the car reverses away from you into the night, and with it the headlights, leaving you standing in the brown city night, urban semi darkness, and you see him shut his eyes. 

He smiles, a puzzling, sorrowful lift of his plush lips, and a new sort of ache washes over you. You raise forward on your tiptoes to peck a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. His entire frame quivers for you. A muscle clenches in his jaw, the deepening crease in his brow redefines his traits in shadows. 

He leans into you, like he wants you but he doesn’t want to want you, like he’s giving in but not entirely, because giving in would be the end of him, of you.

The flat of his palm to the swell of your breast, and he kneads your soft flesh, slowly at first, growing urgent. The back of your head hits the truck’s window when he pinches your nipple, hard, with two fingers, and you bite down a moan. 

He’s engulfing you again, lips latched around your other nipple, tongue swirling and licking through your blouse and your thin bra and you hold on to him, you cling to his frame when he bunches up your skirt around your waist, leather boot nudging your foot to the side, cock throbbing on your hip, slick dripping down your walls. 

“Stop me,” his mouth brushes the shell of your ear. It’s not a dare, it’s not a plea, it’s your last chance to back down before the free fall. 

Your pulse stutters, you arch into him without hesitation, but he pins you back against the truck with his chest, cupping you through your underwear and he curses into your neck at the sticky leaking mess he finds there.

Your naked leg hitches up rigid and tense against his leg, curled fingers, curled toes, and he hooks his index into the cotton of your panties. 

A brief stroke of his knuckles into the soft, smooth dip between your sex and your inner thigh, unexpectedly tender, before he parts your soaked lips with his two middle fingers, coating them in your sticky slick desire, and he sinks them inside your empty cunt. 

You crumble around the intrusion, forehead hitting his collarbone, slack-mouthed, a short exhale of a silent “oh.” He brings his left hand to the crown of your head and cradles you there, while his fingers pump in and out of your heat fast and rough. His thumb glides through your folds and starts rubbing at your clit, deft and precise, and you shudder between his arms, you slump into his hold. 

He keeps stroking your hair, gentle soothing sounds murmured into your ear as he fucks you raw with his hand, attuned to your moans and your every reaction, gauging what you can take before his fingers curl deeper inside your cunt, merciless, thumb pressing tight circles on your bud at an increasing pace.  

Your breathing comes in ragged and short while his intensifies. It’s pouring into your ear hot and overwhelming and you’re dissolving. Sweat beading at your temples, heat raising from his exerted muscles. 

You focus on the sensation of his flexing muscles under your clawing hands to stave off your building orgasm, it’s growing bright and blinding, searing and violent but it’s inevitable, and soon, too soon, your release flows hot and sticky into his hand. Your whines resound inside his chest but he keeps going, low husks of shhh, come on now, that’s it, until your trapped body trashes with the overstimulation.  

It’s like he can’t let go, pressing his nose heavily to the side of your face, and you struggle to resurface, blood thrumming in your veins, his angry cock pulsating against your hip. 

You let out a dry sob when he slides out of you and the rubber band of your panties slaps your sensitive skin. You don’t miss the flat drag of his tongue licking your taste off his palm, you furrow your fingers deeper into his arm with a short clench of your eyes. 

“Fuck,” your hear him quietly groan, and his fingers disappear into his mouth. 

You want to stay tucked up against him, curled up into his hold. You could live the rest of your life there, you think, between his hands and his scent, between his chest and his truck. 

You lock your ankles and your knees, hoping they will not fail you and you stand, pushing away from him and into the side of the truck. You readjust your skirt, slide it down, palm it smooth. Brush the damp hair from your forehead with the back of your trembling hand.

In your peripheral, he’s leaning down, picking up his hat from the ground and combing his fingers through his hair before he sets the cap back on his head.

You look up dazed and heavy-lidded and you brace yourself before meeting his gaze, cold hard stare, soft sad eyes, and he says,

“I’m Frankie.”

****

Bonus (having déjà vu? that's normal 😝 Gonna use this gif at the end of every first chapter I manage to yank out of my crazy in love brain):

Taglist (thank you 🧡 if you don't wish to be tagged anymore, just drop me a DM 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @nicolethered @littleone65 @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @mylostloversbookmarks @its-nebuleuse @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @all-the-way-down-here

[callmeagardengnome]

𓆩 bless me 𓆪 - chapter 7

w.c - 3.6k

pairings - demon!ateez ot8 x demon! fem! reader

genre - demon au, hint of royal au, possible yandere themes (?), romance, slow burn

synopsis: as hell's receptionist, you only wished to talk shit and stay out of trouble. yet, you happened to be the one that the two social clans in hell start fighting for.

c.w - quite graphic details of explosions and stuff + dark, slight yandere themes oops and also foul language

not proofread!

previous / next

masterlist

Every street, every building, all signs of life evaporated in a flash of fire and debris. You watched in horror as the first few explosions targeted the outskirts of Hell, where most of the Halas lived. The ground shook with each explosion, the stench of smoke rising to where you and the Eternals were.

You waved your hand in front of your face, trying to get rid of the dark fumes. The explosion started to creep scarily close to the city centre making your heart pause.

Your office building.

You could see it so clearly - almost too clearly. At that very moment, the exact floor where your own office was, exploded into flames, the screams of your colleagues louder than anything you’ve ever heard.

For a moment, the explosions ripped through the rest of the building in slow motion, shattering the windows and erasing every piece of your workplace from existence. The force of the explosion made you stumble back, your eyes wide with disbelief.

“What the f-“ you screamed, but Seonghwa’s cackle stopped you before you could finish.

“I told you that you’d regret betraying us,” Seonghwa’s voice cut through the air with a smirk, making you want to punch it off of his pretty stupid face.

“I didn’t do shit,” you spat back, moving towards him, going in for a punch.

That was when Hongjoong gripped your shoulder tightly, making you wince. His hands reached for your hair, forcing you to turn back at the sight in front of you. “Watch,” he sneered, not caring whether or not you were in pain.

Your colleagues ran out of the building covered in blood, soot and tears. You could see Walkers desperately crawling out of the building before being inevitably blown up by the explosives they planted outside of it.

Your office exploding meant one thing - they had an Eternal plant extra bombs in and around your building, extra bombs you didn’t know existed.

Your mind immediately went to Mingi. As much as you wanted to trust him, he was the main Eternal that led the bomb planting. You looked at him in the corner of your eye, seeing how he was spacing out, ignoring the destruction and screams around him. How you wanted to kill every Eternal around you right now..

Hongjoong, his hands still painfully tight on your head, dragged you to the side. The cold stone of the wall pressed against your back, forcing you to sit down. His touch on your skin made your stomach churn.

“You’re lucky we still need you,” he whispered, a creepy smile stuck on his face.

His fingers brushed the strands of hair away from your face and he traced your jaw with his thumb, an action that felt more threatening than anything. “Your office may be gone, but don’t worry- I’ve ordered my servants to move all your things to the Palace. This is your home.. forever.”

The explosions started to become white noise and the Palace faded from your mind. There were too many things happening at once - being trapped in this shithole, lives being lost and the fact that he probably knows about your plans to betray them.

As your mind started to scurry, trying to think of different ways to leave the Palace, Hongjoong leaned in closer, his lips barely brushing your ear. “Remember this: you’re only alive because I want you to be. Step out of line and you’ll wish that I left you with the pests.”

He straightened up, his eyes glowing with satisfaction before walking away to watch the screaming demons.

You sat in shock, struggling to catch your breath with the heavy smoke. Yunho approached you, reaching his hand out, but you swatted it away before he could touch you.

“Don’t,” you hissed, glaring at him.

Yunho froze, his hand staying in the air for a moment before letting it fall to his side. “I’m just trying to help..” he said softly.

“Help?” you exclaimed, standing up, ignoring how weak your legs were. “How are you ‘helping’ when you’re letting this happen? Do you think you’re doing something right?”

Yunho’s eyes darkened with.. guilt? Anger? Either way, he didn’t argue with you. You scoffed at his silence, shooting him a nasty stare.

“You’re not different, Yunho,” you continued, struggling to get the words out of your chest. “You act like you care, but when it really matters, you do nothing.”

He looked down, taking in your words. You could see him debating with himself, wanting to say something, but right now, you couldn’t care less.

You turned away from him, searching for the nearest door. “I need to get out of here,” you muttered to yourself.

You ran down the plethora of stairs, nearly tripping over many of them. The sounds of your footsteps echoed through the stone walls, each step being more hurried than the last.

You found yourself in the Palace garden, breathing the fresh air that you desperately needed after the suffocating smoke at the top. You wanted to slow down, but you heard footsteps approaching behind you, causing you to start running again.

Just then, a demon grabbed your wrist from behind, preventing you from going further. You whipped around, coming face-to-face with Mingi, his face worried. “What do you want?” you panted.

“Are you okay..?” Mingi asked, almost hesitant.

“You ran after me to ask that?” you snatched your hand away from his grasp. “No, I’m not okay, General. You just planted bombs in my office and pretended to work with me.”

His eyes widened in surprise as he quickly shook his head. “I know that’s what it looks like but I promise you, I didn’t do that. I had no idea that they were planning to attack your office.”

“Really?” you raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you the one who led the execution? And the bombings?”

“Well- I did do that but-“ he started, his voice trailing off as you turned away, your back facing him.

“Wait-“

You paused for a moment, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. At this point, you couldn’t grasp everything that was going on - the explosions, the deaths of both Halas and Walkers, the potential betrayal of someone that was supposed to work with you. If Mingi was going to talk to you, he better have an explanation, not an excuse.

You sighed, turning around just enough to see his face. “You have one minute,” you stated.

Mingi gulped, taking a deep breath. “I had no idea they were going after your office,” he said, his words rushed. “I was given orders to lead the bombings, but the one at your office- I wasn’t aware of that plan. I swear- if I knew, you would know by now.”

“It’s an entire government office!” you exclaimed, not believing his words. “How can you, the General, not know about such a major part of the attack?”

Silence grew after your outburst. Mingi’s breathing went uneven, but his eyes never left yours.

“You have to understand,” he continued, his voice soft. “They didn’t tell me anything about your office. Look- the only demons I have an issue with are the Halas. I wouldn’t go out of my way to hurt Walkers.”

For a moment, the air became tense, with neither of you speaking up. Mingi shifted uncomfortably, clearly trying to read your thoughts.

“If you don’t believe me,” he began slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Maybe I need to show you how serious I am.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

Mingi hesitated, clearly unsure of how to proceed. Then, with a deep breath, he stepped closer to you. “Hit me.”

You blinked. “What..?”

“Hit me, punch me, kick me- I don’t care. I won’t stop you,” he said, his face completely serious.

Your eyes widened, trying to process what he was saying. Out of all the things you expected him to say, this wasn’t one of them.

“That’s.. weird, Mingi,” you said, concerned and rightfully confused. “Why would that make me believe you?”

Mingi sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “Because I don’t know what else to do,” he said in frustration. “I’m not the bad one, ‘____’, they are. I need you to trust that I had nothing to do with those bombings. If letting you hit me is the only way to get that across.. so be it.”

“What are you-“ His eyes softened as you spoke, almost making you feel.. bad. You shook your head, frowning, trying to make sense of his words.

“Mingi.. punching you isn’t going to change anything. I still don't know if I can trust you anymore.”

Mingi took another step closer to you, placing his hands on his chest. “Please, I don’t know what else I can do.”

You stared at him. It was strange - unbelievably strange. You never thought that you would end up here, not that you were complaining though.

“I mean.. a chance to beat the shit out of an Eternal?,” a wide smirk began to from on your face. “And you’re the General..”

Mingi’s eyes widened in surprise - whether it was from you considering his offer or not, you weren’t sure.

You looked at him carefully, sizing him up. There was something almost absurd about the whole situation. An Eternal, the most respected demons in Hell, was practically begging for you to punch him.

Without waiting for him to react, you threw your fist at him and swung. The punch landed on his face with an impact that sent a wave down your arm. Mingi stumbled back, looking at you in shock as he clutched his cheek.

“Damn,” he muttered. “You really don’t hold back.”

You shook your hand, feeling your knuckles tingling after the punch. “Of course, I’m not like that dog army of yours.”

Mingi scoffed, still rubbing his cheek in disbelief. “Hey, leave them out of this.”

You rolled your eyes. “You're concerned about that right now?”

You watched as he was about to retort but quickly stopped himself, realising the position he was in. For a moment, you considered hitting him again, just for fun, but you held yourself back. After all, you weren’t sure if he would allow it to happen a second time.

“I’ll give you the benefit of a doubt,” you sighed, seeing how his eyes lit up at your words. “But don’t think for a second that this means I trust you completely.”

Mingi nodded, running up to where you were. You managed to get a good look at his face, seeing a nasty scar on the side of his cheek.

“Dang.. I really hit you hard, huh?” you chuckled, running your fingertips along the injury. “I would say sorry but I wouldn’t mean it.”

“Screw you,” he snorted, but there wasn’t any real anger in his voice. He didn’t make any attempts to swat your hands away, even leaning slightly into your touch. “Let’s try and find a way out of here.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⊹₊ִ ࣪𖤐๋࣭ ⭑⊹₊ 𖥔.

Unfortunately, the Palace was littered with guards at every corner. Soldiers were stationed at every corner and exit, making it impossible to leave unnoticed. After what felt like hours of failed attempts, escape only seemed like a distant dream.

Exhausted, you found a secluded spot in the palace - a dimly lit corner tucked away from the main corridors. You leaned against the stone wall, catching your breath as you planned what to do for your next move.

Suddenly, you felt a presence moving towards you.

Without thinking, your instincts kicked in and you swung your fist towards the approaching figure. But before you could land it, a hand shot up, grabbing your wrist mid-air.

“Woah,” he raised his eyebrows, a small smirk tugging on his lips. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yunho?” you exclaimed, your heart racing from his sudden appearance. “What the Hell are you doing here?” you asked as you looked around.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, gently releasing your wrist and putting it to your side.

You took a step back, sitting down on the cold floor that made you flinch. You tried to ignore Yunho, hoping that he would leave. But unfortunately, he sat down right next to you.

There was a short moment of quiet - one where all you could hear was the jagged breathing from you, and the calm breaths of Yunho. You jumped slightly when you heard him break the silence.

“You’ve been up to some interesting things lately,” he began, catching your attention immediately.

You narrowed your eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on.. don’t play dumb,” Yunho turned to you and smirked. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been sneaking around. This Palace has eyes, you know. It’s not that hard to connect the dots.”

You scoffed, picking at your nails. “Well in that case, you don’t know anything.”

Yunho’s smirk faded, replaced by something eerie. “I wouldn’t be too confident,” he said, his words sending shivers down your spine. “I know a lot of things. Like what happened to your office.”

“You-“ Your breath caught in your throat as you whipped your head towards him. “Don’t tell me you were behind the bombings..”

He didn’t deny it.

The silence was stretched uncomfortably long, as if he was savouring your reaction. Finally, he let out a sigh, one that made you want to rip his lungs out. “It was either that or your house. It’s not my fault they picked the ones with more demons in it.”

“Are you insane?” you hissed, pushing yourself off the floor, unable to sit still anymore. “So you blew up my office on purpose, because Walkers were there?”

“It was the only way to keep you in check-“

You groaned in frustration, pacing back and forth the room, trying to stop yourself from punching another Eternal. “You didn’t have to blow up my office! Now what? You’re getting rid of both Halas and Walkers?”

Yunho remained calm, making you more irritated than anything. His eyes merely following your frantic movements as you walked around the room.

“...Why do you care so much about those.. Halas?” he asked, the clear disdain in his voice as he recited their name.

You stopped in your tracks and glared at him. “That was your response to what I just said?” you asked in disbelief.

“They’re pests, they need to be controlled. And yet-“ he paused, furrowing his eyebrows. “-You have a soft spot for them.”

You clenched your fists. “They’re not pests. They are innocent demons who did nothing wrong.”

Yunho slowly rose from the ground, stepping closer and closer to you. The space between you two shrank, his presence looming over you.

He leaned down to your ear, whispering, “Do you really believe that?” He sounded almost.. amused - as if he was toying with you.

“Yes,” you snapped, your voice obviously laced with anger. You couldn’t believe the absurd question coming out of his mouth.

Yunho tilted his head, studying you with a curious look. “And you’d do anything to help them?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You looked at him in confusion, his question throwing you off guard. “Why are you asking so much about the Halas?”

Yunho smiled - making your stomach twist with anxiety. “Well.. since the Eternals already know you’re betraying them, what’s the harm in being interested in what you’re doing?”

You felt a wave of fear wash over you as you heard his words. “The- they actually know?” you stammered, feeling your pulse in your ears.

“Of course they do,” he continued. “They’re not stupid, but it’s cute to see how convincing you are. Makes me wonder how far you’ll go.”

You took a step back. “So what now? You’re just waiting to see what I’ll do?”

Yunho shrugged, clearly enjoying how you were becoming more scared by the second. “It takes guts to go against a King. Not sure if I should be worried or impressed.”

“Worried?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You have no reason to be worried.”

Yunho’s gaze softened slightly, becoming more serious about his words than he did before. “You’re going to get yourself killed, '____'. Whether it’s by the Eternals directly or in one of their attacks.. you’re not safe.”

You sighed, searching his eyes for any hints of him joking or lying - but nothing came up. “Why do you care, Yunho? Why do you care about what I’m doing?” you asked, tired of him beating around the bush.

“Honestly?” He paused, considering his words carefully. “It’s getting.. boring.”

You blinked, confused. “Boring..?”

“At first it felt great, you know? Like- we’re finally getting rid of the rats,” he confessed with a grin. “But what’s the point when they can’t fight back? Where’s the fun in that?”

You crossed your arms, staring at him. “So the only reason why you’re talking to me.. is to stir things up?”

“It’s not fair to have a one-sided fight. Why not try and even the odds?” his smirked widened as he leaned in closer once again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll help you make things very interesting…”

You scoffed, ignoring the lingering feeling of his lips brushing against your ear. “What do you get out of this? Some kink thrill of yours?”

He chuckled, his laughs echoing throughout the room. “Do you not want my help?” he asked, the shit-eating smirk still evident on his face.

“You’re not even serious about this,” you sighed, turning to walk away. But before you could take another step, he grabbed your wrist gently, pulling you back just enough to close the distance again.

“Says who?” Yunho’s voice became soft, completely different to how it was earlier. His thumb slowly drew circles on the inside of your wrist, sending a jolt through you. “Having me on your side will be helpful.. and a lot more fun than whatever you’ve got going on.”

You stayed silent for a moment. You wanted to ignore him, walk away without a second thought - but there was something in his voice that made you hesitate.

His smirk turned into something more genuine as he continued. “I’m not your enemy, at least not yet. If you keep pushing, I’m going to reconsider my offer.”

You pulled your wrist from his grasp, the ghost of his fingers remaining as you finally took a step back. “Fine-“ you caved in. “But I’m only doing this because we need as much help as we can get. I don’t trust you.”

Yunho’s normal self returned, his eyes filled with pride and satisfaction. “I’d be surprised if you did,” he replied smoothly. “But who knows? Maybe you’ll start to.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⊹₊ִ ࣪𖤐๋࣭ ⭑⊹₊ 𖥔.

Mingi’s footsteps echoed through the dim corridor as he made his way to Hongjoong’s office. The summon was quite sudden but not unusual for the two, with them mainly discussing about the soldiers and weapons. However, this time, Mingi felt a strange feeling he couldn’t shake off.

He knocked on the door, only entering when he heard Hongjoong’s voice. Hongjoong was seated behind his desk which was scattered with papers. He was fidgeting with a pen in his hand, his face blank and neutral.

Mingi greeted, hoping his voice wasn’t shaky. “Lord Hongjoong-”

“-I’ve been hearing things, General,” Hongjoong began, looking up from his papers. “Things that suggest that you’re not as faithful as you appear.”

Mingi stiffened. “What are you talking about? I’ve done nothing to betray the Eternals.”

Hongjoong’s lips curled into a grin. He stood up, walking closer to the other Eternal. “That’s what you believe, but beliefs can be deceiving, can’t they?”

Mingi felt a chill go down his back as he tried to maintain his composure. He took in a deep breath. “I don’t understand what you’re implying.”

Hongjoong circled him slowly, like a predator toying with a prey. “Loyalty is a fragile thing.. it can be swayed by the slightest breeze, a whisper or..”

“…A Walker.”

Hongjoong took his pen and traced it on the scar that you gave Mingi earlier, a wild smile forming on his face. Mingi stood frozen, his mind and heart both rushing for an answer. “I haven’t betrayed anyone. There must be a misunderstanding-“

“A misunderstanding?” the King cackled as he repeated what the poor Eternal said. “General- I don’t remember the last time you were this scared of me. What happened to the oh so brave soldier I once had?” he asked mockingly.

The King calmed himself down, leaning against his desk. He stood in front of Mingi, his eyes wide with craze. “A misunderstanding.. is that what this is?”

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room. Mingi could feel sweat rolling down his face despite it being a cool 300 degrees in the room.

“I think this is the beginning,” Hongjoong spoke up, his voice cutting through the air like a knife.

Mingi’s heart pounded in his chest, not knowing what the King was getting at, but he knew better than to trust the calm face that the Eternal was presenting. “Beginning of what?”

Hongjoong locked his eyes onto Mingi. “The beginning of your fall, General.”

There was a pause - a stare-down between the two Eternals. The air was thick with unspoken threats, almost making it difficult to breathe.

Hongjoong smirked, flicking his wrist. “You’re free to go.”

author’s note: sorry for the slow updates! im kinda just writing this whenever i get the motivation… i but hope that yall enjoy it! any and all feedback appreciated <3

series taglist [OPEN] - @binchanluvrr @hiddlestandom @avantalem @hecateslittlewitchling @iara-ya @thunderous-wolf @jaerisdiction @mallielovssyou @syzygyweeb @dimeb29

[ms--lobotomy]

I started this when I couldn't sleep last night. Even more self-indulgent than normal. You can thank @moodymisty and @kit-williams for getting me into the funny blueberry. The fleas. The fleas. THE FLEAS-

Summary: Cato Sicarius hate fuckin'

Content Warnings: SMUT and rough smut at that, Heavy degradation kink (to the reader), Semi-public, could be seen as dubcon but it's consensual in my head, Armor kink, Unhealthy relationship (sorry to all my healthy relationship stans), blood, the use of the word "whore" to degrade, body worship (take a wild guess whose body), crying,

Image Credit: @squishyowl (I don't know whether to apologize or say you're welcome)

“Cato, where are we going?”

His response was as cold as his gauntlet on your skin. “It’s Captain Sicarius to you.”

His hand gripped your wrist, threatening to leave a nasty bruise, and you had to jog to keep up with him. Most of the Ultramarines and serfs around you seemed to mind their own business, but a few cast quick glances towards the two of you. After a while, one of the sons of Guilliman spoke up.

“Captain,” he began. “Is everything alright?”

“It is,” he replied. “Hurry along. You have better things to do.”

You watched ever so briefly as the marine absconded in the opposite direction. You had to crane your neck upwards to look at the man on your wrist. You opened your mouth to say something, but decided against it right before he stopped by a closet, one just big enough to fit a fully armored space marine.

“Is this…?”

“In,” he hissed.

He turned the doorknob and it made a click before he swung the door open, ushering you in with a hand on your back. He followed suit and swung the door shut before you could have a look around the room. Absentmindedly, he pushed a spare broom to the side.

“What—“

“Undress.”

“Did you just say—?”

“Undress.”

You sheepishly pulled your shirt over your head as you heard the hiss of him removing his helmet, the clang of it falling to the floor before the clang of another piece of armor dropping to the floor. Oh. As you pulled down your pants, a question arose.

“Captain? How am I going to find my clothes?”

You felt arms loop around you and a hand at your back unhooking your bra. Your heart skipped a beat. “We will deal with that when we deal with that.” His breath was warm against the top of your head.

Not a moment after your underwear hit the floor did you feel that familiar feeling of being pushed against the wall. You let out a slight “mmh” at the motion, your feet dangling above the ground. There was a little ledge under you, barely big enough for you to fit on with a little help. You could assume that you were at eye level with him, it was far too dark to tell. You grabbed for his armor and you could feel him recoil before he made his way back to you.

“Dirty cunt,” he spat before he pressed his lips on yours. You hadn’t time to gasp for air, air that left your lungs quickly when he grazed his teeth along your bottom lip. Your hands grasped for whatever they could find, eventually resting between his shoulders and neck.

When he finally pulled away you gasped for air, limp under him. “By the Throne, you’re pathetic,” he huffed, coming in for another kiss. Your legs squeezed together, trying to hide the mess already present between them. He pulled away soon enough, sliding a finger between your legs. Blood rushed to your face at the almost crackling sound that it made against his cold armor.

"Wet already?"

You pressed a hand to your chest, leaning forwards slightly. “Nngh… Cato…”

“Captain. Sicarius,” he commanded. “Spread your legs for me, you little whore.”

You spread them, as wide as you could. He stuck an armored finger into you and you gasped, grabbing onto his armor again. Your hands slipped on his armor, and you leaned into him.

“Quiet,” he hissed before he jammed his lips on yours again. You moaned into his mouth as his armored finger trailed along you, making you quiver underneath him. You felt your naked body press against his armor, rough against your skin. He bit down on your lower lip, drawing a little bit of blood. You felt your eyes start to wet. You tried to pull away but he grabbed you and kept you on him as you started to taste metal.

Finally, he pulled away. "You're going to leave such a mess," he grumbled as you wiped your lip. Faster than you could think, he pinned your wrists to your side and kissed your collarbone just like he'd kissed your lips--roughly and jaggedly. You felt his teeth hastily graze your skin, threatening to sink in before he sucked hard.

You pressed your lips together before you couldn't hold it in any longer. "A-ah..." you cried, his outline barely visible.

Sicarius pulled away. "Quiet down, or they'll all know how much of a whore you really are." He pressed himself lower, dangerously close to your nub. His hands moved away from your wrists towards your waist, and you ran your hands through his short, dark hair. You felt that same sucking and you cried out again before he stuffed two of his fingers in your mouth. You tasted ceramite, and the lids of your eyes lowered as you moaned into his fingers.

With his remaining hand, he took your nub between his fingers, squeezing it. "Are you going to be quiet for me?" he asked, slightly pulling on it.

You moaned into his ceramite again before he removed it with a wet pop. His hand grazed the side of your face before it trailed down to your shoulder, holding you down as you writhed underneath him. You could hear his armor shift briefly before he bit down on your nub, hard.

"C-Captain!" you exclaimed, your hands sinking into his hair. Before he could draw blood, he moved onto your other side. You pressed him into you, wrapping your legs around him.

He rose up, his form back to towering above you. "Took you long enough," he huffed before taking you off of the ledge. You took a few seconds to steady yourself, rubbing one of the spots that he bit.

"Now kneel."

"Captain...?"

"I told you to kneel."

You found yourself on your knees and you felt an armored hand on your head. Something brushed up against your face, something warm and hard. You had to turn up a little bit to reach mouth level with him.

"I want you to pleasure me."

"Okay..." you said quietly, taking him in your hand. You touched him gently, peppering kisses along him and fondling his balls. It wasn't long before you took the tip in your mouth. He grabbed the sides of your head as his hips began to gyrate, pressing himself deeper into you. Despite everything, you let out a high-pitched squeal, desperately gasping for air.

With a deep grunt, he shoved himself in deeper. You felt a tear streak down your cheek, and you wanted desperately to wipe it away but there were more pressing matters at hand. "I told you that I wanted you to pleasure me," he grunted, thrusting a few more times before he popped himself out of your mouth. You leaned over the ground, gasping for air.

"Captain..." you said between sharp breaths.

"Back on the ledge," he barked, kneeling in front of you. You felt a hand on the side of your face, his thumb barely entering your mouth.

You tried to speak, regardless. "Captain, I can barely see in here," you said, your breath evening out.

"You're too soft to be on this ship," he huffed, picking you up by your underarms and placing you back on that ledge. "It's a wonder your puny ass is still alive."

"Alright..." you said before he shifted you down a little bit. You felt him press at your entrance, holding you on him like you were nothing but a toy. You felt his breath hot on your skin, his armor cold against your legs.

"I still haven't came yet," he remarked. "I won't enter unless you beg for it."

You gulped and your wet, messy eyes widened. "...Beg?" you asked softly, your hands tracing the indents on his armor.

"You heard me."

"O-okay..." you said shakily. "I'm so desperate, Captain... I need you in me." Your hands reached out for the outline of his face, but you could barely reach him. "I need to be used. I need to be disrespected. I..." you paused, your face warm and wet. "I'm sorry, Captain. I'm just a little whore."

He chuckled. "You do realize people might hear you?" he asked as he finally pushed himself in. He didn't spend any time acclimating you to him, but that didn't stop you from going over the edge. Tears streamed down your face as you cried out, your hands balling up into fists.

"Captain!" you cried out, your eyes barely open. You cried out with every thrust, and before long, he was burying himself to the hilt before exiting again. You felt a sharp pain where he was, and you tried to speak again.

"It hurts..." you let out between moans.

"Good," he snarled, his hands enveloping your waist and slamming you onto him again and again. Your hands trailed towards his arms, the armor still cold against your skin. You came again on him, crying out as your eyes rolled back into your skull.

"Again?" he asked, keeping pace. "You're so pathetic. I can't believe I'm in a supply closet with such a... such a whore."

"I am," you said meekly. Almost as if on cue, he buried himself in you one last time and pumped you full of his seed. As he throbbed inside you, you felt his head between your shoulder and neck. The position must be at least a little uncomfortable, but you weren't going to say anything. A mix of blood and seed dripped down your leg, forming a small puddle on the floor of the closet.

"I can clean it--"

"No. I will," he huffed, setting you down. He ran a hand along your thigh, cleaning it off. You shivered under his touch again, leaning against his armor.

"Thank you," you said as he ran a hand through your hair.

"Stay here," he said. "You're going to get water."

[professorsnape394]

Day 3: Haunted Hijinks

Pairing: Severus Snape x OC

Rating: 🥰

Prompt: Haunt

Summary: Peeves has it out for the new Professor and only Severus Snape can help.

A/N: So I had initially intended for his to be a shorter story but it ended up being even bigger than my last. I apologise if there maybe isn't quite enough Snape for you, but good news is there will be a part 2!

Warnings: ghosts?

Word Count: 2518

Credits to Gif Creator

Week 1

The haunting started just as I had anticipated. Doors slamming, objects randomly disappearing and reappearing in different places, drawers sporadically flinging themselves open and emptying their entire contents onto the floor.

I wasn’t scared. I knew it was coming.

When I first joined the school Minerva was over the moon to have her favourite student joining the faculty. I received an overwhelmingly warm welcome by everyone… everyone, except two.

The first was to be expected. Severus Snape was never a man for comradery. Despite the fact we had both attended Hogwarts at the same time as teens, my presence here didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. While I had been admittedly disappointed by his cold reception, I wasn’t surprised by it. Snape rarely acknowledged me, even when we had shared classes together. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he didn’t even know I existed.

The second, less then pleasant reception, came from a poltergeist.

As confirmed by Minerva, Peeves had a habit of making every new professor’s life at Hogwarts a living hell. Everyone had experienced the same treatment, all except one.

The torment was to last one month exactly, worsening as the weeks went on. This was his way of initiating you into the faculty apparently. The silver lining of it all though, was after the month was done, no professor would be pestered by the poltergeist thereafter.

The first week passed without issue. Yes, it was annoying to go to pick up your hairbrush only to have it vanish from plain sight. And constantly tidying up the contents of my desk was becoming a bit of a nuisance but nothing I couldn’t handle for the next few weeks.

Week 2

“Peeves!” I groaned, jumping from my chair, as my whole desk hit the floor. “I’m trying to work.”

The room echoed with deep belly laughter, an apparition of the ghost appearing as he zoomed from one side of the room to the other.

Books flew from their spot on the bookcase, smashing into the opposite wall before fluttering to the floor. One after the other the shelves emptied themselves, leaving only the bare bones of the old oak bookcase.

While trying to right my upturned desk, a loud creaking caught my attention.

“No!” I screamed, watching the shelves come crashing to the floor with a loud thud.

This had been the way of the week. Standing by, watching the poltergeist wreak havoc on my chambers, powerless to stop his antics. Within the short space of a week Peeves had turned my life upside down. Every day I awoke to each room in my quarters being completely trashed by the ghost. My clothes were piled high, the empty drawers dumped beside them, class assignments and student essays lay scattered across the floor, he had even taken to raiding my bathroom cupboards, squeezing out the contents of every bottle he came across, smearing it over the floor, walls and mirrors.

Despite my efforts to clean up after him, I soon realised it was a futile task. No matter how quickly I cleaned up one mess, Peeves had already created three more. It was halfway through the week when I realised it would be easier to live with the mess for the next two and a half weeks. Paying my dues turned out to be a lot messier than I had anticipated.

Week 3

The penultimate week took a different toll than the others. I saw Peeves a lot more than he had previously allowed; choosing to take to his physical form and follow me around the castle grounds.

He whispered nonsense in my ear, spoke over me while I taught, interrupted my conversations with my colleagues and worst of all he sang. Day and night, Peeves belted out a badly pitched tune, throwing in the occasional made-up limerick to just to taunt me.

Last night was a particularly difficult night. Somehow Peeves had gathered every radio, gramophone and record player from around the school and scattered them throughout my bedroom. Dozens of different melodies blasted through the speakers, all while Peeves sung along to songs that he never even knew the words to.

My three-day migraine turning into four, I was surviving purely off of caffeine and sheer will power at this point. I hadn’t had a minute of sleep since the week began, and I wasn’t sure I could cope with it any longer.

“Not long now, my dear.” McGonagall encouraged, gently patting my arm reassuringly.

Struggling to keep my eyes open, I took another large swig of my morning coffee. “How did you put up with it, Minerva. I don’t think I can last much longer; it’s beginning to affect my teaching.”

“I’m afraid it’s just one of those things we have all had to endure, my dear.”

“Not everybody.” I huffed, turning my narrowed gaze to the potions master at the far end of the table. “How did he get away with it? Why doesn’t Peeves make his life hell.”

“That would have to be a question you ask Severus.”

“Pft.” I grunted. “He’d never tell me. He hasn’t even spoke to me since I started here.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“No but…” I didn’t have any excuse.

“Then maybe now is your chance. Severus had never been one to make the first step, but I know he’d appreciate it if you paid him a visit.”

“Do you think he even remembers me? I mean it’s been years since we were in school and even then we didn’t exactly run in the same circles.”

“I’m positive he’ll remember you, Y/N, maybe more than you’d expect.”

“What’s that supposed to mea- “

Before I had a chance to finish my sentence, my mug of coffee flew from my grasp, levitating in the air tauntingly, before finally tipping its entire contents onto my lap.

I jumped from the table with a gasp, thanking Merlin the beverage had time to cool before I was scolded.

My cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. Not only was my dress and robes stained dark with coffee but the entire school had been privy to my torment.

I immediately ran from the Great Hall, hoping to escape any further public teasing from the spectre.

By the time the school day had come to an end my head was pounding from the lack of sleep, Peeves had interrupted all six of my classes today, and I had heard students whispering about the coffee fiasco on more than one occasion.

This was my breaking point.

Putting aside my shame and anxiety, I stormed down to the Dungeons to find out how Snape escaped the poltergeist’s awful induction. I was willing to beg on my knees if that is what it took.

“Y/N?” Snape breathed, seemingly shocked at the sight of me on his doorstep.

“I need your help Severus. Please.”

“Come in.” He granted, clearing his throat as he returned to the room.

I took a seat by the fire, waiting for him to join me. Instead, the potions professor paced around the room, never quite settling on one spot.

“It’s nice to see you again.” I called over my shoulder to him, hoping to break the ice.

“Is it?” He stumbled. “I mean; yes, it is.”

“It’s been a long time; I don’t even think I remember the last time we saw each other.”

“Graduation.” He said without hesitating. “I saw you afterwards in the Hog’s Head with Potter and Black.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot about that.” I chuckled nervously, wondering how he possibly remembered that when I couldn’t.

“I remember Sirius got so drunk that night, he ended up sleeping at mine and-

“What do you want, Y/N.” Severus snapped, his entire demeanour changing as he made his way to stand in front of me.

“I need your help.” I repeated.

“With the Poltergeist I presume.”

I nodded simply in response, suddenly understanding why the students found him so intimidating.

He had changed a lot since school. He was no longer the scrawny little teenager whose clothes never quite fit. He was a man now, tall and built out. His clothes fit him perfectly, they even showcased the outline of a bicep on either arm. His voice was like velvet, deep and rich, and it hit my ear in exactly the right way. His face, while no longer youthful, suited the aged lines etched into his forehead. His eyes had always been my favourite though; dark as the night sky and just as mysterious. I never could bare the intensity of his gaze and experiencing it now made me feel just like that awkward 14-year-old again.

“Peeves is not one to be stopped. With exception of Dumbledore and the Bloody Baron he listens to nobody. A deal was struct with a previous headmaster to allow the spectre to have his fun for one month, after which he is not to intervene with the professors to ensure the sanctity of the school and the students education.”

“But he never tormented you.” I whispered, hoping to gain some more insight.

“I cannot help you.” Snape’s eyes saddened.

“Why not? Is it because we were never friends in school? I tried to talk to you Severus, I did, but you just never seemed interested, I- ”

“I cannot help you, Y/N, because I did nothing to deter the ghost.” I opened my mouth to object, but Snape never gave me a chance to speak. “Peeves never haunted me because he never wanted to. It is my understanding that before the castle was built, these dungeons were the grounds in which Peeves was brutally murdered, more specifically, this very room. The ghost refuses to enter my chambers at all. I cannot help you, Y/N, because the only place in this whole castle where you can escape the phantom is here.”

My shoulders drooped at the revelation.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked like he really meant.

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault.” I puffed, trying not to sound as disappointed as I was. “I guess I’ll just have to suck it up like everyone else, I guess.”

Realising Snape probably didn’t want me to stick around for some unnecessary small talk, I immediately tried to make myself scarce. However, while heading out the door I was forced to stop in my tracks.

“Y/N.” Severus called after me.

God, I loved the way he said my name.

“If you ever need a break from him. To do your marking or even just to read for a bit, you can come here. There door is always open.”

“Thank you, Severus. I really appreciate that.” Though it wasn’t likely I’d ever take him up on the offer. Being in such close quarters with a man like him was bound to set me nerves on edge.

Week 4

With 7 days to go until my living hell was no more, I was sure I could power through the fourth and final week.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Day one came in full force. I awoke to the deafening sound of fireworks; fizzing and sparkling at the end of my bed. My heart pounded in my chest; the combination of insomnia, my high caffeine intake and now this, heart palpitations had become a regular occurrence for me.

Nevertheless, I promised myself to power through the day, trudging out of bed to start my classes. I waded through piles of my belongings; the floor hadn’t been visible for a fortnight now and I was almost starting to get used to it. As I made my way to the bathroom, I flicked my wand turning off each blaring radio as I went, hoping it would earn me a moments peace before I was thrust into the chaos of Hogwarts.

True disaster stuck, however, as I approached the hall leading to the bathroom. A sharp shiver shot through up my spine as something squelched underneath my bare feet. I closed my eyes, praying it wasn’t what I thought had happened.

My favourite sweater lay sodden in the middle of the hall, amidst a pair of drenched leggings and a stack of soggy assignments. The hall had been completely flood, the source of course being; the bathroom.

“Please please please.” I repeated to myself as I gripped the door handle tight.

Giving me no time at all to mentally prepare myself for the inevitable state of the bathroom, Peeves appeared on the other side of the door, yanking it open forcefully, taking me with it. I was instantly flung into the deep end, finding myself standing in the middle of a domestic rain shower. The shower, the sink AND the toilet all had water spurting out of them, drowning the room until I was in an ankle-deep puddle. Even the bath was overflowing, given that Peeves had deliberately put the stopper in it before choosing to burst the pipes.

I let out a long and frustrated scream.

“This has gone too far, Peeves!”

A far away laugh echoed through the chambers, he clearly got his desired reaction out of me.

While tempted to succumb to the ghosts’ antics; ready to ball myself on the floor and cry it out. I remembered I did have one other option.

No longer possessing a sense of shame I trudged my way through the castle halls wearing only my saturated silk pyjama set and a pair of waterlogged fluffy bunny slippers. My hair clung to the side of my face in strands of tangled curls, the wet ends dripping onto the floor behind me as I walked.

“Please don’t say no to this.” Were the first words out my mouth when Snape opened his door to me.

“Alright.” He answered without question.

“Can I stay with you.”

“Okay.”

“It’ll just be for the week and I can sleep on the couch, or even on the floor but at least I’ll sleep. And I’ll have to use your shower too, as you can probably tell my bathroom is currently incapacitated. I’ll stay out of your way as much as possible, and I’ll literally owe you the biggest- Wait, what did you just say?”

“I said okay, Y/N.” It was clear the potions master was struggling not to roll his eyes at me forcing him to repeat himself.

“…But why?”

“I’m not quite as unaccommodating as people seem to assume. I’ve witnessed how much you have struggled these past three weeks. And I know, if you’ve shown up here begging for my help, it must be bad. So okay, you can stay for the week. But be warned, there will be some ground rules.”

“Oh My God, Severus I could kiss you right now. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

If he were anyone else, I’d have definitely thrown myself at them, crushing their torso to show my sheer gratitude. With Severus though, I knew he was not one for physical forms of affection, and given that I was soaked to the bone I realised it wouldn’t be wise to subject my saviour to my same fate.

“We’ll discuss my stipulations after dinner this evening. Now you best hurry up and take a shower if you want to make it in time for your first lesson of the day.”

As I sprinted to his bathroom, I could have sworn I spotted a small smirk tugging at the corner of Snape’s lips.

He really wasn’t as grouchy as he let on.

[red-riding-wood]

Lost in the Rhythm

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x F!Reader

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Summary: You convince Tommy to go swing dancing.

Warnings: brief mention of panties, Tommy being a little down bad, slightly suggestive content, other than that just fluff! Or at least my attempt at writing fluff!

WC: 1522

Written for @runnning-outof-time's Caught in 4k Follower Celebration. The idea came to me one night listening to some swing and I thought... shit, I am gonna need to write this. Sorry if it seems a little rushed, kind of smashed this one out when I wasn't feeling like I could write anything.

Tommy’s hand weighed heavy on yours, nearly pulling your arm from its socket as you dragged him onto the dance floor. But you were almost too hopped up on adrenaline to notice, still humming with barely-contained energy you were eager to release from your body, still drunk off his acceptance of your invitation that nothing else really seemed to matter other than that you were going to dance with Thomas Shelby. 

Brilliant yellow-white lights seemed to bleed against the dark ceiling as you spun to face him, a cherry blush flushing your cheeks and the breath stripped from your lungs. He was watching you with the hint of a smile on his face, the glint of something warm – dare you say, affectionate – in his piercing blue eyes.

Tommy still couldn’t believe your boldness, the way you had shimmied over to his desk in that little sequined dress, how you’d made him set aside the paperwork and the bottle of whiskey and had more or less told him that you were going dancing. How he couldn’t help but have smiled at the time, only when you turned your back to go fix up your makeup, because God forbid you know he might enjoy the notion of such ridiculous things like dancing. He’d been able to hide the slight heat that had crept to his cheeks, in a way that you weren’t now that was so endearing to him, your whole being seeming to glow, skin shivering under his touch and your eyes gleaming brightly in the lights.

“You sure you don’t want to just go for drinks, eh?” he said, having to raise his voice slightly over the loud crash of cymbals and the yearning cries of the trombones. But you knew from the look in his eyes that he was already sold, if only to watch you all giddy and elated like this in a way he’d never seen of you at the betting shop or even the Garrison.

“C’mon, Tommy, you’ve danced before. Surely,” you said as you pulled him in, fingers lacing through his own and your arm drawing round his back. He began to lead naturally, though his pace was slower than the music and the mad tapping of shoes around you. He pulled you in real close, so close that you could smell the faint trace of the cologne he wore past his usual musk of whiskey and cigarettes and earth, your chest brushing his and your nose nearly pressed to the heat of his neck. Your heart pounded wildly against your ribs, and for a moment you caught your breath.

“Move your feet a little faster,” you instructed him, allowing more space between the two of you with a slight reluctance. You wondered only briefly if people were looking at you, the thought crawling its way beneath your skin like an insect, but such a cruel feeling was banished with a glimpse of those piercing blue eyes, always cold yet so warm for you whenever you caught him looking.

You guided Tommy into more appropriate steps, knocking a few shoulders with other couples that spun and twirled around one another. You noticed his gaze leave yours only to take notice of them for a few moments.

“Good, now just – “ A squeal burst from your lungs with your remaining breath as his hands dug firmly into your lower back, and he dipped you, blood rushing to your skull and lurid lights undulating across your vision. Your bare thigh came up to brush along his waist, attempting to ground yourself, the hem of your dress pooling over the lace of a garter that he couldn’t help but sneak a peek at.

When he brought you back up, his eyes were glittering with mischief.

“That works, too,” you breathed, and Tommy was nearly lost for a moment in the frizzy ringlets of hair that fell across your forehead, in the shock that passed through your bright eyes and the curve of your mouth before you grinned again, beaming.

Your fingers loosened from his as he brought your arm up, and the world spun as you twirled on your heel, nearly tripping over yourself in your own excitement but caught by a warm, sturdy hand against your spine.

“Show-off,” you teased, smacking him lightly against the chest. Of course he was trying to best you in this.

“I’m sorry, you were trying to tell me something?” he jested, a smugness laced thick into his tone and a quirk in his lip that made a competitiveness flare to life inside you.

“I was actually going to demonstrate.” You changed course, your nimble legs pirouetting across the floor to establish distance between the two of you, the crowd spilling around you like a tide peeling back from the shore. You became lost in the music, feeling every snarl of the drums and whinny of the trombones through the deepest fibres of yourself; you twirled and kicked your feet, swaying to the beat of the music and locking your eyes on your blue-eyed partner whenever you could.

You were an image of glorious, unabated joy, grinning so wide and moving with such energy that it was almost infectious. The sequins of your dress caught the light as they swished at your hips, begging for attention, and every so often, he was rewarded by a flash of your panties as you came into a graceful twirl, but the real show was how you moved, how you commanded each limb with such ease and intensity at the same time. Like you loved every second of this, like you were born to dance, and he was born to watch, that despite all the cruelties of this bleak and ruthless life, you were both made special for this moment of cheerful innocence and pure exultation. 

And he accepted you, willing, into his arms, as you came tapping and spinning over to him, putting on your little show that he drank in with darkening eyes, hypnotised by every shake of your shoulders and sway of your hips. Almost unable to find his breath, he inhaled the scent of your sweet, honeysuckle perfume and the invigorating trace of your sweat.

And he had no choice but to fall into stride with you now, the two of you side-stepping across the floor as the music halted only to come crashing down around you, the crowd beginning to move as one uniform shape.

Your blood pounded in your veins like hot fire, burning brighter than the thrill of alcohol would ever do for you. Still not entirely believing that this was real, thinking that at one moment maybe you might wake to find it was all a dream, you tried to focus on Tommy; he struggled slightly with some of the footwork, but he made up for it with his usual, normally insufferable confidence that tonight you found endearing, and your careful, gentle guidance that you ensured wasn’t swallowed by your excitement. Each touch placed or pressure applied to his body was a signal to move one way or another, and once you’d fallen into a rhythm both of you could keep up with, it was like you had become one being, that you shared each limb and fervid breath and fierce beat of your heart.

Your body lost to the music but your mind lost to his eyes, the world seemed to melt around you, the lights glittering like stars in the background and the movements of the crowd becoming nothing but a rolling tide. A few wisps of dark brown hair had sprung awry from his usually-tailored cut, clinging to the sheen of his forehead. The baby blue of his eyes twinkled at you with equal parts adoration and joy and lust, and his smile…

You hadn’t seen him smile like that since France.

And you thought, maybe you’d be so privileged to see it again. That maybe this was the beginning to many more nights of unadulterated happiness, an escape from the blood and bullets and smoke and soot of your usual life.

You were unsure of who drew closer to who, but your nose ended up brushing against his shoulder, and as his fingers bunched the fabric of your dress at the base of your hip, you tried to hide your sudden blush by burying your face in the crook of his neck.

A giggle that put the most talented musicians in the room to shame chimed against his skin, and wild strands of your hair brushed his lips as he lowered his head to murmur against your ear,

“If you tell anyone about this, Y/N, I swear I’ll have you fired, yeah?”

Laughing again, you shook your head. “You’re enjoying this too much to make those kind of threats.”

His eyes widened slightly, and you smirked at him, leaning in to place a hastened kiss against a freckled cheek. A smear of red lipstick remained, and you giggled again, your glittering eyes mirroring the mischief of his, your voice lowering as if to whisper something scandalous,

“It’ll be our little secret. I promise.”

MASTERLIST • REQUEST

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[charlottesbookclub]

time after time – chapter fourteen (armitage hux x reader)

time after time masterlist

Summary: Hux reels in the aftermath of the explosion

Warnings/Tags: gn!reader; set pre-TFA; serious injuries; hurt/no comfort (yet); angst; medical settings and procedures; mention of throwing up; self-loathing; implied self-harm; memories of child abuse; brief suicidal ideation; as always, let me know if I've missed anything!

Words: 3453

Author’s Note: alright I won't lie to you, this is a rough chapter. like I mentioned in my previous author's note, I did write this story with a narrative arc, so it is now time for the main conflict of the story, which is ultimately mostly just Hux versus his own fears and self-doubt. in this chapter, unfortunately, he's in a fragile mental space where he lets them win. however, I have counted, and there are only four (4) hurt/no comfort type chapters here, including this one (so only three after this). sorry to put us all through this, but we're establishing the stakes of the story, so that hopefully what comes after will feel even more rewarding. and if you like angst, then oh boy are these the chapters for you! thank you for (hopefully) sticking with me! I promise there is much lovely and sweet stuff (and more kisses!) to come! ☺️❤️‍🩹

oh and i should also mention to check out the warnings on this one! absolutely no worries if you would like to sit this one out since it does cover some tough topics ❤️‍🩹

Hux blinked his eyes open slowly, a sharp pain lingering in his head. He was met with the once-too-familiar ceiling of the med bay. No. This could not be happening again. Not after everything. The thought of being forced to start again made him feel physically ill. But as his senses returned to him, he realized this was not the same as before. Rather than the two medics looming above him, there was faint shouting in the distance, and he heard a rush of footsteps. He pushed himself into a sitting position, flinching instantly against a stinging pain in his arm. He was not in a private examination room in medical. Around him were other officers lying on cots, many with small, visible wounds on their bodies. Directly next to him was Hondrill, a layer of gauze wrapped around a bacta patch on her arm. Seeing the lieutenant brought everything back to Hux in a devastating rush. The memories hit him all at once with almost the same force as the blast, forcing him to lay back down to catch his breath. He sorted through the scattered images in his mind, trying to make sense of the chaos. Then, from the messy pile of remembrances came one screaming, terrifying thought: where were you?

He shoved himself upwards, ignoring the pain in his head and his arm as he threw himself from the cot. He was unsteady on his feet for a moment, wavering as the room went sideways. His momentary lapse in momentum allowed enough time for a medic to hurry over to him.

“General, please, you need to lay back down,” she insisted, hands up as though to catch him and deposit him back on the cot if he should fall. He did not intend to fall.

“Where’s the captain?” he asked, realizing that his voice came out hoarse.

“In surgery,” the medic responded bluntly, “now please lay down, sir.”

“In surgery?” Hux repeated the words, trying to make meaning of them. In surgery. Why the kriff were you in surgery? You couldn’t be in surgery. That would mean… that would mean something was seriously wrong. Hux braced himself against the edge of the cot. Bile rose in his throat, threatening to heave from his mouth. His chest was suddenly wracked with spasms. He fell to the cold floor, landing hard on his knees.

The medic was saying something into her comlink, but Hux wasn’t listening. He was barely feeling anything at all, not the pain in his body, not the bite of the hard floor. The only thing he could think about was the horrible, agonizing, all-consuming image of you in surgery. He hardly noticed when he was pulled from the ground and conveyed to a private exam room. Another medic came in, checked some things, and spoke to him, but Hux was utterly numb. It was only when Mitaka’s worried face appeared in his field of vision that he began to come back to himself.

“General?” Mitaka asked, his voice quavering. “Are—are you alright? The medics thought you might be in shock…”

Hux processed the question. He looked around. He and Mitaka were alone in the exam room, the lieutenant standing in front of him as he perched on the edge of the cot. You were in surgery.

“What happened?” Hux asked, his voice no less ragged than before. Mitaka hesitated.

“The inspection team is still completing their investigation, sir. They haven’t released any of their findings yet.” Hux could tell he was stalling, that he knew more than he was saying.

“But you know something – tell me.”

“General, I— The medics are worried that you are in great distress, and they told me that revealing any more information might worsen your emotional state.” Mitaka looked around nervously, almost as though a medic might enter at any time to see him disobeying their instructions. Hux could feel himself shaking. He grabbed Mitaka’s arm and the lieutenant’s attention instantly returned to him, his eyes wide with fear.

“Dopheld, you need to tell me what you know,” Hux pressed the words through his clenched teeth, ready to beg if he had to. Whether it was his rare use of Mitaka’s first name, his grip on the lieutenant’s forearm, or his desperate tone – perhaps even all three – Mitaka finally broke.

Hux listened in horror as Mitaka related what he knew of the incident. Either one of the droids had made a mistake, or the device was specifically designed to resist diffusion efforts. Regardless of cause, the explosive was detonated as you and Hux were boarding the shuttle. Hux had been thrown against one of the walls, sustaining a cut on one of his arms and significant bruising across his body. The droids were destroyed, but everyone else – even the team in the house – escaped with moderate injuries at worst. Except you. Hux buried his head in his hands. The back of the ship had crumpled with the force of the blast, and you had been caught beneath a piece of the metal frame. It had cut a deep gash up the length of one of your legs, breaking parts of the bone. Hux let out a shuddering breath, no longer able to keep himself sitting upright. He slid onto the floor, leaning against the cot. Mitaka almost stopped and called for a medic, but Hux demanded that he continue.

The rescue teams had pulled you from the wreckage as quickly as they could, but the blood loss had been severe. They rushed you to emergency surgery, where you had been ever since. No one had received an update for quite some time. Hux stared blankly at the floor, his mind painting horrifically vivid pictures of the scene. Almost without being conscious of doing so, his stomach began contracting and he threw up into a garbage receptacle that Mitaka had hurriedly retrieved. As he panted pathetically on the floor of the exam room, he wasn’t sure if he was dry heaving or sobbing or both.

He had been wrong when he woke up in the med bay. He desperately wanted to go back to the beginning. If it meant he hadn’t met you yet, hadn’t touched you, hadn’t kissed you, he could live with that. He would do everything again, a hundred times – a thousand times – if he needed to. He’d live in that cursed loop for the rest of his life if it would undo this. Anything but this. 

“General?” Mitaka finally asked again, now nearly on the verge of panic. “Please allow me to call a medic – you are very unwell.”

“I did this,” Hux whispered to no one, clenching his fists on the dark tile of the floor, letting the cold surface bite at his tensed knuckles. He had so many chances to do something differently – to make you leave. But he had been weak. Deep down, he hadn’t wanted you to go, had hated the idea of being parted from you – and you had suffered for it. 

“General, that’s—that’s not true,” confusion rattled in Mitaka’s voice, “you handled the situation well – no one could have anticipated this. In fact, the preliminary investigations are showing that the senator was the intended target of the attack – it’s not clear whether the perpetrators even knew there were First Order personnel in the area.” Mitaka’s words changed nothing. 

“I could have done better,” Hux muttered, digging his nails into his palms until he felt the familiar crescents of pain on his skin, “and this wouldn’t have happened.”

“General, I—” Mitaka’s words were cut off by the sound of the door whirring open.

“Lieutenant, may I speak with you?” An unfamiliar voice, likely that of a medic, drew Mitaka away from Hux’s huddled form. He was only too aware that he looked utterly pathetic, sprawled powerlessly across the floor. But even that thought was not enough for him to summon the energy to stand. 

Hux was conscious of the murmuring voices in the doorway, but he made no attempt to decipher them. His father was right: he was weak, he was a failure. He couldn’t even protect the one person in the galaxy that he truly cared for. That he truly loved. Hot tears leaked unbidden from his eyes. He was disgusted by them – disgusted by himself. He wanted to take a knife and cut himself open, to crawl out of his own skin. He deserved to be the one crushed under a pile of twisted metal; he would have given anything to take your place on the operating table, to take any pain you felt and multiply it by a hundred, absorbing it all into his own body even if – especially if – it broke him. Then maybe that would be just punishment for his failings. 

Mitaka reappeared beside him, looking significantly calmer. Hux couldn’t comprehend how that was possible when his whole world was in ten thousand jagged pieces, each one cutting him.

“General, that was the head medic,” Mitaka reported, “she says that the captain has come out of surgery and is still heavily sedated, but stable.”

Stable. Your condition was stable. More shuddering sobs broke through Hux’s body. Mitaka put an awkward hand on his shoulder, clearly trying to comfort him. If you were stable, Hux needed to be too. He pushed himself up into a sitting position.

“You may call a medic for me now, Lieutenant,” he told Mitaka, grasping for some semblance of authority in his tone. Mitaka let out a relieved breath.

“Yes, sir – thank you, sir.” He scampered quickly from the room. In the short moment that he was gone, Hux made the monumental effort to clamber back onto the cot. A general of the First Order couldn’t be found curled up on the floor like a frightened child. He needed to start thinking clearly again. He needed a new plan.

The door whizzed open again and Mitaka entered with another medic. She consulted her datapad and ran a series of tests. Hux complied with all her requests and answered each of her questions. She made efficient notes on all his responses. The head medic reentered and the two consulted briefly. The head medic then signed something on the datapad and spoke to Hux:

“Your vitals are looking mostly normal, General. I’ve cleared you for release to your quarters, but you will have required check-ins each cycle for the near future so that we can continue to monitor your condition. I’ve given Lieutenant Mitaka some painkillers for you. They will make you dizzy and tired, so I recommend waiting to take them until you reach your quarters. If you experience any new or worsening symptoms, contact us immediately.”

Hux nodded in acknowledgement and both medics left the room. Hux pushed himself from the cot, still feeling far from normal. Sensations were slowly coming back to him: a dull pounding behind his eyes, a lingering pain in his arm. Exhaustion was draining away every ounce of energy left in his body. He pictured you lying on a cot in the intensive wing, sedated, probably bristling with tubes and bacta patches. It should have been him.

“General, please allow me to accompany you back to your quarters,” Mitaka insisted, still looking a bit worried.

“Yes – fine, Lieutenant.” Hux no longer had it in him to resist.

The trip through the Finalizer’s hallways was long and painful. Hux found himself unable to maintain his usual brisk pace, his injuries making themselves more evident with every step. It was not an entirely unusual feeling, Hux thought ruefully. He recalled academy inspections where he was required to stand straight and unmoving while the bruises from his father were an aching, ugly purple just underneath the fabric of his uniform, making each breath an ordeal. Then there were the shifts after another locker room pummeling from the other cadets, their bladed laughter still ringing in his ears as each place where his thin frame had found a metal corner forced him to suppress a grimace when he moved. Pain had settled in Hux’s body at a young age, a tiresome yet predictable companion that he never seemed able to shake.

When he reached his door, Mitaka handed him the small box of capsules the head medic had promised. Hux took them before blearily entering his credentials and watching the door slide open.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay, sir?” Mitaka asked, worry still pulling at his features.

“I’ll be fine, Lieutenant. Thank you for your concern,” he replied wearily. He was about to enter his quarters when another thought occurred to him, and he turned to Mitaka again. “Not a word of what you witnessed to anyone else,” Hux demanded, trying to make his voice forceful, “not even to my other personal staff.” He had been a wreck – he knew that – and he had to try to contain the damage as much as possible. Even if there was other damage that he couldn’t mitigate, couldn’t undo. He was all too aware of that.

“Never, sir – you have my word.” It seemed that having witnessed his commanding officer in such a state had deeply affected Mitaka, as Hux was absolutely assured of his silence by the conviction in his words. He gave the lieutenant one last parting nod before he slipped into his quarters.

As soon as the door had whirred shut and locked, Hux fell back against it, sliding heavily to the floor. The container of painkillers slipped from his hand, and he kicked them away, sending them skidding across the smooth, dark floors. He couldn’t take them – he deserved to feel every ounce of pain in his body, every cut and abrasion and bruise. Even then it wouldn’t come close to what he knew you were experiencing.

He caught a little flash of color: the loth cat on his desk. Standing shakily, he moved toward it, picking it up and holding it delicately in his palm. He looked over the little purple flowers, the carefully carved legs and paws. He thought of you, a mess of crushed bone and metal. He caught himself on the edge of his desk, eyesight suddenly blurry from tears. He didn’t deserve this – he couldn’t touch anything that was beautiful without breaking it. Slowly pulling open the bottom desk drawer, he deposited the loth cat and your notes to him in the bottom. He could never destroy the things you had given him, but he also didn’t deserve to see them again. They were meant for someone else, someone good. 

Hux paced through his rooms, ending up on his bed, looking out the viewports into the ocean of stars beyond. It hadn’t taken him long to realize you were everywhere in his quarters. You were on the floor beside his desk, holding him while he fell apart in your arms; you were in his sleeping area, giving him tea and begging him to rest; you were at his table, laughing at something he said; you were on his couch, curled up against him and falling asleep in his embrace. And yet you weren’t. You were in the med bay, suffering because he had been too weak to protect you. You had been scared, had asked if you could stay with him, and it was because of him that you couldn’t be here. That you would never be in his quarters again. 

The realization was enough to steal the breath from his lungs. He had known it far down within himself, felt it like bone-deep ache of a childhood wound. He watched his tiny hand slip just beneath the surface of the waves, a dribble of blood from his nose landing in the water and dissolving in sickening swirls of red. The stone was still clutched in his fist, but he loosened his grip on it, watching the mesmerizing shine of it dance between his fingers one final time before he set it free. It tumbled in the frothy motion of the tide for a moment, winking happily at him before it disappeared into the dark grey depths of the water. He withdrew his empty hand.

Whatever he had felt the first time he had decided to set you free was nothing compared to this. He thought he had been in agony then, but now they would have to name a new, more excruciating type of pain just for him. He could have been locked in any torture cell in the galaxy, and it would have paled before what he was experiencing alone in his chambers. 

He had brought this upon himself – it was his penance and his punishment for his own weakness. If he had let you go the first time he resolved to do so, he wouldn’t have had to know. He had guessed at it, yes, and dreamed, but he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known the sunlight warmth of your touch, the golden sound of your laugh, the way you happily folded yourself into him, the way you kissed him with everything in you. The way you loved him. 

And now he knew. He had been foolish and weak and wouldn’t commit to what he always understood was better for you. He had given into the rush of the freefall, dragging you toward the ground with him until you had landed in a broken pile at his feet. He knew it was a consequence of letting you get too close to the wreck that was Armitage Hux – he was always going under and was bound to drown you in his wake. He had known this and had pulled you in anyway. So it was only fair that he had to know everything else. He deserved to be haunted by every smile, every touch, every memory. He deserved to live with the knowledge that he almost had everything, but that he had never been worthy to hold something so precious. 

Hux’s hands were weapons, and for the unforgivable crime of hurting you, they deserved to be forever empty. A tear fell into his open palm. When he looked out at the stars again, he found them smudged and blurry, a mess of light and darkness. With a shaky breath, he reached for his datapad.

Body wracked with silent sobs, he scrolled through a list of planets securely under First Order control. Planets that were far from him. He pulled up your personnel file, the sight of you in your identification image enough to make his heart seize in his chest. He could not be weak this time. With shaky fingers, he reassigned you, effective immediately upon your release by medical. He confirmed the reassignment, and when your file auto-refreshed, the system-generated message that appeared at the top punched a hole straight through his body: ‘requested personnel outside of jurisdictional control – no longer Finalizer crew member pending medical release.’ 

He had to close his eyes. He tried to calm his panicked breathing by telling himself that this was better. He would send you to a well-defended base. You could live in the sun and look at art and be happy, not be trapped in this black, feelingless hull with him. You could be safe. Maybe you’d even find someone who was far better for you than he was. The thought of seeing you laugh and smile for anyone else the way you did for him, the idea of anyone else touching you, holding you, kissing you, made him think he might throw up again, retching on his bed in spasms of anguished jealousy. He would have to live with that too, another punishment he deserved. He had relinquished any claim he had on you, the impersonal message at the top of your file had made that sickeningly official. He could only have you in the way that hurt the most: in the private knowledge that you were everything he had ever wanted, but could never have deserved.

He cast the datapad into the darkness, unable to stop his entire body from shaking. He dug around in the drawer of his bedside table, fishing for the hidden supply of sleeping pills that he rarely used. He almost regretted that he hadn’t stashed enough for a fatal dose. He swallowed them, waiting to fall into the oblivion of a dreamless sleep. As they began to take effect, he begged any power that would listen to let him go back to the beginning, to reset the clock again. He wished with all the energy left in his battered body that he would wake up in medical again, having just fainted from his injection. He would do everything better next time – he would let you go.