#the small black flowers that grow in the sky

[tremendouslighthottub]

Flowers

She tick—tick—tick—tick—ticks, my yellow crankbox, sparking, pushing life through her frayed fingers. I long sought and have now found a new place where the dead voices echo. The thinking machine does not speak, no, no, no— it only whirs and chirps, a rhythm of ghost sounds spilling out of its sides. I set five eyes— four eyes to the glow and never let them blink.

The brain is awake. It is made of history. It is not mine. It belonged to them, and belongs now to their souls, shapes stuck in black spots on the walkstones beyond this place. Many moons did I walk—drag—crawl—slither—skitter through palaces of steel and stone, through the hollow beetles of rubber and rust, through the piled mounds marking the graves of pleasure places. There was once a sound here, something that filled the spaces between, but now it is only whistling. Rain—stinking, dissolving, seeps into the bones of the ground and the tall places. I drink the ruin. My skin grows thick. I grow thick. Knuckles lift to free the dust from their dragging. I bloom like the flowers and crack like desert earth, here, beneath a place older than the gray. They were here. I know this. I have touched their tombs, felt the silence, sifted through trinkets left behind, the pretty radiant things that once framed their faces in shifting light. I place one in my mouth—it does not taste like them. Nothing ever has. I chew anyway, until it is gone, and I am still here, and they are still nowhere. Some say they tore it asunder, their world, their bed of many colors. I do not know. I cannot know. Did they break it with their hands? Their thoughts? Did they do it because the noise left, the spaces between turned too much? Was the green a cage and this gray a saw? Was their hunger too great for the sky to hold? It does not matter. Nothing matters in this gray, except the flowers.

They grow, here, in the cracks and crevasses of old order, in the wounds of fallen figures carved from stone, out of the graves of the historic dead. They grow because this severed world still breathes through black lungs, but it recalls the green, and it is not yet finished. I pick one. It is small, trembling, defiant. I place it on the brain. It will make the thinking machine stop crying.

— — — — —

For @picklemafia’s one-word poem challenge: Flowers. I rewrote my “meh” submission in a different style, got a little abstract with it, and left it weird. I like it better this way.

[iamtryingtobelieve]

Here chewing your tail is joy

[crusheswhimsandfancies]

This is the sort of story I’m here for!

There are two notable harpists who played with Sinatra according to google. I’m guessing it was Corky Hale who looks more of a “foxy fucking chick” to me

[bcksbarnes]

flowers in hand

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: unfortunately for bucky barnes, he is head over heels in love with you, and when you want something, it doesn't take much convincing.

word count: 3.6K cw: 🔞 some suggestive content (mdni)

a/n: based off of this request! lots and lots of fluff.

Bucky Barnes was an ex-brain washed assassin who had been broken down and beaten time and time again. He had seen horrors that would leave most people catatonic, he had done things that most people wouldn’t even dream of. This was not a man that wore his heart on his sleeve.

Stoic. Brooding. An absolute brute, to put it mildly.

But there was something that Bucky never wanted anyone to know. A secret he’d take to his grave and would deny if ever asked about it. 

What was this secret? Simple. 

Bucky was head over heels in love with you.

He knew it the second the two of you met. When you stretched out your hand and told him your name, he felt his knees buckle. When you asked him for his? A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. He was nervous . A reaction Bucky had never had before.

It sent him into a spiral for several days after the two of you met. Weeks, actually, if he was being honest. 

Everything after that had fallen into place pretty quickly. You had liked Bucky as soon as you met him and before you knew it months had passed, the two of you quickly found yourself in a budding romance that needed nothing but water and sunlight to grow. 

The hardest part of learning to fall in love again was that he was so taken aback by how his body and brain responded to you, it was a bit jarring. It was like his entire brain had awoken a part of himself that had been dormant for years. One yearning for love.

It showed in the way you would get home from work and your favorite flowers would be waiting on the kitchen table, powder blue hydrangeas, with a handwritten note alongside it. Bucky’s handwriting was a little scratchy and hard to make out, but you didn’t need to read it to know what it said:

Thinking of you always. - BB

Or when he took you on a joy ride on the back of his motorcycle, never wearing a helmet himself but making sure the straps were just right when he helped you get yours on. His hands would carefully click the buckle together, biting down on his bottom lip in concentration as he made sure it fit you perfectly.

He didn’t want you getting hurt, not on his watch.

That was it - his big secret. You had him wrapped around your finger. Something so mundane and, frankly, obvious.

Though you never went out of your way to use this knowledge to your advantage. Bucky always came running at the sound of your voice.

“Buck?” you called out one afternoon.

The sun was high in the sky, it was a beautiful day - maybe a little warmer than you liked, but the cool breeze offered some relief. 

You were sitting on the balcony reading a book in your favorite spot, overlooking the city that Bucky had loved so much, and that you’ve learned to love with him. It was different from the one he lived in all those decades ago, the apartment he had lived in as a child was small, cramped - to look out the window was to face a family he never knew, living their own lives.

Now, in this decade, the apartment was spacious, overwhelming, the view encompassing the bridge and the East River separating the two boroughs. 

A different life, a different time.

“Yeah?” he called back, the door to the balcony slightly ajar so you could both hear each other.

“Can you bring me my sunglasses?”

Bucky chuckled to himself at such a simple request. He was working on fixing some issues in the kitchen, a leaky faucet to be exact - the one that kept dripping. Bucky had a hard time falling asleep as it was, hearing the pitter patter in the middle of the night made him feel like he was going insane.

“Hold on, honey.” 

He was currently laying on his back under the sink, his shirt was discarded somewhere next to him and his black mesh shorts rode a bit lower on his hips than he had purposely intended. 

It only took him a few turns of his wrench to tighten the compression ring around the pipe in hopes that it would stop the leaking. 

“That should be it.”

A few moments passed as he placed the wrench down next to him. He held his breath, but Bucky, unfortunately, a second later felt another water droplet land on his forehead: unsuccessful.

“Shit,” he mumbles to himself before gripping the side of the counter and pulling himself out from under the cabinet. 

Bucky hated that this wasn’t working - honestly, he wanted to run to the store and grab some new PVC pipes and just fix the entire thing from scratch. But, your request ran through his head and he quickly pivoted his priorities as he stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Where’d you put them?” he calls, trying to look in the usual spots before finally stumbling on them. “Nevermind.”

You hear the door swing open, his footsteps alerting his presence but your attention stayed on the book in your lap, wanting to finish the page you were on.

“I couldn’t find them,” he says. 

When you finally finished the passage, you placed the bookmark in the between the pages, saving it for another time.

Your head turned to look up at Bucky, his metal arm glistening in the sun and your sunglasses sitting right on his face - that goofy smile of his plastered on his features as he waits for you to notice.

A loud chuckle passes your lips as you reach your hand out for them, shaking your head as he slides them off the bridge of his nose and into the palm of your hands. Once you grab them from him, you put the glasses on, the world dimming a bit, but Bucky still shines bright in front of you.

“Thank you,” you say softly, tilting your head back to admire his half dressed physique. You whistle lowly, causing Bucky to roll his eyes at you. “Were you working on the sink? Sorry, I didn’t even realize.”

“Yeah,” he responds, taking a step closer. 

Bucky gestures for you to move over and make room for him, groaning as he finally sits down. His arm rests on the back of the sectional while his fingers run through the hair on the back of your neck.

“I thought I’d be able to fix it by tightening it, but I think the pipe itself has a crack somewhere,” he huffs out, shaking his head. “I’ll have to go to the store later.”

You watch him carefully, your hand holding the book on your lap moving to rest on his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You could see the concentration in his face, the way his brows furrowed until there was a crease between them. He hated unfinished projects.

“You’re not going to rest until it’s fixed, are you?” you ask, though it’s a question you already know the answer to.

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head. “Why? Have something in mind for us today?”

“I thought maybe we could go to the park later” you hummed, your fingers tracing shapes into his skin. You tilt your head back to look at him, both of your eyes meeting. “They’re doing a movie night. Raiders of the Lost Ark, if I remember correctly.”

Bucky’s other leg bounced anxiously at the thought, it’s not that he didn’t want to go with you - it’s that he really wanted to fix this stupid sink. 

He peaked over at his watch, it was nearly 5:30pm. The store would be closing soon, he’d have to find the right parts then fix the sink, and shower at some point before he’d be ready to go. He didn’t know if he had time to do both the movie and finish this project.

His eyes trail back over towards you and he was greeted with the most beautiful pair he’d ever seen. Were you batting your eyelashes too?

“You play dirty,” Bucky mumbles.

He brings his metal hand up to your face, squeezing your cheeks softly as he leans in to press a few soft, chaste kisses to your lips. He mumbles something about how unfair it is, but you’re so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips you don’t even care what he says.

Bucky begins to stand from his seat, though he doesn’t remove himself from your lips, hunched over to make sure he stays closely connected to you. Your hands now resting on his abdomen as if to keep him in place.

“I have to shower,” he hums against your lips. “And if the movie sucks I’m coming home and ripping the sink apart.”

“You did not just say that Raiders of the Lost Ark is going to suck.” 

Bucky chuckles as he trails his lips down your jaw to your neck, giving it a few kisses and a quick bite before he pulls back completely, that same love stricken look on his face.

“I did. I mean it too,” he teases, backing up until he gets to the door of the balcony. 

“You’re going to be very upset when you’re wrong, Barnes,” you call out after him.

He gives you a quick wink before dipping back inside the apartment. 

You take one last look over the balcony, the cars that were passing over the bridge and the people walking on the streets below. All of them had their own little story. It makes you smile to yourself, thinking of this little life you had built with Bucky.

It kept you both going.

Finally standing, you stretched your arms over your head and grabbed your book before heading back inside the apartment. The cover made a soft thud as you set it down on the coffee table on your way over to the kitchen.

The sound of the shower trickling had your thoughts distracted, even as you began packing the tote bag. You tried to keep your focus on all the goods you wanted to bring and not your very naked boyfriend some 50 feet away from you behind one, probably not locked, door.

How easy it would be to slip in.

You shake your head and focus on the task at hand, packing the bag with: a blanket to sit on, two lime sparkling waters that Bucky had picked up a few days ago, and a mix of snacks to enjoy. The perfect picnic.

Right as you finished, you hear the door open and Bucky step out of the bathroom, the warm steam filling your apartment almost immediately. He looks striking with the towel draped around his hips, his almost freshly cut short hair now wet and combed back.

“You didn’t join me,” he teases, making his way past you and into the bedroom.

“I want to make the movie,” you say back, a smirk on your features. You knew well enough that if you took a step in that shower, Bucky would never let you leave.

The sound of shuffling comes from the other room as you can hear him looking through drawers and the closet for his clothes. Your feet walk you into the bedroom right as he slips his boxers on, a smile on his features as he catches your gaze.

He didn’t want to go out to the park and watch a movie. He didn’t even care about that stupid leak under the sink that he could still hear and was driving him up a wall. 

No, he wanted to stay here with you and show you all the ways he loved and adored you. He wanted to worship you with everything he’s got. 

His hand reaches out for you and he intertwines your fingers together before he pulls you towards him. You happily oblige.

“You’re still thinking about that damn leak aren’t you?” you whisper, your voice filled with jest.

“Every fucking second.”

The smile on his face is wide as he brings his hands up to your face and kisses your cheeks once, twice, three times, causing a soft laugh to leave your lips. In one fluid motion his hands are under your thighs and lifts you up, placing you on the dresser behind you.

He slots himself between your legs and watches you closely, your hands moving to grip his wrists.

“Let’s stay here,” Bucky pleads softly. “Let’s never leave this apartment ever again.”

“I’d love to never have to do that, but you know that’s impossible.”

“Hmm,” he hums. “Not with that attitude, sweetheart.”

He manages to get his hands free from your wrists, sliding them down to your hips and pulling you forward until your legs wrap around his waist, your heels resting on the back of his thighs. 

“Bucky,” you groan.

Your head falls back softly against the wall, in the same motion Bucky rests his head on your shoulder.

“Wishful thinking, huh?” he asks, a sigh leaving his lips afterwards. 

It’s not that he hated the power that you had over him, it was that he didn’t know how you managed to affect him so much. You didn’t even put up a fight with him and he folded, all because you said his name.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder before he untangled himself from you and moved to get dressed - a pair of black jeans, a t-shirt that was a little too tight around his muscles and a sweatshirt he knows you’re going to steal at some point. 

Finally ready to go.

It only took a few minutes to get to the park. You’re greeted by a sea of people, most of whom have already laid out their lounge chairs or blankets. The sun hadn’t set yet, casting a warm glow as you two found a spot a little bit away from the rest of the crowd. More secluded, but you two would still be able to see and hear the movie just fine.

Bucky helped set up the blanket, a long red gingham pattern one that he may have muttered a sarcastic comment about how cliche it was. You may have, lovingly, given him the finger in response. 

The movie started only a few minutes after you and Bucky set up the snacks and drinks. Both of you were laying on your sides, elbows planted on the blanket while hands kept your head off the ground. 

Bucky was very into the movie, barely sneaking glances over at you like he normally did whenever. It captured his attention almost immediately. You watched as he popped a grape into his mouth, his tired eyes trained on the screen in front of him as he absentmindedly chewed. 

It was calming to see him in this environment. You knew that deep down he would never 100% be present, that he always kept one part of his brain active to scan for any potential threats. But seeing Bucky in a state of, mostly, ease felt like finding a diamond in the rough. Rare, but valuable.

Halfway through the movie Bucky moves to sit up, stretching his arms over his head before holding his hand out to you. He always seemed to be reaching for you. Once your hand is in his, one swift motion is all it takes for him to pull you into his lap, nestling you between his legs, your back now resting against his chest. 

His hands move to run down your arm and he can feel the goosebumps rising against your skin.

“You’re cold,” he mumbles in your ear.

You want to protest that it’s just from his touch, but the words die in the back of your throat as soon as you feel him sit back from you. He pulls off his sweatshirt and hands it over, watching as you carefully slip on the oversized material. Bucky wraps his arms around your torso once you’re settled, pulling you back as close as he can before resting his chin on the top of your head.

“Much better.”

Your heart flutters, as it seems it always does when he acts this way. 

Cuddly. Soft. In love.

Bucky feels like his heart is bleeding out right through his shirt at this moment, you could tell him to do anything in front of this crowd of people and he would comply without hesitation. He didn’t even care.

Maybe that was the thing that kept him going in this life. The little pieces of calm he can get when you are around. When the tides don’t feel as strong.

He didn’t want to think about it, he wanted to enjoy himself: your presence, and the movie.

It’s a little while later when the movie finally finished, you craned your head back to look up at him, a smirk on your lips. He was staring ahead at the now blank screen, jaw slightly dropped. 

“I thought you said the movie was going to suck,” you teased.”

“I didn’t know I was coming to see a cinematic masterpiece.” 

You let out a laugh, and then another one as Bucky squeezes your sides as his response, falling back over his thigh as you wriggle to try and get away from his wandering, playful hans. 

God, he wished you weren’t in public right now.

“And here you wanted to stay at home to fix that stupid sink.”

“No, I wanted to stay home so I could –”

“ Bucky ,” you cut him off before he can finish that thought, watching as a family walks past.

He lets out a scoff that sounds more like a laugh and pinches your side again as you start to stand up from his lap. Bucky admires you from this angle, the way that you towered over him was so jarring compared to how small you normally were when he stood next to you.

“I was going to say so I could take care of you , but if you were worried I was going to say something more vulgar than you need to get your mind out of the gutter, sweetheart.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

Bucky’s smile reaches his eyes this time as he throws his head back and lets out a laugh. You were so right and he loved being called out on it, because he loved how well you knew him.

He stands to help you pack the tote bag again, throwing it over his shoulder when it’s done. You grab his metal hand and intertwine your fingers together as you make your way back to the apartment. 

The city was dark now, only illuminated by street lamps and a few fluorescent signs. Surprisingly the neighborhood was mostly empty, you and Bucky seeming to take up most of the sidewalk and filling the silence with your chit chat about the movie.

Bucky was blown away by the story, the action … well the whole thing. 

You were biting back your tongue to not say I told you so .

“You always get your way, you know that?” he says once you're in the lobby waiting for the elevator. “I don’t think I’m capable of saying no to you if I really tried.”

“That’s not true,” you respond.

Though if you take a second to think about it, he’s probably right.

The elevator dings its arrival and dips slightly from the weight of the two of you as you step on. You press the button for your floor a few times before turning your attention back to Bucky. He’s standing right next to you, his hand slipping out of yours to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. Your head leans to rest against him, it always fits perfectly.

“It’s a little true,” he says with a shrug. “I’m not complaining.”

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“I’ve never had anyone to care about. Not in this way at least.”

“You cared about Steve.”

“That’s different,” he sighs. “I made sure Steve stayed alive. I didn’t dote over him. I look at you and I’d drop everything just to see that damn smile on your face.”

The blush developed on your cheeks at record speed, a smile accompanying it that was hard to hold back. Sometimes Bucky had a way with words that took your breath away. He could be deeply poetic. It made you wonder what he thought of in that brain of his. 

“There it is,” he whispers, his gaze flickering down to your lips.

The ding of the elevator snaps the moment back into reality, but that doesn’t deter Bucky in the slightest. 

No, instead he follows you down the hall and into the apartment, waiting for the door to shut before he picks you up from behind and walks you to the bedroom to toss you on the bed - the sound of your giggles filling the air.

The second you hit the mattress, and he crawls on top of you, your hands grab his face bringing him down to kiss him feverishly. It’s rushed and messy, tongues sweeping across lips, teeth biting and pulling. 

You don’t need to tell him you need him for Bucky to know it, he can read you like an open book. 

As he kisses down your jaw – his stubble scratching your soft skin, hands moving to slide your shirt up, ready to spend the night devouring you – all he can think about is how his love for you is the worst kept secret in the world. And not about the stupid leaky faucet.

[sexy-monster-fucker]

Burgeon

Logan Howlett x Reader Sex Pollen

Summary: Reader works in the science lab at the mutant academy. Trying to grow a new plant from a mutated seed they had found. When the bloom puffs a cloud into her and Logan’s face they both begin feeling strange.

CW: oral m!receiving, oral f!receiving, biting, p in v, creampie

a/n: sorry this took so long to write I was depressed :D also surprise its today

~~~

You rested your head on your hands as you watched the plant in front of you slowly yet rapidly bloom a gorgeous, wine red bud. The way the flower held itself closed mesmerized you. How small bumps decorated the stem and the leaves along it were a dark purple color.

Logan, a.k.a. The Wolverine stood next to you. Piddling with one of the enclosed flora that was under surveillance. Not all that interested in the details of your work, but enjoying spending time with you. Especially when the big blue fur ball was not around to distract you. Dusk was approaching as it shined through the greenhouse windows. A beautiful color painted the sky as the darkness of the night approached.

“Oh, Logan! Look the bud is about to bloom!” You wrapped your arm around his pulling him over to you. He groaned as you pulled him over to you. You watched closely as the petals fought each other to release. Taking their sweet time to reveal the beauty within.

“Sure is taking its time,” Logan huffed, eyes fixated on you now. Loving how happy you looked awaiting the new flowers arrival.

The petals dispersed. Revealing the most beautiful black center of the flower. A large cloud of purple dust coming out with it. Before you could say anything, you and Logan both inhaled the fumes. Covering your mouth and coughing aggressively as the pollen stuck to the inside of your mouth. You wide eyed the plant, shocked at what came out of it.

“What the hell— that thing isn’t poisonous is it?!”

“I… I don’t really know,” you meekly whispered.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean we found this thing, noticed it was displaying some irregular behavior for a seedling of its type. And we decided to monitor it. I didn’t know it was going to cough up smoke at us!”

Logan stamped his foot. Frustrated by the lack of caring on your part. Pacing in a small circle next to you with the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“Okay! We just have to stay here for the next 48 hours. Keep us under supervision just in case we feel any side effects. We go about our days like normal, just can’t leave the Academy,” you rubbed your hand up and down your arm. Logan irritably took a seat, head down with his hands folded over his lap. You grabbed the pod and placed it in a holding chamber all of its own. Walking over and kneeling down in front of Logan.

“I’m sorry. If I had known—“ you reached your hand out to rest it on Logan’s leg.

“You don’t have to be sorry. We can forget all about it at the party tonight. Celebrating whatever the hell Charles was on about,” Logan grinned at you.

You smiled, “I’ll celebrate anything if it means free drinks.”

Logan left the greenhouse while you finished up cleaning and double checking everything. A sudden hot flash washed over your body. Pulling a sweat from every inch of you. You fanned your hand in front of your face, your clothes feeling oddly tight suddenly. Maybe someone turned the heat up in the greenhouse. You walked over to check the thermostat. Nothing about the number had changed. As long as it was reading right you were comfortable leaving it be.

Walking up to your room. Heat engulfed you, a minor ache on your body now approaching. Choosing to ignore the problem entirely. Changing into something more comfortable for the evening ahead. Looking at yourself in the mirror when a sudden, promiscuous image flashed in your mind.

Logan.

Behind you. Both of you completely nude as he pounded into you. Watching yourself take him in the mirror. His hands splayed out on your chest, lips on your neck.

Your face flushed with your arousal. Unable to fight the feeling forming deep down inside you. Aching at your core. Leaning over your bed as you writhed.

The feeling of his hands grabbing your hips. Buried completely inside you. Your back arching to meet his thrusts. Head thrown back in pure ecstasy.

You gasped at the thought. Unsure of what was happening to you. Uncontrollably desire was taking over your body. Your hand found your aching core in an attempt to cool yourself down. Scrunching up your face at the feeling. It felt good, but not right. It was not what you needed. You needed him.

Your face was completely flushed with thoughts of Logan. Trying your hardest to make it less noticeable before going downstairs.

“Just stop,” you told yourself.

Heading down to the common area where all your fellow teachers had gathered. An adults only party, all the students were off away. You smiled as you greeted your fellow mutants. Getting stopped by Hank. His warm smile and soft eyes pulling your attention to him.

“Hi, Hank,” you smiled as you walked over to him.

“Hello, beautiful,” Hank grinned, fangs decorating his bright white smile. You thought about how his teeth would feel against your neck. Blushing at the idea of the large monster on top of you. Your thoughts suddenly morphing to fit Logan into your fantasy. Fangs nipping at your skin as strong hands held yours above your head. Panting as he thrusted into you. Sweat dripping down his forehead.

“Everything going good with that mysterious plant of yours?” Hank questioned, breaking your fantasy.

“Uh— Yeah, kinda. It bloomed today but some purple pollen came out it. Not sure if that’ll have any effect on me,” you droned off as you saw Logan enter the room. Completely fixated on him now. Seeing his bulging muscles revealed by his tank top. His broad shoulders and strong brow bone indicating he was some form of frustrated. His eyes finally caught yours. Awkwardly you turned back to focus on Hank as you continued on about the beauty of the mysterious flower. Unable to keep Logan in your peripheral. Excusing yourself from the conversation. Walking into a corner so you could scan the entire room. Unable to spot Logan anywhere.

Muscular arms wrapped around your waist. Almost calming the burn trickling down your nervous system. Nose finding its place in the crook of your neck, taking a deep inhale. Your hands meeting those around you, feeling the veins popping out. Smell of musk and cologne overwhelming your senses.

A silent feeling that he understood exactly what you were going through.

“Smells so good,” his gruff, low voice rang in your ear. Your head leaning back against his shoulder, eyes straining to look at him. Black eyes stared at you. Pulling you flush against him, his semi-hard cock pressed into you. Chills ran up you. Rolling your hips to grind against him. A low groan, almost a growl, vibrated against your ear.

Hands inched down closer to the place you ached most. Fingers grazing the sweet spot causing you to arch backwards slightly. Circling your mound as his eyes scanned the room.

“Everyone is in here,” you whispered, a soft moan on your tone.

“I know,” he grumbled, kissing below your ear.

Both of you silently enjoyed the feeling of your bodies pressed together for a moment. How perfectly your body melted to his front. How the smell of him sent goosebumps down your body. The sound of his breathing in your ear pooling inside you.

“Saw you over there with furrball. He not tickling your fancy tonight?” Logan’s fingers dug into your skin, a hint of jealousy on his tone.

“No,” you simply said.

“Haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” Logan groaned into your ear, “I could smell you from my fucking room. Need to rip these clothes off and get inside you right now.”

You choked on air. Realizing Logan was having the same feelings you were. Unsatisfiable desire.

“Didn’t matter how fucking good my hand felt, wasn’t right. It wasn’t you,” he purred. His fingers danced along the line of your pants, daring to dip under your clothes. Feeling your pantyline against his fingers, the softness of the lace continuing his desire. Your hand met his, intertwining fingers with him. Looking over your shoulder to meet his gaze. Lust blown eyes stared into yours. He plotted an escape route to make sure none of your coworkers watched you slip away together. Grabbing your hand and dragging you behind him.

His touch tingled against your skin. Your sensitive body being thrown into overdrive as you headed down the hallway together. Pulling you into a stairwell and turning to face you. His entire face was red, sweat beaming down his brow. You blushed. Eyes locked together, blown pupils matching each other.

“Dunno if I can wait much longer,” Logan growled as he palmed at himself through his jeans. You fell to your knees instinctively. Tugging at his belt, pulling a deep sigh from him. Releasing his fully erect cock from its confides. It sprung up, tip swollen and leaking. A thick vein wrapped around the underside. You felt your pussy clench around nothing, your mouth salivating at the sight of him. Doed eyes stared up at him, your hand grasping around his member. Lips pressing against the tip in a kiss. Logan moaned at your touch. His fingers tangled in your hair as he guided you down on him. Choking around his girth.

“That’s it,” Logan praised as he lead you up and down on his cock. Hollowing out your cheeks to take him all the way. Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, fighting off your urge to gag. Feeling him twitch in your mouth, knowing it would not take long for you to get him there.

Logan’s eyes squinted shut as he finished in your mouth. A grunt as he held you in place. “It’s not enough,” he moaned. Eyebrows knitted together as he looked down at you. Reaching a hand down to help you up, “I need to be inside you.”

His words melted into your core. Igniting a primal feeling in you. You wrapped your hand around Logan’s leading him up the stairs.

“My room’s closer,” you answered the question you knew he was silently asking himself. A grin painted his face as he watched your ass bounce going up the stairs.

Hurriedly typing your code to access your room. Logan’s fingers rubbed circles on your core through your clothes. You arched your back into him, feeling his still completely erect dick. “‘M gonna fuck you so good, doll,” Logan purred in your ear pulling at the button on your pants. You bit your lip finally getting the door open. Logan practically shoved you inside.

Attaching his lips to yours immediately, hands cupping both sides of your face. His tongue penetrating your mouth as your teeth clinked together. You hooked your fingers under his tank top, pulling it over his head. His hairy, muscular chest was completely drenched in sweat. His lips attached onto your neck, tongue coming out to lick a stripe up your sensitive skin. “What’s going on with us?” Logan asked against your skin.

“I’dunno,” you moaned when his teeth grazed a spot you liked, “I just want you.” He smiled at your response.

Logan pushed you onto your back on the bed. Ripping your pants and panties off you. A gasp fell from you. “You’ve got plenty more,” he growled as he kneeled at the side of your bed. Pulling you so that he was directly in front of your core. Soaking the blanket underneath you as arousal took over every sense you had. Logan chuckled as he lapped at your core, “Tastes so good.” You arched your back off the bed at the sudden contact. Pushing yourself closer into his mouth. Furrowing your brows because — GOD — he felt good, but it just was not enough to cool the fire inside you. Grinding yourself against his face trying your damndest to reach your high. Logan latched onto you like an animal devouring his last meal. Fingers digging into your thighs, bruising the soft skin there. Hooded eyes stared up at your face admiring how you scrunched up your nose and hung your mouth open. The soft moans and squeaks pouring from your mouth like music to his ears. He rolled his hips into the side of the mattress, desperate to fuck you. But more desperate to get you off first.

Your nails dug into the soft blanket below you. Riding his tongue through your orgasm. Body jolting and legs shaking. His name a scream on your lips. Logan pulled away, his face soaked in your juices. Dropping his pants to the floor. He stroked himself as he stared at your entrance. Your body still basking in the afterglow of orgasm. Logan pounced on top of you. Gently removing your top, lips finding their place on your exposed breasts. Biting through the fabric of your bra to play with your nipples. Licking and sucking the thin material. His hand pinched at the opposite one. Lips dancing up your neck, biting at your jaw.

Rolling his exposed cock into your soaked entrance. The first bit of relief you had felt all day. A shaky moan escaping you. Logan smirked above you, leaning his head back feeling how your body begged for him. Sliding his member through your slit, collecting all your wetness on him. “My pretty girl,” he praised, “I’m gonna fill you up to the goddamn hilt.”

Easing his way into you. Your walls practically pulling him in. Both of you moaned in harmony, throwing your heads back. “That’s more like it,” he cooed. Easy himself back before slamming back in. Setting himself at a brutal pace. The sound of skin smacking together filled the room. He panted above you, keeping his eyes locked on yours.

You leaned forward to catch him in a kiss, Logan’s body slouching so that your front were pressed firmly together. Curving his arms under you, holding you tight as he fucked into you. A huff of breath falling from him with each snap of hips. He held you close, lips pressed against your neck. An occasional kiss being planted there. “You take cock so well. I’m gonna fuck you stupid,” he growled against your skin.

You clawed at his back. Desperate to hold him closer. Scratching down his body, pulling a moan from him. His pace was growing sloppy as he approached his own high. Your pussy still sensitive from your own. Walls clenching when he’d hit deep inside you. “Gonna be so full of me aren’t you? Little cum slut,” Logan grunted with each of his thrusts.

Logan attached his lips back to yours desperately panting and moaning as he felt himself about to finish. Sheathing himself fully inside you as he shot his seed. The feeling of him soothed the burn you had been feeling. Relieved by how perfectly he filled you up. You felt him grin against your skin, slumping all his body weight into you momentarily.

“Could stay like this all night,” he whispered in your ear. You petted his back, kissing him on the cheek.

“Yeah?”

“That way I can already be inside you when I feel like I gotta soothe the feeling again,” Logan playfully bit at your cheek.

~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! I know this fic has been a long time coming so I hope it was a great read! I plan on writing quite a lot for the month of October, so if you have any requests send them my way! My next Logan fic is gonna be a Werewolf!AU //

{tags}

@toogaytofunctiondangit ~ @goodness-gracious13 ~ @figsnpassionfruits ~ @gretavankleep37 ~ @shinysam29 ~ @sunnyfranc ~ @savy-luvs-dilfs ~ @ayamenimthiriel ~ @megangovier ~ @its-in-the-woods ~ @father-of-2cats ~ @atthediscowithoutpanic ~

[solarhysm]

DUST OF US - 01

> synopsis: 7 years ago Y/N broke Jungkook’s heart when she decided to end their relationship without an explanation. When they meet again at a friend's wedding, after almost a decade, Jungkook needs answers to move on.

> pairing: Jungkook x reader

> genre: romance, ex to lovers au

> warnings: explicit languages, violence, smut, cheating, nsfw, angst, +18 minors dni !!

> word count: 2.6k

*french writer, i apologize in advance for my awful english!

AGE: 27 years old

“Where are you going?” Baekhyun asks, stretching as you get out of bed and grab all of your clothes. It was late but you hate sleeping in another bed than yours.

“I should go home.” You simply say, pulling on your panties and jeans as the younger man whines, flipping on his back.

“Oh, come on, Y/N, stay the night.” He suggests as you shake your head with an apologetic smile while putting your bra on.

“Hyesun is getting married, tomorrow. I need to get up early,” You explain, but it was an excuse. You don’t want to be more than intimate enough with anyone.

Once fully clothed, you grab your keys and turn to look at the man still laying completely naked in bed. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Aight, boss,” He teases making you roll your eyes. “One last kiss?”

“Bye,” You smile closing the door of his room, hearing him laugh before making your way out of his apartment.

Once in your car, you sigh, leaning on your seat as you stare at the ceiling. Eleven pm already, and tomorrow’s list kept growing in your mind.

Your way home was silent, you didn’t even put music on, mentally listing all the tasks to do tomorrow morning. Drive Hyesun to the hairstylist, make sure that the flowers are delivered, get her dress, and a lot more.

The house should already be decorated by now. Hyesun was getting married at her in-law’s house. They have a big yard and suggested to make the reception in there. Since you couldn’t be here to help today, you ended up with the stressful tasks tomorrow. Her friends aren’t yours.

Yes, you still have a small circle of friends in common, but Hyesun was a sunshine and most of all: an extrovert. She met her husband by boldly asking his number at a coffee shop where he was working, five years ago. Something you could never. That’s probably why you’re still single and she’s getting married.

Kicking your shoes off at your front door, you’re greeted by your cat. He was a little terror. Or a demon like Namjoon loves to call him. And you can’t blame your friend. Not only was Trash a black cat with only one ear, the other got cut off. You don’t know how.

He was already like that when you adopted him. He was skinny and really ugly when you first got him. Well... he’s still ugly, but now he’s well-fed, maybe too much, you chuckle as you kneel to scratch the top of his head. But he was also a tiny demon who attacked everyone who dared to visit you.

“Did you miss me?” You coo as the black cat let out a meow husky enough to let you think that he smokes too many cigarettes. He’s not a loud cat, he occasionally meows when he’s hungry or when you come home after a long day.

As you make your way to the kitchen, the fat cat follows you. Opening the fridge, you take out a bottle of water and gives him a treat. Your eyes fall on the dress you’ll wear tomorrow, hanged at the bedroom door.

The wedding theme was midnight sky. So, obviously, your dress is navy blue and long enough to end at your ankles with a slit on the right side. You didn’t choose it, Hyesun did.

Palming your face, you take a sip of your water and walk to your bedroom. You need a shower. You could still smell Baekhyun’s cheap cologne on your skin. And you hate it. Too used to your own scent. Not of any men anymore.

The wedding was beautiful, but you didn’t expect less from your best friend. And she was gorgeous in her wedding dress. She smiles a lot, but you never see her smile that way. And all you could think was that her jaw muscles probably hurt after four hours.

“No, what I want, is a whole butterfly starting from my shoulders to my ribs,” Your friend, Hwan explains to you as she flips to show her bare back. You can’t help but scoff, taking a sip of your wine.

“Why? You want to become a fairy or something?” You ask arching a brow as she turns to face you, frowning.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Hwan pouts, folding her arms under her chest, “I saw it on Pinterest, I totally fell in love with it.”

“A tattoo is for life, you know?” You sigh, finishing your glass before tilting your head to brush your fingers on her back, right where her ribs are. “And this part is sensitive. It’ll hurt like hell.”

Hwan shivers at your touch, and you chuckle. You know her. She wants a tattoo today, a piercing tomorrow and in two weeks she’ll regret both. The red head -a dye she did without a second thought- rolls her eyes.

“And you think I can’t handle the pain?” She asks with an attitude, a tone that makes you pinch her forearm as she squirms and step back. “Are you crazy?”

“You can’t handle the pain, Hwan.” You conclude while she rubs the part that start to turn red.

“You’re the worst tattoo artist I know. I’ll give you a bad review on Google.” She groans as you smirk and stick your tongue’s out at her, making her smile amused by you.

Your eyes scan the room full of guests you don’t know before a huge smile spread on your lips as you notice the man all alone. He was sipping his glass of whisky as he looks at his phone, feigning to be interested but he’s probably scrolling emptily. You know him. He hates when people try to connect with him.

Excusing yourself from Hwan and the other girls, you make your way to your friend, too busy on his phone to see you coming.

“Yoongs,” You call him once you’re a few steps closer to him, he lifts his cat eyes from his screen before offering you a slight smirk and opening his arms as you nestle against his chest. You’re not really touchy, but with Yoongi, it was different.

“Nice dress.” He simply says, his nose in your hair before you pull back to look at him. He looks nice too. His hair is longer, but it suits him.

“You didn’t cut your hair?” You ask as he sighs, rolling a strand between his finger as you keep an arm around his waist.

“Didn’t have the time for it.”, He mumbles taking another sip of his whisky. “I didn’t know you would be here. Since you own a tattoo shop, we don’t see you often anymore.”

“It’s my best friend’s wedding, I couldn’t miss it. She would have dragged my ass back here.” you chuckle making him smile and nod.

“That sounds like Hyesun,” He jokes as you smile.

Yoongi wasn’t that tall, but he was still everyone’s type. Calm, mysterious, and good looking. If only dating was on his plans. That guy will probably stay single his whole life, too focused on his work.

“I was looking for you everywhere!” Hyesun groans grabbing your arm.

“I was here,” You simply reply, raising your shoulders, making Yoongi looks at you both amused. You probably get along because you’re both sarcastic. At least you know that’s something he likes about you.

“Thanks Sherlock, Mystery solved!” She rolls her eyes, before pulling you away from your friend, “Come on, follow me, I want to take pictures with you.”

She quickly waves at Yoongi, blowing a kiss at him as he didn’t move before pushing you away.

“He’s like a good old wine. Every time I see him, he’s getting hotter.” She smirks as you make your way to the photographer.

“Aren’t you married?” You joke making her roll her eyes.

“Married, not blind. As long as I touch with my eyes,” She adds as you shake your head, laughing, joining the girls.

Yoongi leaves his empty glass on the table next to him, an amused smirk on his face. If you stayed longer, he would have been part of an interesting reunion.

“Shit, I almost peed myself. There is a whole queue at the male bathroom,” The younger man groans, coming back next to Yoongi as he takes back his beer. “Hyung?”

The older man turns to his friend and arches a brow to show that he’s listening.

“Hyesun told me that there was a private bathroom upstairs for the closest friends” Yoongi simply mumbles, making Jungkook groans as he ties his hair into a bun.

“And you tell me only now?” the tattooed man sighs as he pulls up his sleeves, the temperature of the room getting hotter. Or maybe it’s him from running here and there.

“You left without a word,” Yoongi shrugs like it was obvious, his eyes still on the group of girls making funny faces at the camera. Jungkook lets out a chuckle.

“Which one?” He asks his friend who simply arches a brow. “I’m sure it’s the red head. You always had a think for girls with weird hair colors.”

Yoongi didn’t say anything. He’s used to the teasing. It’s a loss of energy, Jungkook was competitive and if you say that the sky was blue, he would tell otherwise until you tell him he's right.

Jungkook smiles proudly, turning his attention to the bunch of girls. Hyesun had pretty friends, but he’s not surprised. Until he recognized a face. A face he knows too well, a face he loved deeply once upon a time.

You didn’t change. Well… Your hair is shorter. You never liked your hair short, not after your mother spent your childhood cutting it into a bob.

The bangs too. You hated them. But today, you wore it gracefully. His doe eyes trail the length of it, how it brushes your shoulders when you laugh, how you have to push your bang asides.

He never hated you. Even after you broke his heart. Even after coming home to an empty apartment because you disappeared, or when you blocked his number and changed yours. He never hated you.

“You said she wasn’t here.” He frowns, turning to Yoongi who simply arches a brow.

“She wasn’t supposed to.” Yoongi replies, taking a sip of his new glass.

“I shouldn’t have come.” Jungkook sighs, his brows still in a frown creating a slight wrinkle between them.

“Kookie,” Yoongi turns his gaze to his friend who’s clearly uncomfortable. “You’re back in town. You both have the same friends group. What did you expect? You’ll have to confront her one day or another.”

“Y/N,” Hwan calls you as you were taking another glass of wine, facing her with a small hm? “The guy you talked earlier,”

“Yoongi?”

“Yeah, something like that. Do you know his friend?” She asks as you follow her gaze to the large man next to Yoongi, his back facing you. You liked the tattoos, and the muscular frame. The long hair was clearly a bonus.

“No,” You reply, your eyes trailing on Yoongi’s friend. You’ll definitely ask Yoongi who that is later.

“He’s hot,” Hwan comments as you nod, taking a sip of your wine before spitting everything out. You cough when the mysterious man turns around, laughing with your friend.

And almost immediately, you hide behind the table that separates you. Was this a joke?

“What’s wrong? One of your one-night stands?” Hwan chuckles clearly amused to see you, on your knees, trying to hide under the table. If only you could be sucked up by the floor. It was stupid. It was an old story. It’s been seven years since you dumped him like an old, forgotten sock.

“It’s my ex,” You almost whisper, making Hwan wide her eyes and hide with you like she even met him before.

You never thought that you’ll see him again. He disappeared for Japan right after your breakup for his studies. And you didn’t think about him since then. Well, it’s a lie.

You thought about him the three first years after your split. But, he was just some old memories from the shoebox under your bed. 

Some love letters written by a teenage boy, an empty bottle of perfume and a shirt of his that you didn’t have the heart to throw. But that’s all he was. A shoebox of memories.

“Oh damn,” Hwan murmurs, “How did you get that hot piece of man?” She asks as you roll your eyes.

He wasn’t that hot when you started dating him. He had a chestnut haircut, was too skinny even if he was the sporty type, and huge doe eyes. Now he’s…. a man.

“I think… I need to get out”, You swallow, get up and finish your glass. Walking to the backyard, you catch a bottle on your way.

Thankfully, Hwan didn’t follow you. A few persons were outside, some of them making out, the others too drunk, and probably getting some fresh air like you.

Did Hyesun invite him? Why did he come? He knows that she’s your friend. That you’d be here. Palming your face, you lean back against the wall, taking a sip of your bottle of champagne. Fuck… This is childish. You’re twenty-seven, for God’s sake. Act like an adult.

“Hiding?” You heard on your right, making you almost jump.

And here he was, a few meters away, a bottle of beer in hand. His eyes changed. He grew up.

“Good evening, Jungkook,” You breathe as he offers you a slight smile, his lips mostly forming a line.

“Good evening, Y/N,” He replies, making a few steps closer, “Long time no see.”

“Yeah...”

A silence falls between you before he takes a breath like he wants to calm his nerves too. Were you two nervous around each other?

“How… have you been?” He asks with a soft voice.

“Good. You?”

“Good.”

“Nice.”

You wanted to punch yourself. That conversation was stupid. Back then, you two could debate about everything for hours. Now, you can’t even have a basic conversation.

“I… Didn’t know you were back.” You say, looking at the grass at your feet.

“Yeah… I- I missed Korea.” He raises his shoulders slightly before taking a sip of his beer.

“Oh…Okay.” You scrunch your nose and take a sip of your bottle to not look too much stupid but his lips crease in an amused smile at the bottle in your hand. Neither of you says anything. And it’s weird. “That’s… some cool tattoos,” You add, trying to make the conversation as you point his entire inked sleeve with your chin.

“Yeah?” He chuckles awkwardly. “I always wanted tattoos.”

“I know.” You reply, almost immediately, making him lift his gaze to you as your eyes widen. “You- hm- You thought that Yakuza were cool.” you continue as he nods, his eyes still on you while you look away.

“You remembered.”

You clench your jaw slightly and take another sip of champagne. You hate champagne, but you didn’t read what was written on the bottle when you took it.

“Your father must be proud of you. I heard you had your own tattoo shop.” He says as your gaze soften. Jungkook and your dad were always close, he even called him ‘son’. Your father was in fact, proud of you.

“He is”, was all you could reply, and he nods silently before taking a deep breath.

“Can I… ask you a question? I need to understand something” He frowns a little, turning his head to look at the backyard before finally glancing back at you. He is waiting for you to answer and you simply stare at him. “Why did you leave me, Y/N?”

< previous - MASTERLIST - next >

WATTPAD.

buy me a coffee<3 (every chapters/drabbles are posted as soon as i'm done writing them.)

[krys4h]

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄 ☆

summary◞﹒୧ After growing up together and dating as teenagers, you and Sae meet again three years after your breakup at your art exhibition. Why is he there? Incomprehension and painful romantic memories will arise, buried since he broke your heart.

contents◞﹒୧  16.6k words, pov second person, fem!reader, aged up characters, forced proximity, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst, reader is a painter, no use of y/n (use ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚) second chance, happens in madrid, madrid trip, chigiri's sister is our bestie, we are close with rin, rin is a softie, itoshi brothers angst, meanie sae, sae has problems with feelings, tried to do the best characterization possible, smut, fingering, oral sex, slight choking, riding, missionary, vaginal sex, porn with feelings, english isn't my first language, alcohol, slow burnish, wedding, parties, art gallery, happy ending, minors dni.

────୨ৎ────

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 – 𝐣𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐤𝐨

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

𖥸

The sun high in the sky and the blue sky announced a promising day. The light breeze of fresh air accompanied by the warm weather made you hope for a good number of visitors to your exhibition. It was with this positive mindset that you left your studio to go to your art gallery which hosted your project.

With a lot of preparations in advance, you had managed to make the room welcoming and warm, making sure to respect your artistic direction. Pale blue flowers, almost icy silver for the winter collection aisle, and bright and vibrant flowers in the spring and summer aisle. Since your entire exhibition had the seasons as a theme, it was important for you to follow your artistic ideas.

The opening was in less than an hour, you still had time to check a few small technical things. Your hand gently caressed the soft fabric on the tables serving as a mini buffet. The caterer in charge of bringing drinks and pastries had arrived early despite the traffic jams and you smelled the sweet and vanilla scent that escaped from the small pastries. Luck seemed to be smiling to you today.

You were eyeing the mini pink cupcakes when a female voice broke the soothing silence of the empty event room.

"It's so pretty!" exclaimed your best friend, contemplating the room with stars in her eyes, spinning around to observe the room in its entirety. You giggled softly, amused and touched by her enthusiasm. Her pink hair cascaded down her back and her smile lit up her face, her beauty striking you in the most innocuous moments.

"Wait, you haven't seen the rest of the show yet," you teased her, taking a small black remote control out of your pocket. In a few seconds and quick manipulations, the room was plunged into a subdued atmosphere, the brightness reduced. The only bright spots of light were small round spotlights of different colors that danced on the parquet floor. A purple glow passed over your face as you smiled at her.

“You really put your best foot forward, I’m sure a lot of people will come,” she declared with conviction as she sat down on one of the few chairs. Aside from your ex-boyfriend, your best friend was the only one in your circle who supported you so much. You had always been labeled as the eccentric of the family, and you spent too much time painting to socialize at school. She was a pillar, and you were grateful for all the encouragement she showed you.

“I even wanted to bring my brother, but I guess he’s too busy with soccer, he didn’t even answer me.” her thoughtfulness touches you a little, and you dismissed her idea with a smile.

“I doubt Chigiri would be interested in my amateur art exhibition...” you chuckled, arranging a few paintings around you.

“You don’t know, my brother is an intellectual, I’m sure he knows a lot of your references!” she looked convinced, so you believed her. “He’s the only athlete I see walking around here naturally, anyway. The others don’t seem to have the soul of an artist.”

Your hands on the wood of the frame froze. You knew someone who didn't need to know anything about art to always admire your creations, and even compliment them. He was pretty much ignorant about anything that didn't involve soccer, but when it came to you, he was attentive. Until he wasn't.

"Maybe..." You answered her in a less cheerful voice than before, suddenly pensive.

You had met Chigiri's older sister at a bar, shortly after you broke up with Sae. It was so surreal and ironic to meet the sister of another popular soccer player after having left one that you had quickly become great friends, the anecdote still making you laugh today. It was now three years ago.

Three years was more than enough time to recover from a breakup, so you shook your head, quickly repressing painful memories that would ruin such a beautiful day that had started. Last you heard, Sae was in Spain busy chasing his dreams, you couldn’t be the idiot who preferred to play nostalgic instead of doing the same thing as him.

As if to taunt you, your eyes land on the painting to your right, in the winter section. Your heart tightened at the sight of it. You wished you could throw it away, or at least not be able to exhibit it, but the beauty of this creation had not been matched since. It would have been a waste. It’s as if the pain Sae had caused you had sublimated your art in the most vicious way possible, and now he’s forcing you to show your pain to the whole world. You vividly remember when and how you painted this canvas, and what you felt at that moment. You were sure that if you looked at it for a little too long, it would suck you into a whirlwind of feelings that you had tried to ignore for three years.

You snapped out of your thoughts when your friend called you to sweep the floor one last time before the inauguration. You took a deep breath and turn away from the cursed painting. Today was the culmination of several months and over a year of work. Sae wasn’t going to ruin your day.

𖥸

Your exhibition was going well. The city of Tokyo was enjoying pleasant temperatures in the middle of July, so many people were out to enjoy the beautiful days. The aisles of the art gallery were populated with locals and tourists, you had chosen your day well. Seriously, everything was so perfect that you had a hard time believing it.

Seeing so many interested and admiring faces in front of your art healed something deep inside you. Sae was the only one who had the words to give you the courage to start posting some photos of your creations on the net, and he was the first to legitimize your passion. You came from a pragmatic family for whom art was only a diversion and not a vocation to make a career out of it, your dreams were ridiculed and never taken seriously by them. Your only safe place during childhood was to paint in the grass, not far from the soccer field where Sae practiced. The sounds of nature around you, the breeze of the wind and the exclamations of his opponents put you in a kind of creative bubble. His positive comments on your paintings gave even more meaning to everything you did.

You were young at that time and ignored all about the heartbreaks.

"The goal was to be able to represent each season without using the elements that characterize them." You explained in a clear and confident voice, showing with your hand one of the paintings from the spring collection to a small group of tourists, very interested in your creations. Pale green and pink lights hovered around you, lighting up your faces from time to time.

The painting you were pointing to was painted in an abstract style. No real object or element that we knew in our lifetime could be identified, but the technique, shapes and colors used gave the illusion of a field of flowers in full bloom. All the paintings were designated this way: to succeed in conveying the atmosphere of a season without explicitly drawing an element that would betray the special effect. The exhibition played on the use of all the senses, and the room was even filled with special diffusers according to the season's collection.

You obviously didn't have the money for a project of this magnitude. You were the proud winner of a competition that allowed you to exhibit your art for a week in one of the most sumptuous art galleries in Tokyo, all expenses paid. An opportunity like this was never going to come again for you, so you racked your brains to make the most of this offer and make a name for yourself in art. You were on the right track given the number of people present for just the first day of your project.

That's why it was so important to you, all those impressed faces in front of your art. You had already lost a competition three years ago, this was your revenge. That lost contest had taken away your self-confidence, and had even led you to want to stop painting forever. That contest had even been the trigger for your breakup with Sae. A painful time from which you recovered, and now you are a twenty-one year old young woman who is brilliantly starting her artistic career. You had recovered from that difficult time and had been able to bounce back, burying Sae and your failure in the past. Everything was going well now.

That's what you told yourself before your eyes caught sight of the ghost of your heart in the crowd, red locks escaping from his black cap that couldn't fool you.

You almost faltered, your explanation about the symbolism of spring and flowers interrupted. You blinked several times, thinking you were hallucinating but your nightmare was very real. Sae walked along the aisle of the winter collection, his hands in his pockets and his famous face hidden by his cap.

You tried to continue expressing yourself with a polite smile, putting aside the sudden tension that invaded your body. His vision had the effect of a slap. His presence filled the entire room at once, altering all your confidence in this day. It took you a superhuman effort to maintain eye contact with your interlocutors, your body waiting for one thing: to turn around and observe the iceman who inspired all your winter paintings.

He went unnoticed in the crowd with his cap and his neutral-toned clothes, but never for you. Maybe after three years without contact, after telling you that you had gotten over him, your brain wanted to taunt you, play with you. Show you that you were lying to yourself. What the hell was he doing here? He was a Real Madrid player. He had no business being in an art gallery in the middle of summer in Tokyo. Even less in your exhibition.

Despite your best efforts to keep your conversation going with the small group of tourists in front of you, your eyes and heart kept turning to the same person who had been monopolizing your attention since you were kids.

“Are you thinking of selling your painting? If so, how much do you value a single painting and an entire collection?” The young man in the group who seemed the most knowledgeable about art pulled out a notepad and pen, ready to write down any information you had to give him. The problem was that your heart was already struggling to beat at a normal speed, so all you could do was scan the room to try to find your best friend.

You couldn’t believe that someone was already interested in buying something and your heart was beating fast now for two reasons: Sae and excitement. Someone wanted to buy your paintings!! But the timing was so unlucky that the anxiety related to your ex-boyfriend took over everything.

You hadn't spoken to each other since your violent argument. He had no business being here. He was preventing you from concentrating and carrying out your project.

For a second, you stupidly thought that he was here especially for you, and that he had something to say about your breakup, but your stupidity quickly dissipated. You haven't forgotten who he is and why you broke up. He couldn’t be here for you, not after the horrors he said to you before disappearing from your life. The lights that illuminate small round spots on the floor span around you and made you dizzy.

"Miss?" You jumped. You came back to reality and turned your head towards the potential buyer who was interested in your creations. You wiped your hands that have become sweaty on your pants, and tried to regain some consistency.

"I'm sorry, what were you saying?" Your voice betrayed you, it faltered.

"The winter collection. The estimate." He readjusted his glasses, still intended to know the estimate of your collection. In a part of your heart not yet conquered by Sae, it touched you. It felt strange to have artistic value for someone after having wandered for years looking for an audience that admire you. There was a time when your audience was only made up of him.

"We're not at that stage yet, she's just started, but I can give you this so we can get back to you in the future!" A cheerful voice that you know well let you breathe a sigh of relief, a small part of your bodily tension vanishing. She held out one of her business cards, with all your contact information on it with a kind expression. You’d swear she’d be all the rage in the marketing industry.

A flicker of disappointment crossed the young man’s face but it quickly faded and he took the card your best friend handed him. As the group of tourists moved away from the two of you, you grabbed your only support here by the shoulders.

“He’s here.”

Her usually always smiling, sweet face frowned.

"Who?"

You give her an almost desperate expression, not wanting her to force you to spell his name. A flash of understanding crossed her, and she turned quickly to scan the crowd with her eyes, looking worried. You wiped your sweaty hands again on your jeans, he really managed to break any ounce of confidence in you today. You didn't know exactly what it was that made you anxious about him, but the mere sight of him made you falter.

Seeing him among the faces admiring your art caused something in your heart that you had trouble identifying, but disturbing enough to hate the feeling. You couldn't let yourself feel anything when it concerned him. It's been months, years now that you've tried not to think about him and everything he represents. Efforts shattered.

"He's with his agent..." She whispered in a breath, almost confused.

You were too obsessed with him to notice that. Your friend put her arm around your shoulders, holding you tight against her as she made you walk, hurrying as if she wanted to prevent something. "We have lots of visitors, we're not going to let that get us down anyway!" Her smile redecorated her face but it's a little forced this time and she tried to distract you but it's useless. Whether you refocused on your mission or not, your ex-boyfriend was still a few meters away from you.

And you understood what she prevented from happening when a voice behind you makes you stop all movement.

"Well, it was starting to get boring hanging around in the aisles."

That tone of voice. Low in the octaves, too monotonous to indicate any emotion and lacerated with nonchalance. A voice that made you melt every time he addressed words only to you, and spat insults at others. You and Rin were the few people who had been able to see Sae in another expression before his trip to Spain changed him completely. You had missed this voice horribly, and you want to hit yourself at the realization that yes, you wanted to hear it again and again.

"Mr. Itoshi, you can't talk to someone like that, come on..."

Your eyes met the second you turned around and you swallowed hard. It's not discomfort, nor anger that pierced you but pain. His intense teal pupils stared at you in his familiar coldness, a coldness that used to be synonymous with home for you. But today, you felt like you're facing a stranger. He seemed much more adult than the last time you saw him.

The man next to him was shorter than him, and all nervous. He scrutinized you with his big round glasses, you remembered he was his assistant. He was always afraid of being late, and always had to confront Sae's stubborn nature. He was probably only used for paperwork because when it came to decisions and advice, your ex-boyfriend only did what he wanted.

“Miss ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚, allow me to introduce myself more politely.” His assistant mumbled as he approached you, breaking the eye contact between you and Sae. You frowned, while Sae’s agent shook your hand. Your usually sociable best friend was silent, sensing your tension. “Me and Mr. Itoshi want to…”

“What are you doing here?”

You cut the little bespectacled man off in a sharp tone, addressing your ex-boyfriend directly. Your voice was too tense for the vulnerability to be heard in it. You were not used to being rude, and his agent surely didn’t deserve this treatment, but you urgently needed an answer to this question. Otherwise, your inner torment would never subside and you didn’t want to burst into pathetic tears in front of everyone, especially him.

Sae's face remained imperturbable, he had no reaction to your question, or even to seeing you again after so long. He sighed as if annoyed at having to explain his presence. Your body tensed, you hated how he seemed taller than you, richer and his smug air. As if he were just someone superior to you and you hadn't spoken as equals since childhood. Deep down, it hurt you. The hands in his pockets sank a little more, accentuating his bored look.

"That," he tilted his head with his usual phlegm towards the paintings to your right, the winter collection. "And pretty much everything else in the gallery, I want them all."

You nearly choked on your saliva, his announcement sending a shock wave through your body. You wondered if you misheard or if your hearing was playing tricks on you. The firm tone of his voice that accepted no argument to what he just said made you clench your fists.

“What the…”

“If you think someone will make a better offer than me,” he interrupted you, looking up at you with an annoyed look, “you’re still as stupid as before, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.”

Your body was torn between weakening at the way your name rolled off his tongue and tensing at his insult. This was what it feels like to have dated an Itoshi, you wouldn’t recommend him to anyone. Your friend frowned, wanting to intervene but you made a subtle gesture to stop her.

“It’s not about the money,” you mumble, uncomfortably, “you’re the last person I want to sell my creations to. And where does this urge come from anyway? You disappear for three years to want to buy my paintings now?” As much as you hate to admit it, there was pain in your voice. All of this hurt you. Seeing him again was the worst thing that could have happened to you today. He made you so vulnerable with just a few words.

The discussion took a more intimate and personal turn in your tone, and your best friend understood by herself that she should leave the two of you alone. With her biggest smile of a pro in sociability, she grabbed Sae's assistant by the elbow who has a panicked look while she dragged him away against his will, to give him a tour of the exhibition while you had to confront the ice prince.

His height towered over you, and without anyone around you, you were quickly helpless and more vulnerable. You wanted to cry, that's it. You didn’t understand why he wanted to inflict this on you. Forcing you to see him again when he left you with a broken heart years before, and coming back with his nonchalant air as if nothing had happened. Well, yes, you could understand. Sae has never shone for his empathy. And maybe it's even intentional, his way of acting. He knew the effect he had on you.

His eyes lingered for a few seconds on the necklace around your neck. A gold-plated chain enhanced by a butterfly pendant that sparkled with amethysts encrusted inside. You had worn it since middle school. He was there when you showed it to him, so proud of your parents' gift. You weaken as you remember it. You hated everything he reminds you of and just wanted him to disappear.

"Three fucking years Sae, and you show up like that without explaining yourself and you allow yourself to impose something like this on me?"

There was vulnerability and pain in your voice that you tried to hide with bitterness but he knew you all too well. He looked up at you.

"I don't have time to talk about this, I want you to work for me for a while" he said quietly, ignoring what you just said, as if it wasn't the craziest sentence he's ever said. No questions, no dialogue, just an "I want".

"What's wrong with you?" You frowned, your voice trembling, speechless at his audacity, starting to lose patience. You didn't understand what he was doing here, or why he was talking to you after so long, why he wanted your paintings so much.

He was always very abrupt in his manners, his compliments on your art were never to please you, but completely sincere and because he felt the need to say. That's why his approval always had a special value for you because you knew you could count on his honesty. But here, we went beyond the simple compliment. He wanted to buy all your collections for a reason you didn’t know.

He tilted his head to the other side, as if he wasn't interested in what you were saying and ignored what you just said, his gaze turned towards one of your paintings. You swore you could slap him. You clenched your fists.

“I didn't come to ask your opinion.”

What the hell was he doing here then? You're starting to get fed up.

“You can't impose what you want on me, these are my paintings, I don't even understand what's going on! You're no one to...”

Getting angry, you had moved closer to him without realizing it, and when he lowered his head towards you while adjusting his cap, your words died on your tongue. A few inches from his face, his perfume enveloped you.

“I need an artist for a charity ball to buy the paintings from. You’ve always been the most talented person for that.” He leaned his head even closer, the proximity far too close for exes. Your breath hitched. A charity ball?

“Do I fucking look like I like charity balls?” He mumbled, his expression hardening and you swallowed. “No,” he spits sharply, “So don’t waste my time.” He pulled away from you, a red lock falling in his eyes. Your brain was a mess with this pile of unanswered questions, but you felt incapable of facing him anymore so you don’t ask. Everything he says hurt and confused you, you just wanted him to go away.

He rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh, as if being with you was torture, before plunging his hands back into his pockets. Without even looking at you, he turned around and walked away without a word, leaving you in a state of incomprehension.

He walked on the earth as if he possessed all the riches in the world and was indifferent to them at the same time. You felt like you could breathe again when he walked away. Sae having a charity ball? That's the funniest announcement you've ever heard in your entire life. There must have been other elements that had to force him to participate for him to take the request seriously. But even thinking about it, you had a hard time imagining Sae forcing himself to do something he wasn't interested in. There had to be some other purpose that benefited him in all of this.

His whole person arose an unprecedented irritation in you, but the anger quickly subsided and the aftereffect of having spoken to him again overwhelmed you. You missed him. Arms hanging, you stared at his now blurred silhouette. A pain split your chest, and you scanned the room for your best friend.

────୨ৎ────

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬 – 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

𖥸

After talking with Sae, you had 2 questions: what was this story about a charity ball, and why had Sae specifically come to talk to you about it. You knew him, he wasn't the type to do something that bored him or travel for others. He could have sent you a letter with the description of his request, or let his agent take care of it.

But no, he was present in the crowd of admirers of your art and it left a strange bitter taste in your mouth when you thought about it.

Three weeks had passed since the incident, and you tried to pretend that you weren't still troubled by what had happened.

In the middle of August, you were at your parents' house, far away in the Tokyo countryside. Walking in the fields helping your parents, you distracted yourself by turning potatoes in the dirt, wiping your sweaty forehead. You weren’t particularly fond of gardening, but it was a habit of coming to help them since they moved there a few years ago.

“Aren’t you doing anything tonight?” your mother asked you, crouching down next to you with a straw hat that protected her head from the sun’s rays.

“I don’t really know,” you mumbled, a little tired by the incessant sound of crickets in the grass around you and the sun beating down on your back when you bent down.

Your mother looked up at you, her eyes narrowed by the sun.

“I’d rather you go out with your friends than stay inside and paint.”

You sighed, already tired of the argument that would start if you reacted so you let it go. Your mother always had little comments like that to always remind you that she hated your passion. It was less violent than your father, whom he used to put you down all day long, saying that you were wasting your life, though.

“You should work instead and-”

“You forgot some weeds,” you cut her off, not wanting to get into a debate where you fought for her to recognize your art as work and not just a teenage lobby.

She was hurtful, and you didn’t need her causing more tension in your body.

Sae was the complete opposite when you thought about it. He was on the verge of calling you lazy if you didn’t pick up a paintbrush for more than three days, treating art like another sport that deserved daily practice. He was kind of right, but it made you chuckle that he behaved like that.

A sad expression flashed across your face before you caught yourself and silently cursed him as you turned over the remaining potatoes.

“By the way, you have mail,” your mother pointed out nonchalantly as you opened your eyes wide.

Only Naho knew that you were at your parents' this summer, the person who had sent this must have been well informed and that was worrying.

"Are you sure?" you asked, frowning.

She nods and doesn't say more, busy with her potatoes. It was only when you got home that you hurried into the living room, running to the limit towards the pile of mail, looking for yours. You opened the envelope hastily, eager to know.

Inside, there was an invitation book and an explanatory letter. Your eyebrows furrowed as you read the letter. Sae was indeed invited to a charity ball, but it was an event that brought together dozens of famous high-level athletes, there was even Aiku Oliver as a guest. The letter explained that each guest had to bring an artist with them, and Sae had chosen you. You were invited to the ball at the end of August, and you could bring your paintings. The ball was in Madrid, in a famous event hall. It was a golden opportunity for your career, but knowing that it was given to you by Sae left a bitter taste in your mouth.

“I can’t stay this summer, I’m invited to a charity ball,” you grumbled, your mother nearby. She stopped in the living room, hands on her hips, looking surprised.

“For what reason?”

“…”

You shifted, uncomfortably.

“Sae m…”

“SAE?!”

You tensed up at her excitement, she adored Sae, and it seemed like the breakup had hurt her too. It was something you struggled to understand, since Sae had a career far removed from your parents’ demands, but maybe it was normal for a mother to appreciate her daughter dating a millionaire footballer.

“There’s nothing between us anymore, it’s just for work,” you breathed, turning around.

Her eyes shining with excitement made you feel sick.

“This will be a chance to make up.”

“Mom.”

“Young people these days can’t handle the ups and downs of being in a relationship, seriously,” she mumbled, wiping her hands on her thighs as she headed to the kitchen. “You can tell him hello for me.”

You didn't even have time to tell her that it was for your art that all this was organized, but you held back because she would never have understood, and would never understand your passion. You didn't need her bitterness about your life choices to ruin an opportunity like this.

𖥸

"Wow," Naho whispered, her glass close to her lips. "He could have explained everything to you on the spot instead of insulting you," she rolled her eyes.

"Yeah," I stared at my cocktail, my gaze empty.

A few weeks had passed since you received the letter, and you found yourself in a bar with Naho to debrief. She was happy for you because it was an opportunity, but criticized the form.

"Diplomacy is not his strong point."

You chuckled.

“We’re talking about Sae,” you smiled, playing with your drink.

You looked around, watching people enter the luxurious bar. It was a beautiful summer evening, the atmosphere was soft. The dim lights of the bar gave an intimate atmosphere to the place. You couldn’t afford a place like this, but Naho liked to take advantage of her fiancé’s money, a rich banker. It made you laugh every time she took out her credit card and invited you to go shopping with her.

“It’s coming soon,” you pointed at her engagement rings with a sincere smile. “Ready?”

She smiled wide, bringing her hand in front of her, her diamond sparkling in the glow of the bar lights.

“I can’t wait, everything’s ready!”

Just like she helped you prepare for your exhibition, you helped her prepare for her wedding. She was your best friend and you wanted to support her at all costs for the most important day of her life.

“I still don’t have my hairstyle for the big day,” you grimaced, still undecided.

You were thinking about making a sophisticated bun by slicking your hair back or going to the hairdresser to ask for a completely different cut. Luckily, your dress was already ready as were those of the other ladies in waiting.

“No matter what you choose, you’ll look stunning.”

You giggled.

“Says the bride herself. You’ll be the star of the evening.”

She gave a small knowing smile while taking a sip of her cocktail. Just then, your phone vibrated in your pocket. You took it out, apologized to your friend and brought it to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” a familiar deep voice rang out on the other end of the line.

“Rin?” your eyes widened, surprised to hear him. You lowered your head, swirling the spoon in your drink. “Do you need anything?”

Rin and you weren’t best friends, but close enough nonetheless. The three of you had always been close throughout your childhood, even after the breakup, you had kept in touch. Your relationship was the perfect balance between brother and sister and close friends. He could confide in you, just as you could confide in him.

“…”

You sensed from the silence on the other end of the line that this was going to be important, and nodded to Naho, getting up from your seat. With an apologetic look, you left the soft warmth of the bar to lean against a wall outside, the cool evening air enveloping your neck.

“I’m all alone, you can talk to me.”

He hesitated, his voice uncertain and lacking the confidence he usually had.

“I heard you were going to Sae’s ball.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, not too thrilled. “He kind of forced it on me,” you laughed bitterly into the phone.

“Really?”

“He really showed up at my exhibition unannounced and ordered my paintings.”

He was silent for a few seconds. “Sae was in Tokyo?” his voice was hurried, impatient.

“Yeah. I still don’t know why he came to see me directly instead of sending me an email through his agent or something.”

You could hear him scratching his head on the other end of the line.

“Maybe he just wanted to see you.”

“Have you been drinking?”

He let out a small chuckle.

“You’re the only one he came to see anyway,” he said in a cold voice. “Understand what you want.”

“Why did you call me Rin?”

He paused for a moment, silence on the phone. Rin was a mysterious boy who was hard to figure out, but he didn’t fool you. You knew when something touched him through his fake coldness, or when something was bothering him. You considered him a bit like your little brother to a certain extent, you had grown up with him and had seen Sae raise him to become the man he is today. He had no secrets from you.

“You…” he began, his voice hesitant. A silence again. He swallowed hard and launched into it. “You can tell him to call me when you see, please. I’ve been trying to reach him for years.”

You soften.

“Why do you want to talk to him Rin, you know he…”

“Just ask him to call me,” he interrupted you in a firm voice. “You know we both have stuff to work out.”

“I’m just trying to protect you.”

“I know,” he sighed.

You looked at the trees around you before answering in a soft voice.

“I will, don’t worry Rin.”

“Thank you,” he said in an almost shy voice.

You continued your call by asking how he was doing. Rin was the star of the Japanese team, which didn’t surprise you given all the sacrifices he had made to get there. What worried you more, however, was still the fervor with which he clung to his desire to beat his brother. He wasn’t living his life for himself yet but for his brother, and it hurt your heart to notice it again after years.

You ended the call with a smile, happy to have heard from Rin. You cared a lot about him. You watched the wind that made the leaves of the trees swirl around you, walking back to the bar. You breathed deeply. You needed strength for the days to come, because your departure for Madrid was tomorrow morning.

────୨ৎ────

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 – 𝐣𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐤𝐨

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

𖥸

“You’re talented, there’s no point in going to school,” he says honestly, his eyes fixed on your paintings scattered on the grass. You chuckled, touched by the compliment, continuing to varnish your works.

“My parents still want me to study. I don’t know, I’ll probably take a science major...”

He tightened his ball in his hands, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“It’s no use to you,” he repeated, stubborn. “Just do an exhibition. Even art school is useless, I don’t know what else you’ll learn.”

You rolled your eyes.

“You don’t know anything about art, Sae. I could draw a dog turd, if the shadows look a little complicated, you’ll be impressed. »

He threw his soccer ball right at your stomach and, unbalanced, you fell back into the grass, laughing out loud. He wasn’t laughing, though.

“You have to be really stupid to waste your time like that,” he swung, looking at you with a bored look. You raised yourself slightly on your elbows. Your gazes challenged each other.

“I’m not free like you,” you answered with a sigh, brushing the dirt off your shorts. He made a small insolent noise.

“I’m not free, I’m just determined. I’m going to Spain at the end of the summer, to play for the team. You think that’s freedom? You’re the one with free artistic spirit or whatever you call your shit.”

You tilted your head, observing his pink hair that was shining in the sun. You had tried to fix his bad haircut, but Sae seemed to like his disastrous haircut. It was quite stylish.

“Spain?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, sitting down across from you. Just that. He felt like it was even logical and normal this meteoric rise. He was a prodigal after all.

“You’re going to become even more stupid and ignorant if you stop school at 13,” you chuckled.

He gave you an emotionless look, kicking you, finding your joke anything but funny. He wasn’t going to stop school completely, but it was true that he didn’t really care about his homework and preferred to practice for his matches.

“And you’ll become useless if you let your parents choose everything for you. I’ll be the best striker Japan will ever see, and you’ll still be doing everything to please them, without having accomplished anything. Luckwarm.”

The surety in his voice hurt your heart.

“I won’t be a failure.”

“You already are.”

“Sae,” you tensed. The harsh truth behind his voice squeezed your heart even more. You didn’t want to end up like those artists, forced to work repetitive jobs devoid of creativity. You were still young and could still dream, but you already knew that your parents would put obstacles in your way. The carefree childhood was already starting to evaporate. He sighed, as if he were the one who was disturbed.

“I’ll stop saying that when you actually do something with your paintings. It’s not like I care anyway.” If you like being useless,” he said nonchalantly, laying down on the grass with his arms behind his head and his eyes closed.

You moved closer so that you could rest his head on your thighs, playing with his pink locks.

“Liar.”

He didn't answer, but he let you brush your fingers over his skin, his cheeks and his hair. The peaceful look on his face contrasted with the harshness of the words that could come out of his mouth, and the strength of determination that animated him.

"If... If one day I hold my exhibition like I dream of doing one, you promise me that you will come see it?" you whispered, your hands following the shape of his eyebrows. He slowly opened his eyes, looking at you without saying anything for a moment.

"I'll be too busy traveling the world for my matches, no time for that," he answered arrogantly. You rolled your eyes, pulling him closer to you. He let you do it without saying anything.

"You will be my guest of honor."

He chuckled.

"Promise. Even if we will talk less when you are in Spain. Just promise me."

His gaze darkened.

“You still care too much about my approval, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.”

It was true. No one had your back. His support was a breath of fresh air, a lifeline. You held him a little tighter, tense.

“It’s just...”

“Of course I’ll come, but you’re not doing it for me, are you?”

You avoided his gaze, looking instead at your painting to your right. He pulled you closer to him, tugging at the collar of your t-shirt, his breath fanning over your face.

“Right?”

His voice was firmer, colder. You swallowed hard, forced to look into his green gaze. Sometimes his eyes reminded you of an ocean, but not in the metaphorical beauty, in the anguish of a density that you were unable to match.

“...”

A breeze of wind passed between the two of you.

“Yes,” you forced yourself to answer, even if you lacked conviction. “I will do it without thinking about you, or hoping that you will come. Just for… Me.”

He released your collar. It was the first time in your life that your stomach had twisted in a pleasant way.

“Good.” He let you go. He was completely unaware of the heat that invaded your body.

𖥸

You woke up from your nap on the plane with a knot in your stomach. You had just dreamed of a distant memory, dating back to a few years ago. An old promise, which he – with surprise – had kept. He had really come to your exhibition. Was that why he had moved on purpose? It wasn’t like him to take children’s promises to heart like that, even though he was the type to follow through on his goals. In fact, it was very like him after all, and you didn’t know how you should feel about that.

You were collecting your luggage in the airport, your mind in thought. Your dream had awakened painful memories, and you were distracted by your thoughts instead of enjoying the warm air of Spain. Your eyes roamed your surroundings, admiring the sophisticated architecture of the airport and the world that swarmed there. As you stepped out, you took a deep breath as you observed the city in front of you, populated with people.

It was sunny, and very hot. You took off your cardigan, walking towards your Uber while rolling your suitcase. Your skin glowed in the sun, and you already knew that for the time you were going to be in Spain, you were going to get a tan. The lack of moisture in the air intensified the already high temperature.

As you sat down in your Uber, you received a call from an unknown number. Curious, you answered it while putting on your seatbelt.

“Are you here yet?”

Your hairs stood on end at the sound of Sae's voice, and you frowned. Several questions clashed in your mind. From 1) why did he still have your number? 2) how the hell did he know what time you were arriving in Madrid? 3) what did he want from you?

"Sae?" you mumbled, your voice nervous. The driver started driving, looking at you from time to time in the rearview mirror, curious.

"Whoever you want it to be, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚?"

You tensed up.

"No, I mean..." you hesitated for a few seconds. "What do you want, well why are you calling me, how did you get my number?"

"We were a couple as far as I know," he remarked casually and your tension increased in your body. “I still have your number.”

“I thought I had you blocked.”

“I guess you didn’t.”

You hated his smug tone, it was already getting on your nerves. You stayed silent for a moment, glancing at the scenery passing before your eyes.

"First, you send me a letter when I'm at my parents', and now you know exactly when my plane lands. You're creepy."

He huffed.

"You always go to your parents' in the summer, I just have a good memory."

"That doesn't answer my second question."

"There were no questions in your sentence."

"Are you being so annoying on purpose?" you grumbled, annoyed. "Answer, damn it."

The driver smirked, amused by the conversation but he remained discreet.

"Your paintings arrived in the event room as planned," he changed the subject. "They're intact, and ready for the exhibition."

The new subject piqued your interest although the way he ignored you annoyed you.

"Why are you telling me this?" you mumbled impatiently, playing with the zipper of your vest in your hands.

"Just like that, I thought you would have wanted to know that they were safe."

His attention made your heart race for a moment but you quickly recovered and cleared your throat.

"Is that all you had to tell me?" you lowered your head, fiddling with your vest.

"Do you want to visit Madrid with me?"

You nearly swallowed your saliva the wrong way.

"W-What?"

He sighed on the other end of the line, as if you were exhausting him just by talking.

"I'll meet you at 2pm at the San Miguel market."

And he suddenly hung up like that, without another word. Dumbfounded, you stared at your phone in your hands for a few seconds without saying anything. Not only had he ignored your questions, but he allowed himself to hang up on you and make decisions without your consent. And what was this about showing you around Madrid? Had he forgotten that he had rejected you like an old sock when you needed him the most? Why was he acting like you were on good terms.

Your mind full of questions, you rested your head against the car window and watched the streets go by, pensive.

𖥸

You arrived at your hotel around noon, which was the last bit of time you had before seeing your ex-boyfriend. Because yes, you were of course going to come to his suspicious meeting. You had nothing else to do anyway, and you really wanted to have answers to your questions today.

You rushed to the shower once you got to your room, getting rid of your filth. You stood still in the shower, feeling the water trickle down your body, taking the opportunity to cool off. You took your time to lotion yourself, choosing a vanilla-scented body lotion. You perfumed yourself, and put on your jewelry. You put on simple jeans and a tank top that was a little low-cut to survive the heat of Spain. You applied treatments to your hair, taking more time than usual and you didn't want to think about what that meant. Yes, you were getting dolled up to go see your ex, let's be honest. You put on white sneakers, and grabbed your handbag.

You were going to unpack your things later, you wanted to have time to figure out how to navigate the Spanish metro and walk around a bit before meeting Sae where he had told you.

If you had been told that Sae was going to play tour guide for you two months ago you would have burst out laughing but now this was your reality.

𖥸

You arrived on time at the San Miguel market. The market was bustling with people, and you had taken the time to stroll through the streets before coming. The sunny streets were filled with trees, it was nice to hang out there. The San Miguel market was a long avenue filled with different food stalls. Some sold takeaways, others spices, others olives. A pleasant spicy smell enveloped the market and guided you inside.

It didn't take long for you to spot red locks that you knew well under a cap. Your breath caught when your eyes met. He wore a white shirt with the top two buttons open, and simple jeans. A luxury watch on his wrist, he smelled of money. Hands in his pockets, he stood nonchalantly against a wall near the market.

His gaze roamed your body for a long time before they went back up to your eyes, and he nodded to you.

You swallowed, and took a few steps to join him.

"You have to stop deciding everything like that without even asking my opinion," you mumbled, reaching his height.

"Is that a Japanese way of saying hello?" He sighed, pushing his hands further into his pockets. You noticed that he sighed very often when he spoke to you and it annoyed you.

"You forget that you're Japanese too."

He rolled his eyes.

"Come on," he walked towards the inside of the market without even waiting for you. You followed suit, already grumpy.

"What did I just tell you? Stop ignoring me and choose for..."

"I don't remember if you like olives or not," he interrupted you, pointing at an olive stand. You crossed your arms over your chest, inhaling deeply. This was going to be a long day.

"Sae."

"Or you can try the meat skewers. Or chili."

With a wave of his hand, he pointed to the different stands as you walked side by side. You glared at him.

"You're doing it on purpose, huh?"

"Maybe," a smirk crossed his lips and left you speechless. Was he teasing you? Like it was nothing? You rubbed your arms, feeling weird.

"We're not a couple anymore, why are you acting like..."

"Skewers or olives?"

You groaned, fed up with his behavior.

"Sae!"

He moved faster without waiting for you, and you almost lost him in the crowd. You zigzagged through the mass of people to join him. He had stopped at a meat stand that sold the skewers he was talking about, and you joined him, out of breath from having to follow him. It was going to be a long day.

𖥸

"I can't believe we're having a drink together."

"Life is full of surprises."

"No, seriously, what's wrong with you Sae?"

He sighed - for the thousandth time that day -, he still had that don't-care look he wore as if everything took energy from him, and that expression was starting to get on your nerves.

"And stop looking so bored, it's unpleasant."

"It's natural."

You rolled your eyes.

You had been sitting on a terrace for about fifteen minutes, and you struggled to find answers to your many questions. Sae acted as if nothing was wrong, not seeing the absurdity of the situation. And the worst part was that you weren't having a bad time. He had taken you to his favorite places in Madrid, showed you parks, and you were amazed by the beauty of the Spanish city. Sometimes, Sae's eyes lingered on his, as if to check that you were enjoying the moment, and in those moments you turned your head away, unable to meet his gaze.

"I really don't understand what's going on," you grumbled as you sipped your cocktail. "We're not friends Sae."

"Really?"

Your eyes widened at his casual tone and how he looked at you smugly.

"Well yeah, should I remind you how we broke up or what? I'm not your friend, you're an idiot to even think otherwise," you had your cocktail in one quick gulp, choking a little as you coughed. Sae stared at you choking without saying anything, and you cursed him inwardly.

“I just thought you might want to visit the city,” he stated nonchalantly, his eyes falling back on his expensive watch. “I’ll leave you, I’ve arranged a taxi that will take you back to your hotel.”

“You’re stalking me, how do you know the address of my hotel?” your eyebrows furrowed, your face wary before you remembered your main question. “And for the letter to my parents…”

“See you tomorrow at the charity gala,” he adjusted his cap on his head and stood up without a goodbye, his hands in his pockets. He took a hand out of his pocket to place a large bill on the table before leaving without a word. You watched him walk away, speechless.

He was annoying, unbearable and so rude. But deep down, your heart tightened as you thought back to that day that you had enjoyed. You had enjoyed visiting the city, discovering Madrid, and Sae's favorite places. In a way, you had enjoyed his company, although it took a superhuman effort to admit it to yourself. The more time you spent with him, the more you realized that you missed him terribly. Even his flaws. Even his smug and nonchalant air. Everything that made him a person, ultimately.

You were silent during your taxi ride. Sae made your heart confused. Nothing forced him to spend the day with you, yet he had done so. You were also not blind to his many insistent glances, eyes hidden under his red locks in front of his face. At someone else's, it would have been cute to show his favorite spots to someone who doesn't know the city, but this action for Sae gave rise to incomprehension and immense unease. It was none of his business, and you struggled to understand his real intentions. He had even gone so far as to prepare a taxi for you so that you could return home safely, seriously what was he thinking? Your stupid side whispered to your heart that he was surely trying to make up for it, and it would have been plausible if we weren't talking about the ice prince, Sae Itoshi.

With a confused heart and a knot in your stomach, you rested your head against the window, admiring the landscapes of the favorite city of the boy you had once been madly in love with.

────୨ৎ────

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 – 𝟐𝟏 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

𖥸

You sprayed yourself for the thousandth time with your favorite perfume, taking care to put it everywhere, and on your long dress. Dressed in a sophisticated way, you wore a long black dress with a backless and bare shoulders, with many golden jewels like you love them. You always loved jewelry, and especially painting them. Playing with shades of yellow and orange was your hobby when you were younger. Sae often lent you his golden medals so that you could paint them, because he knew that you loved it.

Speaking of Sae, you had made a mental note to finally have answers to your questions today, and not to let yourself be distracted by his actions. Today, you decided to have the power in your relationship, if we could still say that you had one.

You were choosing which bag to wear when your phone vibrated.

"Naho, I missed you," you exclaimed on the phone when you saw who called. Your enthusiasm was followed by a chuckle on the other end of the line.

“So, how’s the future star of the evening?”

“Don’t start, I’m pretty stressed,” you sighed, walking nervously around your apartment while talking to your best friend. “I have a black dress, should I take a small red bag or a small silver bag?”

“Red. The silver one won’t go with your jewelry,” your girlfriend answered confidently. You nodded and slung your small red leather bag over your shoulder.

“You’ll never guess what happened yesterday?”

“Did you fall under the spell of a Spanish guy?”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes.

“Worse than that.”

You began to explain everything that happened yesterday with Sae. She listened attentively without interrupting you, before leaving a long silence.

“That’s weird,” she only said and you could only nod.

“Yeah, I don’t know what to think?”

“You know he didn’t date anyone after you broke up? I was kind of mad at him when he left you, so I kind of followed everything he did to curse him in secret,” she admitted with a laugh, you couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

It felt good to have a friend like her by your side, always there to make you laugh and support you.

“I’m not surprised, I’m the only one who was stupid enough to keep up with his bullshit.”

“Or does it just mean he’s still in love with you?”

You freeze.

“What the fuck?” you stared at the ground, frowning.

“I mean… If we’re being objective, he does a lot of thoughtful things. Picking you for the bal, introducing you to the city, spending time with you, arranging a taxi to take you home…”

“We’re talking about Sae, Naho,” you interrupted her, your voice a little dry, as if you were on the defensive.

“I know, I know. But think about it. You know him well, he wouldn’t do that to just anyone.”

“He probably wants something in return, I don’t see any other explanation.”

“I think he wants to come back to you, but he just doesn’t know how to do it.”

You started laughing again, finding her idea absurd.

"I have time to die four times before Sae regrets his choices and tries something with me again, Naho," you shook your head with a sigh. "Let's stop talking about him, it's giving me a headache."

"Whatever you want, but just think about it."

𖥸

The event hall was packed. From a distance, you could tell it was a wedding given the rich decorations, the numerous bouquets of flowers, and the sophisticated outfits of the guests. You recognized several celebrities just by arriving, and you were starting to feel out of place. Everyone invited here had some kind of notoriety, you were just a nobody.

"Can I get you something?" A waiter offered you champagne, but you politely declined, fixing your dress with your hands.

Your paintings blended perfectly with the decor, and you couldn't help but feel a little pride in displaying them for others to see. You walked over to one of the paintings, touching them delicately, feeling the relief of the brushstrokes under your hand. It was a golden opportunity to have your collection here, you were grateful to have had this opportunity, but knowing that you had gotten it thanks to Sae left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Your eyes wandered over the crowd of people, looking for Sae. You quickly found him, he was surrounded by journalists and had a bored expression. He was dressed simply, but sophisticatedly. A white shirt, black suit pants, and loafers. He wasn't wearing his usual glasses and cap, his face was on display for everyone to see. He bent down to sign an autograph for a child, and straightened up, signaling to the journalists to leave him alone. He was about to pick up his glass from the buffet before looking up and meeting your gaze.

As every time he looked at you, your body was riddled with electricity and you fought internally against the urge to turn your head, unable to hold his gaze. His eyes wandered along your silhouette, impassive. They lingered on your curves, and you hated the heat that was released in your stomach at his eye contact. Your body felt hot under his gaze on you, every part of your body felt the weight of it. His eyes said things that you didn't want to know, but that your body demanded to hear.

You lifted your dress a little and began to walk towards him, maintaining his gaze. The world around you didn't matter anymore, you had two goals today: to solve the mystery of Sae's behavior, and to get noticed by someone important with your art. And now, you were walking towards your first objective.

He leaned against a wall, his hands in the pockets of his classy pants, his eyes fixed on you. You concentrated on not tripping because his eyes were destabilizing. When you reached his height, you were enveloped by the addictive scent of his cologne.

"This is the first time I've seen you dressed like this," he brought his glass back to his lips, his eyes lingering on the curve of your hip molded by the fabric of your dress. Your heart was pounding under his gaze.

"I didn't have a chance before, when we were together" you leaned against the wall next to him, crossing your fingers on your stomach.

“It suits you.” He looked away and sipped his drink.

You nearly choked at his compliment, it was so out of character for him to say something like that.

“Are you drunk?”

He scoffed and shook his head. His red locks waved at the nape of his neck.

“I’m not into that.”

You nearly laughed at his response, he seemed personally outraged that you would think he was intoxicated.

“Relax, I didn’t call you an alcoholic,” you chuckled, wrinkling your dress before freezing.

Were you seriously joking with him? Since you had spent the day with him in Madrid, your long-built barriers were becoming weaker and weaker and if you didn’t look closely enough at what you were doing, you fell back into a comfortable intimacy with him that you had when you were a couple. It wasn’t normal, nor what you wanted, you had to pull yourself together, you had questions to ask him.

Prove it by 21 Savage and Summer Walker was playing in the big speakers of the event room, it was a soft and a bit romantic sound, absolutely everything you didn’t need right now. You took a deep breath before launching yourself.

“Sae, we have to talk.”

“About what?”

“Us.”

“So there’s an us again, huh?” He raised an eyebrow and his green gaze landed on you and you swallowed.

“You know exactly what I mean, don’t play with my words.” To manage your nervousness, you played with one of the bouquets of roses next to you and lost your gaze in the crowd in front of you. “You’re the one who acts like there’s always been a ‘us’.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He continued to sip his drink.

You rolled your eyes.

“Answer my questions in order first. Why did you come to see my exhibition?”

He stirred his glass, and said nothing for a few seconds.

“Wasn’t that what we agreed on?” he finally said in a nonchalant tone, as if he hadn’t just confirmed that he cared about you, and your promise.

“Are you talking about our promise before you went to Spain?” you asked to be sure, your heart pounding.

“You finally decided to stop being a failure, I had to see what you had achieved.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Is this your way of telling me that you’re happy and proud that I didn’t get discouraged after losing my first contest?”

“Yeah.” His voice was low, like a whisper.

A breeze of wind passed between you, and you didn’t know what to do with the frantic beating of your heart. He was transforming your nervousness into a feeling that you had forbidden yourself to feel for someone again.

“Second question: How did you know I was at my parents’ to send the letter?”

He leaned against the wall, and glanced at you, his face impassive.

“You always go to your parents’ in the summer. There was no point in sending it to you if you were going to receive it later.”

Your heart was going to burst out of your chest. Why did it make you so happy that he remembered that?

“Third question: Why did you spend the day with me last time?”

“I need a reason for that?”

“Of course, Sae. Don’t tell me you just wanted to see me and spend time with me?”

“What if I told you that was the case?”

Another missed heartbeat.

“You must be drunk, this can’t be…” You shook your head.

You swore you saw the hint of a half-smile on his lips for a second before his impassive mask regained control of his expression.

“I’m lost, Sae.”

“That’s because you’re stupid.”

He was so… How can I say it? Annoying? Exhausting? Funny?

“Thank you for those lovely words, but I’m serious. I’m lost. One moment you act like an asshole, the next you…”

You looked at him, daring the words that stayed shyly in your mouth.

“You act like you want me back in your life.”

He paused, staying still for a moment before slowly turning his head towards you. For a few seconds, you said nothing and stared at each other. You didn’t pay attention to the noise of the crowd of people, and the music, completely focused on his green eyes.

“And what if that was the case?”

That’s it, those were the words he shouldn’t say. Especially not, because your heart couldn’t take it. Not now, not like this. Not after all the hurt he had done to you. It didn’t make sense.

“Don’t...”

“Excuse me, are you the painter of these paintings?”

A small, plump woman with a fancy bun interrupted you, and Sae looked away. You desperately wanted to tell this woman that you were busy, but she seemed very interested in your work. You glanced at Sae, who had his eyes glued to her phone now, then managed to smile at the woman in front of you.

“It’s me, can I help you?”

What followed was a conversation you had dreamed of having your entire life. The woman was the director of a luxury interior design company, and was looking for partners. She was a fan of your work, and wanted you to work for her. She showered you with compliments and seemed enthusiastic about the idea of ​​collaborating with you. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, but there was a problem.

"I would be very happy to work with you, but I don't live in Spain, I'm from Tokyo," you apologized with a polite and sorry smile.

"It's not a problem, we can collaborate very well remotely. It's rare to find talents like yours, I wouldn't like to miss this golden opportunity!"

Her compliments warmed your heart and a heat rose to your cheeks. You didn't know how to react to someone who was such an admirer of your work, you weren't used to it. She explained to you how to proceed, and asked for your contacts to send you all the information about the collaboration. She handed you her business card, and your hands were about to shake. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. It was going to take off your career, and it was all thanks to Sae. As she left, you turned your head to get ready to talk to him but he had disappeared.

𖥸

Your mind was dizzy.

You were drunk from all the glasses of champagne you had drunk, and you had trouble standing. The charity ball was over, but the night continued in a luxurious bar, like an after party. You hadn't found Sae all night, and your head was going to explode with all the questions you had.

You were so drunk that you hadn't noticed it when you had collapsed on the first couch you had found. Tired, you had rubbed yourself against what you thought was the leather, ready to fall asleep. It was only when you opened your eyes slightly, yawning, that you met his piercing green irises above you. The air in your lungs emptied immediately. You had just understood where the disturbing but pleasant softness underneath you was coming from.

You could get up but you blinked several times, incredulous, unable to move.

"Sae, what are you.."

You had so many things to ask him.

Your brain was too flat to grasp the situation, you swallowed with difficulty, still motionless. Your body weighed a ton, the slightest movement cost you considerable energy.

His hands went along your waist to pass under your hips, lifting you slightly so that he could get up from the couch, and released you roughly - literally turning you over on the couch. The image of his back made your eyes widen.

"Did you just..."

He moved forward with his hands in his pockets. You got up with difficulty, your body numb, swearing under your breath.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Wait,” you struggled to articulate, the first step off the couch nearly spraining your ankle.

His figure seemed to flee from you, sinking ever further away. The further he went, the more your eyes blurred. You wanted to talk to him. Ask him some questions.

Your feet continued to walk, following him at an almost desperate pace. You just wanted to ask him what he meant by 'maybe it was', if he really meant it. Why was he acting so cold with you now when he seemed different a few hours ago. Why was he was being hot and cold?

"Wait, please, I just want to..."

He didn't slow down, maybe he was speeding up, hands digging deeper into his pockets. You didn't even pay attention to the music and the people around you, your legs focused on his, ready to follow him wherever he went. As usual.

He walked through a door, not bothering to close it, as if he was waiting for you to follow. You rushed into the room, not even caring where you were. It was immediately quieter, as if you were in a private room, away from the cacophony of the party.

“Sae, I…”

He turned around, his usual impassive face.

You stood awkwardly against the wall, not even knowing what to say anymore. The swirl of emotions inside your heart and the alcohol in your blood was a dangerous cocktail that was never going to lead to a healthy and cordial conversation, especially not with Sae.

“You want me back in your life? I don’t understand, you’re the one who left me,” you pointed out in a low and hesitant voice.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at you silently for a few seconds without saying anything before he tilted his head to one side.

“You don’t want to talk about this in my hotel room? I don’t want to be disturbed here.”

You swallowed, considering the idea. You hated how desperate you were acting, but alcohol and Sae didn't mix well on you. As much as it hurt you to admit it, you were still in love with him. Just his gaze had an effect on you, it was dishonest not to realize that. He made you relive feelings and emotions that had been buried for a long time.

You nodded slowly with reluctance, ready to finally answer your questions, and perhaps unravel the mysteries of his heart.

────୨ৎ────

𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐞 - 𝐥𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐣𝐢

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

𖥸

𝐒𝐀𝐄’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖

The drive to his hotel was silent, Sae staring out the window as she stared at her hands, which she was playing with nervously. Sae glanced at her from time to time to admire her. She had never been so pretty and dressed up, he thought. The dress hugged her curves perfectly, and the neckline highlighted her chest and shoulders. He was unable to look anywhere else when she was near him, a bit like before. Artists have muses, Sae was an unconditional fan of hers. Always, and even after their breakup.

Speaking of breakups, Sae didn't know how he was going to handle this situation. He wasn't good at talking about his feelings, or his emotions. For the first time in his life, he was off guard. How was he going to explain to her what he felt? He would have liked her to be able to read him and guess on her own, but it was impossible. He was too impassive and neutral for her to decipher his silences. Sae was an enigma, and for the first time in his life, he wished he were someone else, someone who could say everything with a look.

The driver stopped in front of the hotel. Sae got out first and came to his ex-girlfriend's door and opened it. She looked at him puzzled, probably surprised that he would make such a gallant gesture, but he had to put all the chances on his side if he wanted to get her back tonight. She got out of the car, lifting her dress a little. Sae waved goodbye to the driver and began to walk towards the hotel entrance, her hands in her pockets. She followed him slowly, and looked around. They were in a luxurious area of ​​Madrid. There were chic restaurants next to the hotel.

The silence was heavy. She followed him into the lobby and into the elevator. Once in the elevator, she stared at her feet, nervous. Sae didn't take his eyes off her, it had been three years since he had been deprived of her beauty, he wanted to mentally record the curves of her body and the details of her beautiful face so he would never forget, although she had an unforgettable beauty.

He used his pass to enter his hotel room, but let you go in first. His room was simple and luxurious, everything was tidy and clean. She turned to him and looked at him hesitantly.

"So..."

"Yeah?"

Sae took off her watch and placed it on his wooden dresser.

"My head is spinning," she sat on the sofa, massaging her temples. "I'm sorry if I'm not making sense."

"No problem, do you want some water?" »

She nodded slowly, still puzzled by how nice he was to her.

He handed her a bottle of cold water, and she thanked him. She took a few sips in silence, and looked around the room. There was a large king-sized bed, lots of plants in fancy and classy pots. They were in the "living room" area, where there was a leather couch and a giant television. It smelled like money.

"You know, Rin would like you to answer his messages and talk to him," she started the conversation cautiously.

Sae scoffed and sat on the couch with you, your thighs touching.

« Unlike you, my fool brother is still a failure, I have nothing to say to him. »

She frowned.

“You’re mean. He’s very important to the Japanese team, he’s not a failure at all.”

“He plays soccer to challenge me, not for himself. That’s what I call being a failure,” he leaned his back against the backrest of the couch, and turned his head to her. “You stopped putting me at the center of your passion, that’s why I came to your exhibition. I wanted to see what you were capable of when you stopped thinking about being validated by others.”

He didn’t know when the atmosphere had shifted between them, where they had gone from annoyed and irritated looks to being able to talk openly and calmly. Maybe it was since their day in Madrid or during the charity ball. He saw in her eyes that she was starting too and lowering the barriers she had put around her heart to protect herself from him, and to be vulnerable.

She lowered her head, looking at her water bottle.

"So, if I understand correctly, you want me back in your life because I have evolved and stopped being insecure? You throw me away when I am not to your liking and when it suits you, you want me back?" She spat, her hands clenched.

Maybe he had spoken too quickly. Maybe there were still barriers around her heart and irritation. He rested his head on the backrest, and looked at the ceiling.

"It's not like that," His voice was lower, softer.

"It is like that, Sae. I am not the only one who has been discouraged in his life. Do you want me to remind you of what happened in Spain? It's human to get discouraged sometimes, the most important thing is to be able to bounce back."

Her whole body tensed up when she talked about when he left Japan at a young age to go play in Spain.

"Don't compare yourself to me, we have nothing in common."

His voice was hard, he crossed his hands on his chest.

"Oh yes we are alike Sae. You know, I think you left me because you saw yourself in me. You saw a person losing to others, and ready to give up everything, and it reminded you of yourself."

"You're talking nonsense." Sae closed his eyes, his head still facing the ceiling.

She didn't take her eyes off him and he swore he felt her staring at him even with his eyes closed. She could read him, he knew it.

“You left me when I needed you the most, and now that I’ve moved on, you come back into my life to take me back without apology.” Her eyes burnt him. “Don’t you see the problem?”

He stays silent for a few seconds, and opened his eyes.

“It wasn’t healthy between us,” he tilted his head at her. “You did everything for me, you had no self-confidence anymore. I refuse to be your motivation. You have to fight alone.”

“You blame me for losing confidence in myself while you changed your dream because of the others’ performance in Spain. We are the same, Sae. Two idiots who lost confidence in themselves, and we should have been there for each other.”

He shook his head gently.

“It pushed me to be better somewhere else and work without giving up, while you wanted to stop art completely after losing your contest. We aren’t the same.”

He had a point. Sae hadn’t given up and had worked even harder to achieve his goals while she had given up and was completely paralyzed in her creation.

“It doesn’t change that you had to be there for me instead of abandoning me.” Her voice was a little shaky, Sae saw the vulnerability in her eyes, and he sighed. He leaned against her, closer to her.

“It was necessary. You needed to be alone to be able to regain your self-confidence. I wasn’t…”

His face was inches from hers.

“I wasn’t okay in my head at that time, I needed you too but you were too devastated by your competition. I had to leave. It was what was best for us at that moment.”

She saw the sincerity in his eyes, and her eyes were starting to tear up.

“I didn’t… I never thought you would need me at that moment. I was too… I’m sorry, Sae.” A tear rolled down her cheek, and Sae lifted a finger to wipe the tear away.

“I know, I don’t blame you for that. I just...”

His eyes fell to her lips. His breath caressed her face.

“I just think, now, it’s the right time for us.”

𝐎𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖

You didn’t remember how you ended up on his bed, you just remembered the soft touch of his lips against yours. It had happened so slowly. He had bent down cautiously, questioning your eyes if he had the right to. You nodded, your heart racing. You weren’t in your normal state, the alcohol and the vulnerability of the conversation were making you lose your mind. But you knew that you craved his touch. Right now in his hotel room, you wanted to feel him against you, and don’t think about something else. All the desire buried for years resurfaced in a lightning wave in your body.

He captured your bottom lip between his lips, his tongue sliding over it. He pressed his forehead against yours, and you let out a soft sigh.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you murmured against his lips, “I’m drunk.”

“I think this is a really good idea,” he wrapped his arms around your butt, and lifted you, “the best idea I’ve had.”

He carried you to his king size bed, and placed you delicately on it. You sat, arms back. He leaned down, and pressed soft kisses against your neck, kissing the goosebumps.

“You know, I don’t forgive you for the horrors you said to me that night,” you moved your head to let him more space.

“I know,” he bit your skin, grabbing the flesh between his teeth. You flinched, and your heart raced.

“I still think you were asshole that day.”

“I know,” his lips found yours and they glided over each others, his mouth was hesitant, testing the waters. But he gained confidence and his tongue traced your teeth as he leaned more against you, his body flushing against yours. He kissed you with gentle motions, his tongue teasing and curious. You leaned back, on your elbows.

He dreamed of this. Having you in his arms, tasting your lips. He had missed all that. He loved you, more than you could think.

“At least forgive me tonight,” he whispered against your lips.

“Sex can’t resolve us,” you closed your eyes, kissing him back with the same slowness.

“I can resolve us,” he unbuttoned the first buttons of his shirt, “let me resolve us.”

His nose nuzzled yours, and the motion looked like an Eskimo kiss, and you couldn't help but smile against his lips.

“Idiot.”

“That’s my line,” He finished unbuttoning the buttons of his shirt, and his muscular torso was free. You opened your eyes, and glanced down at his abs.

“You’re more muscular than before,” you whispered while your hands wandered on his abdomen.

“I would be damned if that wasn’t the case. It’s been three years.”

You chuckled softly and continued to caress his torso. You didn’t know why but the tension you felt in his presence had dissipated. Everything was calm and tender between you two. He pressed his forehead again against yours.

“Will you let me resolve us?”

His voice was so soft, you couldn’t remember a time you heard it like that.

“I can repair everything. I can give you what you need now. I won’t let you down like before.”

He lifted his head and pressed a kiss on your forehead.

“I’m proud of you for your art exhibition, by the way. It’s amazing.”

Your eyes watered, and you sniffled, your body tense.

“Don’t do that to me, Sae.”

“Do what?”

He gently laid you down on the bed, his figure hovering over you.

“Saying everything I wanted to hear,” you let him take off your dress as you tried to dry your tears but they continue to flow down your cheeks. He kissed every tears, his mouth wet.

“I’m glad I’m doing the good thing, then,” his lips traced your collar bones, “I've already messed up enough.”

The cold air hit your skin as he undressed you while kissing down your body. His lips traced every lines of your rib cage, his breath caressing your skin. Your skin tingled with shivers every time his mouth landed on you. You dipped your hands in his soft hair, stroking it.

“You were so pretty today,” his tongue flicked around your navel, “I feel blessed to be allowed to look at you.”

Heat came in your face and you were flustered by his words. Your nails grazed at the back of his neck and he let out a soft sigh at the sensation. He trailed kisses down your belly and your hip and he lifted your legs to place your thigh against his cheek and your knuckles on his shoulders. Your heart raced with anticipation as your hands tensed on his hair. A sigh escaped you when he kissed your inner thigh and worked toward your intimate parts. He raised his head, his eyes lingered on yours.

“You didn’t respond.”

“At what?”

“Resolve us. Repair us. Rebuild us,” his fingered slid into you, and you let out a low moan at his motions. His index and middle finger traced circles on your sweet spot, and his eyes were full of desire as he looked at you being riled up.

“I can do better, give you more than you could think,” he thrust his two fingers in you, and he bent down to kiss you and swallowed all of your moans. “I can buy you all the flowers you missed all these years,” he breathed against your lips.

His thumb rubbed against your clit as his fingers moved in and out of you, he closed his eyes while kissing you.

“I can give you everything you want now, I promise.”

You were flustered and didn’t know what to respond at what he was saying. You said everything you wanted to say to him, but you were full of doubts. Could you really forgive him and restart a relationship with him? Will he be there for you when you needed it, there when you would be the most vulnerable?

“I can’t say yes now, Sae,” you wrapped your arms around his neck, “it’s fast for me, but…”

You leaned down, your lips near his ears.

“I can let you resolve us for today,” you whispered, your soft breath brushing his neck.

It was the signal he wanted, needed. He nodded, and began to unbutton his jeans, your slick on his hands. His eyes roamed over your body, and he admired you, lying there, all ready for him. There was a burning desire in his gaze that made you shiver. After taking off his pants, he put his knees on the ground, his face at the level of your crotch, your stomach clenched at the sight. He was so pretty with his eyes shining and his hair undone because of you.

With his callous hands, he grabbed your thighs and spread them in front of him, heat came in your face as you shyly opened your legs for him. It’s been years since you saw him between your thighs. You still remember when you did your first time together, teenagers awkward and hesitant. Now, you were full grow adults, and there was no more awkwardness to your moves.

He began slowly, his fingers parting your folds, his mouth careful and teasing as he licked your arousal. You clenched your thighs and dipped again your hands in his hair. You pushed his head to your cunt, and moaned softly as the tip of tongue wiggled through you. He lifted his eyes, his gaze never leaving you as he slowly buried his nose and mouth deep into your wet folds.

His nose rubbed against your clit as he thrust his tongue in you, and exploring every inch of your twitching hole. You were in heaven, he wasn’t shy with it, but deep in it, his eyes closed, savoring your taste. He was a real eater, he took pleasure seeing you riled up as he fucked you with his tongue.

“Just like that,” you whimpered, lifting your hips in the air, rocking your lower body against him, your hands tugging desperately at his hair.

He plunged his head deeper in you, your slick dripping his chin, and continued his exploration with his tongue. He ate you like you were the best meal in his life, he was so eager. His hands gripped your thighs tightly to keep you from moving too much. You threw your head back in the mattress as you moaned, it’s been fucking three years since you had sex. You were in need, and you grind your cunt into his mouth without embarrassment, you needed it so much. Sae was the only man you fucked with, and it’s stayed that way when you broke up for two reason. One, you didn't believe in love after Sae, and two, nobody could fuck you better than him. He knew everything about you, from where to press his tongue, where to lick, how to suck your clit. He knew everything about you, and was an expert at pleasing you.

When your pussy clenched around his mouth, he knew your orgasm approached. He stopped using his tongue and focused only on your clit which he sucked vigorously, making your legs shake against his head. He made lewd sounds, you were dripping with arousal. As you were seeing stars and your orgasm traveled your body and left you without energy, he stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You look beautiful like this, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚,” he took off his boxer and placed a knuckle on the bed, “sit on me.”

“Sit on you?”

“Yeah,” he sat on the bed and looked at you intently.

You stood up on your elbows, and tilted your head.

“You want me to ride you?”

He nodded, and grabbed your arms to pull you onto his lap. You looked down, he was already hard, his cock brushed your entrance as you were sat on his lap. He pulled a condom out of his bedside table and passed it to you to put on. As you wrapped the condom around his cock, you remembered how the cowgirl was his favorite position, and obviously still the case.

“Why do you love this position so much?” you chuckled as you lifted you ass and sank into him while closing your eyes.

He wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you closer, “I love looking at you.”

“Liar, you’re just lazy,” you teased him and rocked your hips against him.

He scoffed and grabbed your hips.

“Shut up,” he pushed down on your hips, making you take fully his length and you placed your head on his shoulders, sighing softly.

“No,” he lifted one hand to wrap it around your throat, “look at me.”

You were forced to look at him, and you got lost in his gaze. Your eyes were telling everything you couldn’t say, they were convey your feelings. They were telling all the doubts you had in your heart, your fear about the future, and the love you had for him, even though it was buried deep in you for three years. It was so intimate. He caressed your neck as he gently gripped at it, his eyes never leaving you. You loved being handled by him, leaving the control to him, letting him take the lead even though you were the one on top of him.

Like a slow dance, you rode him, undulating your hips on him, your left hand on the one that was on your neck, the right on shoulders. He didn't take his eyes off you as you rocked your hips against him, you were the most beautiful thing in his life. His gaze on you electrified your senses, you loved how his eyes were feverish, craving you. You felt sexy in his eyes, and it’s been a while since you felt that way.

You bounced your ass up and down, and he released your throat to lean back on his elbows, his hands on your hips. He thrust into you, plunging in and out, and you lost balance.

“Hey,” you fell on his torso, but he didn’t stop his motions, and lifted his hips to fuck you more intensely. You placed your hand over your mouth to muffle your moans, but it was in vain, anyone who passed by the room would hear your shaky voice and understand what was happening.

He grabbed your ass and pulled you even more closer to him, sinking his cock in you. It felt so good, your nails scratched his bare torso as you whimpered every time his cock brushed your cervix. He was so focused on fucking that he made no noise. You tilted your head, looking at him.

“You know I love when you make noise, don’t stay silent.”

“You want me to say “you’re so pretty” ten million times tonight like an idiot?”

You chuckled.

“Yeah,” you smiled softly, “I would like that.”

“Pfff,” he rolled his eyes, but he captured your hips in his hands and turned you over so you were on your back.

“You’re so pretty,” he said the first time as he plunged his cock into you, and his breath hitched. You wanted to wrap your legs around his waist but he shook his head and grabbed your thighs to put them on his shoulders. The new angle made his thrusts deeper and more intense and you gasped his name.

“You’re so pretty,” he panted out the second time as he rutted into you, his cock stretching you to his size. Your hands gripped the pillow behind you, and you moaned uncontrollably, completely oblivious to the possibility of anyone hearing you. You felt his breath on your face as he panted softly in your ears.

“You’re so pretty” he whispered a third time, against you lips as he kissed you while fucking you slowly. He pushed in his cock back in you with a measured rhythm, focusing on the sensation rather than jackhammering you. He pressed his forehead against yours, looking at you with a tender gaze.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you inhaled, gasping for breath. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes.

“Me too,” his voice was soft, like a whisper. And in that moment, you felt that the whisper came from his heart.

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

────୨ৎ────

𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 – 𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐞𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

𖥸

It had been three weeks since your night with Sae and you were back in Tokyo for your best friend Naho's wedding. You hadn't spoken to Sae since because you had asked him for time to think about it all.

Standing in the line of bridemaids, you stood straight and smiling, your heart softened by the sight of your best friend in her wedding dress, while her father guided her to her husband who had the same big smile as you when he saw his future wife.

It was a sunny day, the sky was blue and the weather was perfect for this ceremony. You had spent hours getting ready, it was as much an important day for you as it was for your best friend. You had been through so much together, you wished her nothing but happiness with her future husband. She was a pillar in your life, you would never have missed such an important day for her.

Everyone had respected the dress code: white and pink. All the bridemaids wore long pink strapless dresses with a slit, and a high sophisticated bun. Even the men had played along, and the garden of the castle where the wedding was held was filled with white and pink roses. You had of course participated in the decoration, just as Naho had helped you with your art exhibition.

You constantly had a smile on your face, your mind at ease. Everyone was in a good mood, there were only smiles and laughter while you ate, and tears of joy when they said "yes" to each other.

You wondered what it felt like to be married. To love someone so much that you would bear their name, and you chose to be bound together forever. What it felt like to wear the ring that symbolized your love, what it felt like to walk up to the priest, bouquet of flowers in hand, eyes fixed on you.

When she threw her bouquet of flowers behind her, you were the one to pick it up. And at that precise moment, your hands holding the bride's bouquet of flowers, you noticed that Sae was walking towards you.

You blinked several times, thinking you were dreaming, forgetting the world around you. But it was real. Dressed in a pink suit and a white shirt, he was walking towards you, his eyes fixed on you. His agent was following behind him.

Whispers rose in the garden, no one expected a celebrity to be present at the wedding. You looked for Naho, then when your eyes met, she winked at you, and that's when you understood. She had planned everything for you, even on her wedding day, she was thinking of you.

Sae stopped in front of you, and you couldn't help but admire how handsome he was with his hair moving because of the wind, his tie a little loose and his bright green eyes. He looked like a prince, and for once, he didn't have that ice prince look anymore. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers in his hand, the roses were your favorite color.

You swallowed, nervous to see him. You took a few steps forward, a few inches away from him.

“Sae?” you whispered, still feeling like you were in a dream, “What are you doing here?”

“I was invited,” he handed you his bouquet of flowers, “though I’m not here for the bride.”

You took his bouquet, hands shaking. You didn’t know what to think. You had dodged his messages after your passionate night, needing to think. But now, he was in front of you, and you couldn’t dodge anymore.

“Can we go somewhere quiet?” He held out his elbow to you.

Everyone was looking at you, whispering speculations in your ear.

“Of course,” you took his elbow, intertwining your arms together.

You walked towards the castle, your heart racing. You didn’t know what to say to him, or what to discuss. You wanted to tell him that he was handsome, smelled good, and left you speechless, but nothing came out of your mouth.

"So..."

"Yeah, so..." you cleared your throat.

“How’s it going with the interior designer?” he started with a light topic of discussion.

You smiled.

“Good, I’m going back to see her in two weeks in Madrid,” you answered him proudly.

“Good,” he nodded.

You stopped near the castle, and he let go of your elbow to stand in front of you.

"I have a gift for you," he pulled a small box out of his pocket.

Your heartbeat quickened.

"A gift?"

"Yes, hold out your hand."

You held out your hand to him, your body tense because of your nervousness. He opened the box, and took out a thin ring with small diamonds all around it. You opened your eyes wide, not expecting that.

"It's a promise ring," he gently took your hand in his to slip the ring on your finger. “If I can’t propose to you now, I promise to never hurt you like I did before.”

Your eyes stung and watered, you were speechless. He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss on it.

“Have you thought about it? I mean, both of us.”

“Yes, I have,” you nodded softly and wiped away the few tears that fell with your other hand, “damn it, my makeup.”

He came closer to you, and leaned down to kiss your cheeks, where the tears fell, intercepting them. His touch was so soft, so sweet and so pleasant, you closed your eyes for a moment.

“And…?”

“I…”

His lips were placing kisses all over your face, and moving up to your forehead.

“I’m still scared.”

“I know.”

“But…”

You looked up at him, and gave him a soft smile.

“I’m ready to trust you again.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he murmured against your forehead.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and looked at you with a tender gaze.

“I feel like I’m turning into a marshmallow because of you.”

You chuckled softly.

“I’m glad to hear that,” your smile grew, and you ran your hands through his hair.

He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours.

“So there is an us?”

You nodded, still smiling.

"You better draw a summer solstice, we're not in the winter solstice anymore."

You tilted your head, confused.

"What are you talking about?"

He tightened his embrace around you. "Your 'winter solstice' painting that you made during our breakup. I refuse to let it be your last creation about us. Things have changed between us. I have changed."

Your heart was filled with indescribable emotions, and you felt your eyes moisten again.

"No more dull colors, no more sinister winters. Only sunny days, happy faces and bright colors. A summer solstice."

You closed your eyes, and you imagined yourself walking with your wedding dress, bouquet of flowers in hand, towards Sae, and it felt good, right. You still needed to talk to him about so many things, to talk about the future and the past, but you had all the time in the world.

And on this sunny day, it was now your turn to tell him your "yes".

𓍯 𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Beep Cute | Steve Rogers x Reader | Oneshot - 1.1k words

When some ass on a motorbike splashes you, leaving your sandwich and coffee on the sidewalk, you decide to follow them and give them a piece of your mind.

Warnings: language, angry meet-cute, reader is described as shorter than Steve. Fluffy nonsense 🥰

Divider by @firefly-graphics

For @avengers-assemble-bingo Spring Bingo "floral decorations"

Masterlist | Steve Rogers | Spring Bingo

As if your day couldn’t get any worse, it rained. Not the kind of autumnal drizzle that accompanied most days since you moved to New York, but torrential, fierce, bullets of rain that pounded on your flimsy umbrella and soaked you from your toes up. At least you had a warm sandwich and a huge coffee to console yourself with when you got back to your apartment. It was this thought that had you losing focus as you strayed too close to the road and the growing puddles that lined each street corner, forming ponds on the crossings and reflecting the angry, grey sky back up at itself. 

A horn blared, shocking you from your thoughts half a second before a tidal wave of murky, puddle water soaked you from the neck down. 

“What the fuck!” You shouted, eyeing the motorbike as it sped down the road, dodging between the traffic. Your coffee lay at your feet, mixing with the equally dark water pooling around your shoes. The carefully prepared and wrapped sandwich hadn’t fared any better, the deli paper now soggy and falling apart. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!” You fumed, squeezing your eyes tight to stop your tears from falling. You wouldn’t cry, but you would get even. 

The motorbike stopped at the lights, giving you a chance to catch up, before turning a corner and making its way into an underground garage. Whoever was riding was big, a soft looking brown leather jacket stretched across their shoulders, maybe too big to be challenge? But one thought of the delicious sandwich, now a soggy mess on the floor, gave you the courage to continue your pursuit. 

Rounding the side of the building you found the entrance, huge glass and steel walls towered over the grand atrium, probably some bank or something, especially considering the mass of people swarming in at this time. It took a while for you to get in, but as soon as you did you wondered how you were even going to find this person amid the crowds. 

 You contemplated asking at the front desk, it was decorated in a spray of spring flowers, bunnies, eggs, daffodils and tulips that were a contrast to the various groups dressed in odd, all black, military uniforms that milled around the elevators.

You joined the queue of other visitors, watching the animations of bunnies hopping along the crisp white reception desk among blooming flowers and fluttering grass. How ridiculously ostentatious. Who even watered the flowers? How much had all this nonsense cost just for the identikit staff to walk past without evening noticing.

But before you could reach the front of the queue the lift opened revealing a familiar looking leather jacket. Now in dry jeans and trainers, but still with damp hair. 

“Hey!” You shouted again, this time the man looked up, his blonde hair falling in front of his face briefly before he could swipe the wet locks back with his hands. 

“Hi!” He said cheerily, holding his hand out, “always nice to meet fans, I can’t stop though.” He smiled in a strange way, both friendly and cold, as if this wasn’t quite his real smile but something practised and placed. 

“I’m not a fan, quite the fucking opposite.” You brushed his hand back and he bristled briefly, taking on a wider stance and glancing at the small group he had left to speak to you. 

“Can I help you, Ma’am?” 

“Yes, you fucking can. First I want an apology-” 

“An apology?” 

“Yes! For splashing me so rudely and knocking my lunch out of my hands and then, and then -” your anger was catching up with you, winding you as you tried to stare down the man towering above you, but it was difficult given your wet hair and several inches of height he had over you. “— then you owe me for my lunch, by the way, which I was really looking forward to.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am, I had no idea I’d stopped you from having your food, what if I-” 

“Is that it? What gives you the fucking right to behave like that, what if I didn’t find you? Huh? Would you still say sorry? No, probably not. You city boys, you’re all the same, so rude.” 

The man smiled again, not the calculated toothless grimace he’d attempted early, but a wide smile, then he laughed. 

"City boys?"

"You know what I mean, bankers, hedge funder-ers — whatever you're called."

“Bankers?” He was holding back a laugh very unsuccessfully.

“Yes, bankers, all so rude and, and, and, privileged!” 

“You think this is a bank?” 

“Yes…” Suddenly you weren’t sure, was it a bank? You looked around again, noticing the Stark logo on one of the lifts in the corner, the other lifts had a large 'A' with an a-symetrical tail and…fuck. Oh, fuck, this wasn’t a bank at all. “Oh.” 

“Oh?” 

“This is Avengers tower?” 

“Yes.” The man nodded and, oh shit, now you looked properly, not just any man. Steve fucking Rogers, Captain America. You looked around, the rest of the reception area had already gone quiet to watch your interaction and you’d be damned if you backed down now. America’s golden boy or not, he’d been rude and you wanted your compensation. 

“That’s even worse!” 

He smiled again, pulling you by the elbow, scanning a security pass quickly and closing the door behind you. 

“You can’t kidnap me!” Although you wanted to sound firm and authoritative, it came out as more of a shriek. “Let me go!” 

“Hey, hey.” Steve held his hands up, spreading them wider than his shoulders and stepping back, “I just didn’t want you all over the papers or something.” 

Through your heavy breaths you managed to calm down, looking him over again. He really didn’t seem to want to hurt you and, now the initial shock of the situation had worn off, he also looked very, very sorry. 

“I really didn’t mean to splash you, or make you lose your lunch. Please let me make it up to you?” He offered, lowering his hands slowly. 

“How?” 

“Well…We’ve got spare clothes here, you can have them, whoever your favourite Avenger is, there’s sweatpants and sweaters, whatever you want, you can have it, and then when you’re dry, please let me take you to lunch.” 

“You want to take me to lunch?” You raised an eyebrow, “not just give me some Avengers cheque? Me and you, lunch?” 

“Only if you want to.” Steve let his smile soften, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “I don’t want to put any pressure on you, I just thought…well, it could be fun?”

“It could be fun,” You agreed, allowing yourself a small smile too. 

“Great, lets get you some clean clothes.” Steve bounced towards the door again, holding his hand out for you to follow, “who’s your favourite Avenger?” He asked, looking hopefully. 

“Oh, uhm… Thor?” 

“Thor!?” 

Steve’s face dropped and you laughed, taking his hand.

[hananan2]

Hello! Can I request for pinky promise fluff with Diasomnia for F reader? For example, reader (Yuu) who said something like “I want to visit xxx” and the boys are like “Okay, I will take you there someday.” Then the reader lifts her pinky “pinky promise?” While staring with hopeful and cutesy stare.

Let’s just say there are no pinky promise culture in twisted wonderland so they did not know what to do, but the boys are already down bad for her already so they thought she is horrifyingly cute while explaining it to them. Thanks! ❤️❤️

YES OMG CUTE!! But omg I can not imagine a world without pinky promises they live in hell🥀 Hope you enjoy!!💕

Pinky Promise…?

A/N: BACK FROM THE DEAD! I’ll die again though, I have testing this full week 💔 thank you for staying with me, I’ll still post, just infrequently, love you guys sm and thank you for the support 💕

Summary: You were rambling with your special boy about something and a promise is made, to which you stick out your pinky finger to his face…but he’s confused, uh how do you explain this?

Characters: Malleus Draconia, Lilia Vanrouge, Silver Vanrouge and Sebek Zigvolt!

Info: Fluff, Romantic (crushes), Fem!reader, silly

CW: Gang signs??? (It was a mistake💔)

Malleus Draconia

Tonight was so majestic. The sky was space black and you could almost see the the stars, their brightness glimmering against a small pond with flowers engraved in, and the best thing, A tall Malleus by you side.

You nightly walks had lead to walking somewhere a bit farther, but it was okay since it was pretty as hell, “It’s so gorgeous out here, wow… I just think this is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You remarked with awe sparked eyes, Malleus on your side looked at you with fondness, “I do agree that this is quite a exquisite landscape, though there is a plenty variety of more enticing views, many of which I have seen in Briar Valley that would perhaps grown fond of as well.” He stated softly, he noticed your eyes sparkling by just seeing this place and he wonders if they would grow bigger and shiner if you saw what he’s seen.

“Ooo Briar valley does look really pretty! I’ve seen my photos and it looks so mythical and magical, it would be really nice to see it in person!” You said with a cheery tint. This felt like a memory of a really old pretty place and it was making you happy, pretty places are really great, but their Better with Malleus here.

Malleus chuckled a little seeing your excitement, he put his hand on his chin and his eyes looked over to look at you as you both stepped on the slightly rocky path, “Then I shall bring you soon, it is even more breathtaking in reality.” He smiled, you smiled. “Really!? Promise?” You exclaimed gleefully, “Oh yes indeed.” He stated, eyes full of love, but they soon fluttered into confusion as you pulled out your pinky finger to his.

He had no idea what to do and stopped walking, you both kinda stared at eachother, no one dare breaking the eye contact, till you felt his hand grab your pinky and hand shake it?? “Oh yes Child of Man, I agree.” He does NOT know what he is agreeing to. “Is this how you humans agree upon something? I can’t I’ve seen Silver do such things…” Malleus trailed off, still shook your pinky.

”Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t know you didn’t have these here… yea it’s a “human” thing, uhm it’s a bit of childish to explain.” You murmured, looking away, you pinky started to get warm. Oh my gosh you’re a baby.

Haha cute. “It’s alright Child of Man, I’d like to know about the human culture, so I think starting off from infantry traditions would be quite helpful.” He said, finally let go of your pinky, but he liked holding it, very warm and small, he wondered what your whole hand would feel like.

”Okay so whenever we make a promise, we intertwine our pinky fingers together and say “pinky promise” to make the promise more meaningful and as a way to assure that it won’t be broken, that’s it honestly.” You informed, you enjoyed explaining it though, you felt smart for once and you were happy he was interested.

You soon felt a warm around your pinky again, but it wasn’t a whole hand this time, just a pinky, intertwining.

“I Pinky promise Child of Man I shall take you to Briar Valley one day.” He said we fondness, he liked this tradition, he felt more connected to you, more like a kid, blending into a personality he didn’t know he had.

“Okay!” You smiled, holding his entire hand, both your cheeks dusted rose. Diasomnia better get ready for pinkies in their face all the time because you’ve sparkled a habit in him now.

Lilia Vanrouge

Here you guys were, going through boxes among boxes, gosh did it never end? Lilia had been trying to find a “secret” item from his past for some reason, but he had hid it away in the boxes of his closet that he brought to NRC. You were there too because of course you were, but also because you were trying to coax the secret out of him

“Liliaa tell me geez, it’s just the past, it can’t be that bad” you groan as you help take out each hefty box, not being allowed to open them to your dismay

“Oh you don’t even know an inch of my past…” he chuckled, annoying, but at least he was going through pain too while trying to find this object, his room a mess, looking like an Amazon warehouse, oh they don’t have these here do they?

“Ughhh” you hiss, grabbing his shoulder, shaking him, “Listen, I pinky promise I won’t tell anyone or get mad, I just don’t like you treating me like a kid and I want to know what your hiding or I’ll assume something realllyyyyy bad!” You stuck out your pinky, hoping for it to latch with his.

“Sigh alright alright… so- what are you doing?” His face was colored with an expression of bewilderment once looking at your pinky. “Wow I didn’t know you hated me so much…” he sighs dramatically, suddenly crossing a hand over his heart and slumping over.

“What? Huh?” You call out, your response getting made with fake cries, “it’s a pinky promise! You never heard of it? Also how is that offensive??” You NEED to know, you actually feel kinda bad.

His false misery ends with him laughing up a storm and you look at him, not impressed. “Okay, okay sorry,” he patted your cheeks while he chuckled one last time, “back in my day, Fae used this sign with their pinkies to call someone a…is alt dumb idiotic fool and a bastard, very offensive, some died from using it to the wrong people!” He explained ominously, looking mischievous.

Well you looked horrified. “Oh my gosh I’m so sorry!! Don’t kill me or anything!! We use pinky promise to make a really secure promise…honestly it’s a really childish thing to do u had no idea it could ever mean THAT.” You apologized rapidly, he giggled. His pinky latching on yours.

“Oh don’t be an overthinker, if was an honest mistake, besides, Fae need to be inclusive to other cultures! Just wouldn’t recommend doing that in Briar Valley…” he trialed off as he shook your pinky with his, enjoying your silliness and tradition, it was nice for soothing for hurtful and bad to be transformed into something positive, and it’s always you who does it huh? Blessing.

“Yes yes of course…but tell me!” You insist, he gives up.

“Okay… I’m looking for A record of one of my most cherished songs…” he admits defeated.“Um. Is it illegal or something? I don’t get why you’re acting like you’ll get a felony if anyone knows about it…” you admit, underwhelmed., pinkies still interlocked.

“Because it’s a cult Classic and I will not let anyone take this master peice of a song away from me! Oh! Here it is, it was sealed off by magic. I’ll give you a listen since I trust you so very much, you should be glad.”

You give him the pinky again, but not for a promise.

“Hey!”

Lets just say, there will be many misunderstandings from now on, but he loves you, it’s okay.

Silver Vanrouge

When your in Twisted Wonderland, you can’t help being curious about everything, today curiosity? Flowers.

So you set off to a small trip to Botanical Garden with your very limited free time, no plan, no directions, just a dream and hope to find something out.

As you steps through all the lush, you suddenly find a flower, oh wait no, it’s just Silver, sleeping peacefully like he belonged in the grass, usually you wouldn’t wake him up, but it was late sooo. “Mm Silver?” You poke his cheek while crouching to his level

“Hm…? Hm! Oh Y/N it’s you, my apologies you’ve found me in this state…” his cheeks tinted as he got caught lacking by you, but was it because of that or something else?

“Your fine, i don’t mind! Just concerned since its getting late, so why are you in here?” You assure, he fixes his posture and looks at you with intent, cheeks pink still.

“Ah, as you know I’ve been trying to find a remedy for my sleeping issues. Recently father had found a book from his ancient archive on strong herbs and flowers that are very effective for potions, so I came here to see if I could locate the items to help my cause, no luck.” He explained slowly, wanting you to understand fully and sound more proper. Whenever he talked to you, he couldn’t help but wanting to talk a bit faster, he needs to stop that.

Flowers? “Oh flowers? I’ve been interested in that topic the whole day and I really wanted to learn more about it! I’m so happy someone’s on the same page as me, that’s so cool!” He loved the way you glimmered when you expressed strong emotions.

He smiled fondly, “I could ask father for you to borrow the book for a bit, if course you’d have to take exceptional care if it and agree to his terms and conditions, but it’s possible.” He stated softly, patting the patch of grass next to him for you to sit closer, you did with joy.

“Really? Thank you, you’re amazing! I will! Pinky promise?” You pointed you finger to him, so now his softness was replaced with something you didn’t see often, a confused Silver.

“Oh uhm…sorry I don’t know if my father has any books about pinky promises, I’ve never heard of that before…” he stared at your finger not knowing what to do, you put your hand down and giggled.

“Oh I didn’t know they didn’t have those here… kinda depressing…sorry! Basically it’s a tradition from my world where when we want to make a strong promise, we use our pinky and interlock them to make it final!” You explained calmly, his calmness rubbing off on you. Silly Billy you are.

“Oh alright, That makes sense, thank you, yes here.” He raises his hand sticks out his pinky, “go ahead, my lady.” Hello mutters serenely as he died from being flustered.

You interlocked pinkies, the touch so small, yet making his whole body pink, and then you felt his body weight on you, silly fell asleep mid promise.

You sit there quietly, enjoying the weight and silence, his silver hair rubbing against your shoulder, pinkies remaining locked.

Since that day you’ve been receiving flowers from little critters more frequently than ever, each carrying a note talking about the flowers significance. And also since that day, he always uses pinky promises because he adores holding that part of you in him. Oh he loves your glimmer.

Sebek Zigvolt

“Okay im going to make a deal with you so good you can’t deny!” You declare loudly to Sebek to match his energy. Set the scene, Sebek and you. sitting in his dorm, thighs slightly touching yes this is important because it’s making you both red! Both of you are doing a collage-poster- board study of some of the best magic wielders in Twisted wonderland, we all know who Sebek chose, but sadly for him, he didn’t know how to use a printer. “Such thing is not possible human since my self control is at its highest and is strengthening everyday!” He responds offendedly to your previous comment, looking at you, because he is mad of course and not because of that pretty face trust.

“I’ll get you VERY high quality and amazing pictures of Malleus…and a secret about him as well…” whisper ominously “If you stop screaming in my ear and treat me like the Queen I am for the time being!” How mischievous.

He is in between unimpressed and impressed. “I can’t know just things about my liege…he should tell me himself…” he curled up into a ball and kid his face, murmuring to himself like the demons in his head ate taking over. (It’s just him himself)

You pat his shoulder to calm him a little, “your not going to get castrated breathe…” you whisper calmly, “what?! No! Ugh, alright! I agree!” He admits. Face red, making sure you don’t see it, but fortunately for your amusement, his ears give it away.

Great! Now you just gotta seal it with a pinky promise! C’mon!” You poke his face with your pinky, waiting for his with a goofy smile. “Stop…” he mumbled, picking his head up. “What is the meaning of this.” He raises an eyebrow at you. “Pinky Promise! I pinky promise I’ll tell you an epic Malleus secret if you behave!” You proudly restate, his mind is shambles at trying to figure this out.

“Is this one of your silly human traditions?” He stares at you with his arms crossed, not looking forward to this.

“Oh my gosh! You don’t know what a pinky promise is? Okay okay so!” You yap about all the meaning and significance of pinky promises with joy radiating from you,. And surprisely, there are no interruptions and only head nods and “hms.” Your joy soothes his hatred for humans, he can’t help go a little soft when he sees you explain something so happily, it reminds him of himself when he discusses Malleus, who is he to interrupt?

“I see I see…I’m not sure if I am willing of doing such silly human traditions but…” Holy mother of Malleus Draconia he can’t help not deny you, his pinky latches to your, squeezing it tight, face facing downwards again due to his face being even brighter, his ears are still a loss cause as they’re tinted red, you don’t ever plan on telling him. You just laugh, you could say he loved tomfoolery.

“Now before you share everything with me, I shall get you some water.” He states clearly in a gentle and quiet manner, when he pinky promises he means it.

Little do you know, everyone shall hear about the tradition of pinky promises now because your he feels the need to share your joy.

[mandalhoerian]

(2) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Eight years ago, during the worst summer festival of your life, you cross paths with a certain seal for the first time.

genre: fluff, comedy | wc: 4K | read on ao3

< previous | next >

note: YES, THIS IS A SERIES! I hope you'll bear with me as I'm not actively editing/proofreading my writing and am going with the flow for the most part. Rafayel will also stay as a seal in the next chapter which centers around how he came to be smitten with the reader, so PLEASE PLEASE HANG TIGHT WE'RE GETTING THERE. I hope you enjoy!!!!

Ah, sweet summer festival. You're fifteen.

The entire archipelago is in motion tonight — a grand spectacle brought to life in the unofficial capital Salverna, which is also where you were born and raised, by throngs of locals with visitors pouring in from the mainland for an evening of festivities. Decorated boats crawl like jeweled beetles across the bay beneath a moonbeam sky, torches flickering like amber blossoms amidst colorful lanterns suspended overhead, painting faces in warm splashes of light. Instruments are tuned to perfect pitch, ready to launch into jigs and reels once revelers spill into dancing rings. Children sprint around bonfires with cheeks flushed by sugar, laughter ringing like silver bells in the breeze. Farther along, games fill the streets — prizes stuffed inside balloons perched precariously atop slender sticks, targets waiting to be pierced by dart tips, bobbing heads eager for coins — competing for attention with the delectable aroma of spiced sausage, roasted meat, skewers, sticky cinnamon treats, and fresh fruit piled high for sampling. Even the night's salty breath tastes like sunshine, and despite everything feeling faintly familiar, somehow still manages to seem entirely fresh.

If only you'd been there from the beginning.

No, you were here. The whole day.

At the docks, which is the farthest away from the main event.

Hauling seafood and chasing down lost tourists like some unpaid festival guide.

The family ferry business consisting of multiple vessels is the only one making direct trips between the mainland and the archipelago. Usually, things run smoothly — your parents know this route like the back of their hands, and during normal weeks, the boats run on a fairly consistent schedule with only the occasional minor detour to accommodate delayed travelers. Renting smaller boats out to tourists helps maintain some steady income for maintenance expenses during quieter months, although the real money comes from transporting passengers year-round.

But big events like this summer festival change everything. The mainland port is overflowing with people packed like sardines in a tin, and everyone scrambles for transport space like sharks smelling blood. It's impossible to accommodate every arrival simultaneously, even though Dad doubled the ferry service to operate nearly nonstop — one boat shuttling incoming guests while its twin carries locals back and forth between islands, and even then it isn't enough. People are forced to wait hours for passage, which inevitably leads to chaos erupting.

And the locals ferry doesn't just transport passengers. It hauls festival supplies — crates of seasonal produce shipped to the islands via mainland distributors, stacks upon stacks of boxes labeled FRAGILE in thick black marker, paper fans for the parade, props for the pageant, a seemingly endless list of necessary items for the vendors, bands, food stands, street performers, the barrels of festival cider rolling onto the deck, stacks of pastries needing careful hands to avoid toppling, baskets of flowers meant for decorating stalls that nearly got crushed in the shuffle — you name it — the list of deliveries keeps growing by the hour. And no one has extra hands to spare to deliver all this cargo to its final destinations.

Well, actually, one person does. Namely, you.

It started small. Mom catching you right as you tried to slip away this morning, asking to help with boarding real quick, and if you could take some packages along the way... It was easy to agree, at first — help a few elderly tourists steady themselves as they stepped from the ferry, answer questions from confused festival-goers trying to navigate between islands, toss a sack or two over your shoulder for the vendor working nearby. But an hour later, you were hauling half a crate uphill when one of the wheels broke loose, scattering fireworks across cobblestones in glittering disarray, leaving you running through town chasing them all down under curious gazes of the locals who saw the explosion...

And the moment the ferry docked, suddenly it was all hands on deck. One trip in, another out. Then, next thing you knew, you were the one handling tickets and guiding stragglers toward their destination, organizing groups, shouting helpful tips about what to avoid and what not to eat so you are not about to have people get sick on board and clean off their vomit, answering questions about local attractions and restaurant specialties, calling out to Dad who drove the ferry like it was child's play, warning the older folks and kids not to fall off because the last thing your family really needs is to be sued by someone stupid falling overboard...

And the entire time, you were in the dress you'd picked out specifically for the occasion. Thinking one more trip, and you could finally join your friends in the festivities...

A whole shift later, there are no celebrations awaiting you. No bonfire parties with the music so loud and joyous you could feel it thrumming through the ground, no crowded bars filled to bursting with cheerful singing and dancing, no raffle stalls offering chances to win souvenirs and free meals for years, no fireworks bursting across the night sky so brilliant they chased away the darkness.

Just you with your dress ruined and ripped because someone couldn't watch where they were going while drunk and collided straight into you and left you soaked in cheap beer, and the hem of it torn apart from you desperately trying to fix your mistake after misplacing the boxes of merch you were supposed to haul, again. Your friends probably already enjoying every aspect of the event, laughing their asses off in pure delight without caring for what you missed or had endured all day, knowing you were supposed to arrive with them to witness the greatest part of the summer celebration together.

With angry tears gathering at the inner corners of your eyes, you let the bags drop onto the dock with a harsh thump, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Maybe you're expecting an argument. Maybe you want to pick a fight because the frustration had been stewing ever since you woke up today and demanded release. Or maybe you hope your father would give you permission to go enjoy your own life, rather than force you to suffer his. But none of those comes to pass. Instead, he merely glances up with a tired look, holding your resentful stare before sighing heavily and scrubbing his face wearily with calloused, wrinkled hands.

“You said it would be quick,” you snap, voice shaking. “You said I could go like hours ago. The day is over!"

You choke back the wobble in your tone, biting harshly into your lower lip, hoping it'll prevent tears from leaking out even though it hardly hurts enough to distract you.

"Look, we're in the middle of peak season..."

"Which means peak profit for our business! Couldn't you have just hired someone extra to fill in?! Why did it have to be me?!"

"No other staff is available on such a short notice, especially during a big event." Dad shrugs weakly in apology, the gesture lacking any defensiveness or remorse. He looks drained, exhausted. And still, his priorities remain firmly fixed elsewhere. "Sorry, honey. Next week I'm hiring additional staff permanently, but for now — just one more hour, okay? You know we don't extend our services after the night falls and that's why—"

“No!” The frustration spills over before you can swallow it down. “It’s never ‘just a little longer.’ It’s always one more trip, one more errand, one more thing! I’m always the one stuck here!”

Dad frowns and straightens his spine slowly like a looming anime villain, wiping sweat from his brow. "Don't raise your tone on me like that, I'm not one of your little friends. This is nothing. When you become captain, you'll have to endure far more work."

"I did everything you ask and suddenly my tone is the issue?!" You gesture wildly at your ruined dress, at the damp stains and torn fabric clinging to your skin. “Look at me! I was supposed to be there with everyone else, and now I can’t even show up like this—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Dad's voice turns sharp, exasperated. “It’s just a dress.”

"And now everyone probably hates me because I've skipped yet another celebration and ghosted them!" you huff and puff like an enraged bull despite his interruption.

"What's going on?" Mom hurries over from the harbor shop, stepping between you and your father before tempers flare even further. She takes in the scene at a glance and sighs deeply — though whether out of disappointment or irritation, you can't tell — carefully setting aside several stacks of receipts. "Are you two seriously bickering about nonsense when you should both be working?"

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m sick of this!” You throw your hands into the cold, humid sea breeze as though casting your complaints upon the tides, unable to keep the tremble from your fingers or the tears from streaking down your face. Hot drops patter against the faded wood planks beneath your feet. "“I work just as hard as you do, I never say no, but the second I want something for myself—"

Mom immediately gets what's going on, and alerts you to lower your voice by pointedly widening her eyes and thinning her lips. The entire dock is witnessing the argument and turning their heads to listen in at this point, but you don't care. Everybody should hear about this injustice.

"Yes, honey, I know," Mom hisses, "And we appreciate how hard you're trying, believe me. But — just one more trip, alright? Your friends will wait a bit longer for you, won’t they? Don't forget this isn't just about you. The archipelago depends on us running our business steadily and reliably."

And there it is. That unspoken expectation, that quiet assumption that you’ll always choose responsibility over what you want. That you’ll always understand.

Your throat tightens, choking back the bitterness burning in the pit of your stomach, and for a long moment, neither you nor your mom break the silence, and her stare remains fixed somewhere above your shoulder. Only Dad says anything, grunting a vague affirmative that tells you nothing more than your mother did; work must come first, whatever personal sacrifice must be made for that to happen.

You step back. “Forget it.”

“Honey—”

“I said forget it!”

You're running hot and cold, the rush of blood in your ears don't let your parents' protests in as you rush into the only place where you can be alone right now, the ticket counter cabin with the "CLOSED" sign on it, slamming the door shut behind you loudly and letting the cool glass barrier isolate you from the rest of reality. It's just you inside. There's a desk, empty paperwork piled neatly at the corner, a cash register. An old computer screen covered by dust. Shelves crammed with stacked-up folders and manuals. A window overlooking the harbor. This is also the place to leave your belongings at before clocking into work, just beside the locker of where the attendant usually leaves theirs.

On a whim, you snatch up your jacket and backpack before fleeing out into the crowd again. It's so easy to lose your parents along the wharf because of the teeming masses.

Your phone is buzzing rapidly in your bag with Dad and Mom both probably threatening to drag you back by your ear, so you take it out and switch to airplane mode before tossing it back in with a grimace. You're not allowed to be out this late without supervision (much less sneaking away from work), but right now, there's not an adult in existence that could compel you to walk willingly back into this mess. Screw it. Being grounded for life isn't any worse than being imprisoned on this stupid island forever anyway, you think, huffing quietly in protest as you stomp down the street. Besides, if worst comes to worst, you can spend some time with Aunt Leen. At least she wouldn't judge.

The festival feels a million miles away. You can’t go there, not in this state, stains everywhere, smelling like fish and sweat and regret, dress ripped apart. So, instead, you end up wandering along the rocky beach near the outer edge of town, in parallel to the protected seal rookery islet offshore and well beyond the boundaries of the town proper. The bright, swirling glow of the firework display across the water glints in the dark, mingling with distant stars and overshadowing the full moon, reflecting off rippling waters like flickering embers dancing across a glossy obsidian surface. The waves roll gently across sand and stone in soothing rhythmic whispers whooshes that pull you onward through the night like invisible ribbons drawing you back into the present.

This was always your favorite place as a child — wild and beautiful. An unclaimed stretch of wilderness stretching beyond the public access point, filled with coves and tide pools that felt like hidden kingdoms tucked away from the rest of the world. Here, among the jagged rocks, washed smooth by centuries of ebbing currents, you sit on one flat boulder, bare feet lapped at by the high tide and shoes by your side, frustrated tears dropping into the sea, staring absently off towards the seal islet floating peacefully in the distance.

You remember trying to swim out there years ago, despite having been strictly forbidden from venturing close to not disturb them. What would it be like, to be out in the open sea instead of tied to this isolated little community? To see something other than the same faces, places, and names repeated ad nauseam for all eternity, as though nothing changed no matter how many seasons passed? What would it take to break free?

"Ugh!" The sound bursts free before you can clamp your jaw shut, a ragged groan against clenched teeth as your palms scrub fiercely across your damp, salty cheeks.

Before you can start ranting into the night like a madman, your turmoil is shattered by a sudden, piercing cry like metal scraping stone ripping through your tangled thoughts. Your head jerks upward, pulse quickening into a painful drum-beat. Something is terribly off. Someone's hurt, panicking—or worse—maybe drowning?

But where?

You blink frantically, scanning the surrounding coastline, but the thick curtain of night refuses to offer clues. So you rely on your ears and follow the keening through the beach, stumbling hastily across damp sand, uneven rocks and slippery seaweed patches alike, nearly slipping on slimy barnacles embedded in the crevices between each massive stone and fighting hard to balance every step, all the while ignoring the scrapes accumulating on your soles from sharp pebbles digging into tender flesh and flaring in protest at every bit of impact.

Then, unmistakably—

A high-pitched, squealing shriek erupts out of the ocean — like the frantic deflating of a balloon twisting violently apart in midair.

Your stomach drops. The sound is frantic, terrified. Unmistakably animal.

And it's coming directly from the water.

At last, you spot the source of the commotion — about fifty feet offshore, just beyond a tangle of blackened driftwood clogging the shallows: Moonlight catches on slick, gray fur, the seal’s body bobbing helplessly, its hysteric movements hampered by the thick snare of a fishing net and heavy with debris, the tangled mess constricts tight, dragging it downward each time it fights to resurface.

Seals can drown. You know that much. You’ve heard Elias muttering to Dad, thick with disgust, after cutting loose yet another pup ensnared by abandoned traps — relics of poachers who refuse to acknowledge sealing was banned around here nearly thirty years ago.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

Your mind stutters, paralyzed for a breathless instant. What do I do? What do I do?

There’s no time to think.

You’re moving before reason catches up, scrambling over slick, uneven rocks as brine stings the scrapes blooming across your bare feet. Your pulse slams against your ribs. In one frantic motion, you strip off your windbreaker, fling your bag aside, and plunge into the waves without hesitation. Salt explodes in a cool rush over your skin as you kick off from the seafloor, paddling hard, muscles burning with every stroke.

Next thing you know, your arms are locked tight around the drowning seal, grappling to haul it toward shore as it thrashes wildly, overwrought beyond reason and twisting all it can to land a blow with brutal strength you wouldn't expect from a round and inflexible body like that. Flippers beat against your chest, claws scrape at your arms, and its ragged cries tear through the night like something feral and furious. It doesn’t understand you’re trying to help — it only knows fear.

Somehow, impossibly, you make it.

Every muscle in your body screams in protest as you drag the tangled pup onto the shore, collapsing beside it in a gasping sprawl, limbs weak and trembling. Your lungs gulp down air that tastes like victory, the sweetest breath you've ever taken.

And then—

The seal’s shrieks reach a fevered pitch. It flails vigorously, flinging itself against the unyielding net, snapping, fighting, tearing at the fibers with blind desperation.

That’s when you see it.

The moon-desaturated dark liquid pooling beneath its body, sinking into the wet sand in sluggish tendrils.

Blood.

"No! Stop that, stop!"

You scramble upright, stomach at your throat, hands grabbing frantically at the writhing seal to keep it from thrashing itself into worse injury.

"Hey, hey — settle down! Stop moving — please! You're making it worse!"

It doesn’t listen. It fights harder.

Panic and instinct are what fuels its every move, and the more you hold on, the more fiercely it resists, wails cutting straight to the center of your chest, high and desperate, feeding your own fear in a vicious cycle. Its pulse is hammering beneath your hands, a wild, terrified beating of a bird's wings matching your own as its breaths come fast, erratic, interrupted by harsh snorts and shuddering yelps. The pup is almost one singular muscle beneath your grip, trembling and taut with the primal need to flee.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," you chant, the words spilling out in a frantic loop, cracking under the weight of utter desperation of not knowing what to do even as you're repeating you're there to helo. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Just let me help — please — fuck, what do I do — ow!"

Pain explodes up your right forearm before the scream even leaves your throat.

Teeth. Deep. Sinking into muscle like fire.

Your body jolts with the instinct to yank away, but you don’t. You can’t. One wrong move and you’ll scare it even more, maybe make it clamp down harder. Tears blur your vision, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bite your own molars together, forcing yourself to go still.

And then — so does the seal.

The aggressive lashing out ceases, replaced by eerie, frozen silence. Its nostrils flare against your skin, warm breath feathering across the bite, making the hairs on your arm stand on end. Your pulse pounds between your teeth, the sting of the wound dulling under the weight of something more pressing — its eyes.

Two inky pools, round and bottomless, reflecting your fractured likeness like tiny mirrors.

"Please," you whisper, shaky, but soft. "I just want to help. You're safe. I won’t hurt you."

The grip on your arm doesn't tighten. Doesn't loosen. The only thing left between you is the weight of your words and the fragile, fragile stillness.

"Let me go," you murmur, swallowing hard. "And we’ll fix this. Okay?"

There's a pause, a single, terrifying moment suspended in time. Then, the seal's jaws relax, and he releases his painful grip on your throbbing arm, and as quickly as the assault began, it ends. Blood rushes forth in a thin rivulet down your wrist and between your fingers. It doesn't really hurt, not compared to the dull ache in the rest of your exhausted body, and the relief that washes over you is so profound that you're momentarily dizzy from it. And yet... The fact that the seal has calmed down means everything.

"It's okay, it’s okay, don't worry about it," you say hurriedly, intended for yourself more than anything so you wouldn't freak out about it. "You were scared, that's all. It's not your fault."

But the pup isn’t looking at the net.

Its gaze is locked onto your arm, the blood pooling at the wound, round, ink-dark eyes impossibly wider, focused in a way that makes something in your chest tighten.

You stare at him, and for a fleeting, impossible second, it feels like he understands. Like he knows what he did. Awe prickles through you, pushing aside the pain, the exhaustion, everything.

Seals are intelligent — you’ve always known that — but this is so magical to experience how emotionally aware they are.

"Hey. Hey, I’m fine, buddy," you insist. "Look at me, look. I'm good, it’s just a scratch. Let's focus on getting that net off, yeah? Can't have you swimming away in that state. You’ll drown."

As you lean in to inspect, the pup shies away initially, clearly wary and distrustful, but eventually allows you to examine the tangled mess of knots and lines ensnaring his sleek, streamlined figure. The heavy, dense debris he's wrapped in like a blanket is making it impossible to unravel anything, and the more you try to remove it, the tighter the bindings grow. Your injured arm is growing numb, which is probably not a good sign, but there's no time to dwell on that now.

Frustrated and increasingly anxious, you search frantically for something in your backpack to use as scissors or a knife, but the jerky movements make the pup tense up, its tail slapping nervously in the sand, and you have to take several calming breaths to prevent scaring him further.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you. I'll be gentler," you promise in a rush. "Just bear with me, okay?"

All you can find is your nail clippers, but they'll have to suffice. With painstaking care, you snip away at the individual strands binding the pup's limbs together, pausing every few moments to reassure him that everything is alright, that it will survive and go back to the rookery islet. Its fur is wet and matted with blood beneath the ropes, and the sight sends a fresh surge of anger through your veins at the thought of whoever abandoned such a careless trap in the ocean.

"Almost got it, buddy, almost, you're doing great," you sniffle, working steadily to free its front flippers. They're the most delicate and prone to injuries, according to Elias. "One last cut and..."

With a soft pop, the final strand gives way and the net falls loose, the release of pressure causing the seal to scramble sideways and flop awkwardly onto his belly in a clumsy roll. It lies there motionless for a brief second before letting out a piercing, mournful wail that stabs at the pit of your stomach.

You drop your tool and fall to your knees beside him, hands hovering uncertainly over its body. You don't dare touch, afraid of hurting it further. In a burst of energy, the pup pushes itself upright, body wiggling and coiling to propel it forward in a frantic dash towards the safety of the sea. You watch helplessly, unable to move or think or react in any way, until it pauses halfway to the shoreline and glances back at you, a low whine emanating from his throat.

"Go on, get out of here," you urge him, waving it onward. "Stay safe and take care of yourself, alright? You've had enough close calls today." A pang of dread hits you, realizing how much danger the pup was already in and how lucky it had been that you happened to be nearby to save it from a terrible fate. But now, all you can do is let it return to its natural environment. "Be free, cutie," you say quietly. "Live well and happy. You deserve better than this."

The pup hesitates, still watching you with those soulful, inscrutable black eyes. Then, in an act that leaves you speechless, it turns and galumphs back to your side, lowering its head and nudging its muzzle against the bleeding gash on your forearm. When it pulls away, his whiskers are slick with red, and a strange sense of gratitude overwhelms you.

"Oh, you angel," you manage, a lump forming in your throat. The urge to viciously pet his head is strong, but this isn’t a cat or a dog. Your arm really might get bitten off from the elbow socket. "Now scram. I'm sure your mama is worried about you."

This time, the seal does as instructed. It slides gracefully down the sandy slope and slips into the waves, vanishing from view in an instant. Only a small trail of blood remains, mingling with the foam and seawater that wash over the shore, evidence of the ordeal endured by this remarkable creature wiped away in an instant by the protective hands of the sea.

The shock of it all, of the stress and adrenaline, finally catches up to you and you collapse backwards in the sand, the pain in your arm flaring once again and only now feeling the cuts on the bottom of your feet.

Shaken to your bones in a way you can’t quite name, your fingers fumble to switch off airplane mode before you even realize what you’re doing. The moment the call connects, you’re babbling into the phone, voice thick with tears, words tangled and frantic. Mom struggles to make sense of you, but it doesn’t take long for her to find you — half an hour later, sprawled on the ground, your windbreaker haphazardly draped over your shoulders, backpack wedged beneath your head. The gash on your arm is wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet, one of your old bandanas knotted tightly around the wound.

If Dad’s ferry hadn’t been stuck in the harbor, he would’ve been here too. No doubt about it.

You get an earful the moment she kneels beside you. Irresponsible. Reckless. Running off without telling anyone. Dad would’ve had a heart attack if things had gone any worse. Yes, yes, yes. You let her words wash over you, nodding at the right moments, too drained to do anything else. Her hugs and kisses make up plenty for it. 

Neither of you bring up the fight. Neither of you need to. Some things are easier left unspoken.

She doesn’t mention the festival, either. But you both know what kind of rumors will be swirling by morning.

For now, you're taken to the local clinic and given a rabies and a tetanus shot, and a lecture from the nurse who treated you, warning you to never approach a wild animal again because the next time, you might not be as lucky.

[cbeargyu]

I loved the taehyun step siblings fic and I would love to read the soobin one you mentioned😭 can you pls post it🥺

sinners

summary: you were an orphan, quiet and careful, when soobin’s family took you in. they gave you shelter, a new name, and a place at their table—but what bloomed between you and soobin was never meant to grow. you didn’t see him as a brother. he was the boy who looked at you like the sky was something he could touch if you asked him to. your love began in secret—beneath candlelight, beside old barns, and behind locked doors—and it survived the storm of shame, rejection, and exile. years later, your daughter gyuri starts asking the questions you never answered, uncovering the shadows of your past. 

pairing: step brother!soobin x adopted sister!reader

genre: historical fiction, slow burn, forbidden romance, family drama, generational angst, emotional intimacy, bittersweet nostalgia.

warnings: forbidden romance (pseudo-incest, adopted siblings), themes of religious guilt, emotional tension, grief (mention of death of a spouse), strained parent-child relationships, implied sexual content (non-explicit), mention of underage intimacy in historical context, family rejection, generational trauma, secret-keeping, emotional vulnerability.

wc: 12,1k

notes: you guys know how much i love that late 80s/90s vibe… i don’t even remember how this idea came to me honestly, but i really hope you enjoy it. truth is, i rewrote this like three times—i tried adding a bunch of explicit smut but it just didn’t sit right in the end. felt like i wasn’t digging deep enough into the story and ughhh this was supposed to be the final version, i swear. i don’t wanna touch it again or i’ll end up redoing the whole thing from scratch lol. anyway, hope you enjoy it 🫶🏻

year 1999

it was your 39th birthday.

you sat at the head of the low dining table in your traditional house, a small cake resting in front of you with a single sky-blue candle flickering gently under the warm glow of the paper lanterns above. your family sang happily, voices echoing softly across the wooden beams of your home, and you smiled—genuinely, though modestly—at their thoughtful gesture.

to your left was your eldest daughter, choi gyuri, already bearing the subtle weight of adolescence in her slouched shoulders and disinterested gaze. to your right sat your youngest, choi beomgyu, bright-eyed and clapping enthusiastically, barely able to contain himself—because in your modest home, sweets were a rare and treasured delight.

and directly across from you sat the man who had known you longer than anyone alive.

your childhood friend. your confidant. your lover.

your husband.

choi soobin.

he wore a plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows, tucked meticulously into black dress pants cinched with a worn brown belt. he looked every bit the part of the respectable village schoolteacher, the kind who children admired and parents trusted without question. but beneath that calm, clean-cut image—beneath the way he smiled at your children, beneath the way he handed you a bouquet of dahlias with quiet reverence—there was something else. something deeper. older. sharper.

you accepted the flowers with a bashful smile, lowering your head as you inhaled their sweet scent. then you stood, smoothing your apron, and moved toward the kitchen to place them in fresh water, before retrieving a knife to cut the cake. beomgyu, ever eager, practically jumped into his seat, clapping again as if it were his birthday. gyuri hesitated, dragging her feet to the table, arms crossed. her father reached out to ruffle her hair—a gentle attempt at warmth—but she merely sighed under her breath and looked away.

you returned, slicing the cake into careful portions, serving each plate with delicate precision. you began with your husband, placing the dish before him with a slight nod, avoiding his gaze. he smiled softly and murmured a polite thank you, to which you only replied with a small nod, your hands folding in front of you, retreating.

gyuri watched this with a twitch in her brow. her mother—always so composed, so obedient—seemed like a woman from another century. a servant to her husband, not his equal. a ghost of a woman with a gentle voice and tired hands who never looked soobin in the eyes when she spoke to him. who called him not by his name, not with affection, but with the formal, distant title of “dear husband.”

to gyuri, something was off.

she had never seen them kiss. never seen them touch in any way that seemed truly intimate. and while she knew her parents were devout catholics and perhaps conservative in their ways, it didn’t explain the total absence of warmth. it didn’t explain why the most tender phrase her mother ever used for her father sounded like it belonged in a prayer, not a marriage.

it made her wonder.

what were they like when no one was watching?

because beneath the silence… something buzzed. a current of secrecy wrapped around her parents like smoke. sometimes she caught them exchanging glances across the room—brief, loaded, and unreadable. sometimes she noticed the way her mother’s hand would linger on the hem of soobin’s sleeve as she passed him tea. or the way soobin’s jaw would tense when someone brought up their respective families.

which was rare.

no one ever talked about the grandparents. not on your side, not on soobin’s. gyuri only knew that you had been orphaned at eleven, and that soobin—once heir to a large estate—had cut off all ties with his family over some unresolved, unspoken rift. there were no photos. no names. no stories. just silence.

and that silence had grown like a weed in gyuri’s heart.

there were nights she would lie awake, thinking of all the strange pieces: her mother’s unwavering devotion, her father’s cold poise, their refusal to speak of the past. she wondered if her mother had been forced into marriage, if her father had taken advantage of her, if something awful bound them together. but the truth—buried deep in the folds of your shared history—was stranger, more haunting.

you had been taken in by soobin’s mother after your parents died, because your mothers had once been dear friends. what had begun as a noble act of charity turned into something the village—and the family—would one day label as sinful. for as you grew in that house, under the watchful eye of soobin’s mother, you and the boy meant to treat you like a sister grew closer… in ways that defied blood and duty and the cold rules of religion.

at sixteen, you were no longer a child. and Soobin—eighteen and earnest—could no longer pretend that his feelings were brotherly. when his mother discovered the truth, she saw it as betrayal. a violation. her fury scorched everything. she condemned you both as ungrateful, as impure. she accused you of seducing her son, of shaming her house. and soobin… he stood by you. for the first time in his life, he defied his family, abandoned his name, and disappeared with you into the countryside, leaving everything behind.

together, you built a life out of the ashes of disgrace.

in a village far from seoul, among hills and rice paddies, you made a home in a modest hanok, raising your children with quiet pride and guarded love. you went to church every sunday, your rosaries worn from constant use, your souls constantly seeking forgiveness for a past neither of you would ever renounce.

and yet—despite the piety, despite the sacrifices, despite the masks you wore for your children and the neighbors—there was nothing holy in the way you touched each other when the doors were closed.

there was nothing brotherly about the nights when soobin pressed you into the wooden floor of your room, his hands in your hair, your rosary beads tangled between the sheets. you were still sinners. still burning.

but that part of you—of your marriage—remained hidden, sacred and profane, between the creaks of the old wood and the shadows of candlelight.

and gyuri… she was starting to hear those creaks.

you were eleven when you arrived at the choi household, a thin little thing swallowed up in a dress two sizes too big, the hem dragging slightly in the dirt behind your scuffed shoes. your hair had been braided that morning with trembling fingers, not with care, but with the quiet desperation of needing something—anything—to hold onto. clutched tight in your hands was a bouquet of dalias, their petals already wilting, curling inwards with the kind of sadness flowers seem to carry when they’ve been pulled from the earth too soon. they had sat on your mother’s grave just that morning, and you had taken them before leaving, dirt still clinging to their stems. not out of disrespect, but because you needed something of her, a piece of her scent, her favorite flower, her last offering to the world. they were all you had.

mrs. choi was kind, in the way women are when they’ve been raised to smile through expectations. she met you at the gate with a soft expression and hands that moved quickly—brushing your shoulders, smoothing your braid, plucking a leaf from your sleeve like she was trying to erase any evidence of your sorrow. she ushered you in with the firmness of someone who had done this before—inviting, but brisk. you remember the smell of the house before anything else: something like soy sauce and wood polish, and a faint floral scent that didn’t belong to your mother. it was strange to step into a home that was already warm, already full of someone else’s laughter and footsteps and silence.

she introduced you to her daughters first—two girls, both older than you, both wearing matching pinafores and the exact same look of quiet suspicion. they didn’t say much, only offered stiff little nods and a glance that lingered just long enough to let you know you didn’t belong. and then, she gestured toward him. “this is soobin,” she said, like she was handing you a pair of mittens or naming the weather.

he was thirteen. awkwardly tall for his age, all elbows and sharp angles, his hair falling slightly into his eyes. he had dirt under his nails, a smudge of something on his cheek that looked like oil, and a mouth that seemed permanently on the edge of some secret thought. his gaze met yours for only a second, and then dropped—like looking at you too long might expose something he didn’t want anyone to see. he said nothing. neither did you.

you stood there with your wilted flowers and your aching chest and your fingers trembling from holding on too tight, and in that silence, something shifted.

he couldn’t think of you as a sister. not even for a moment.

he tried. for the sake of his mother, of the idea of family. he kept his distance, polite but distant. he wouldn’t sit next to you at dinner. he never offered to share his candy. he didn’t look at you when you crossed the hallway in your oversized nightgown, dragging a pillow behind you like a ghost. but he watched you. when you weren’t looking, when you were curled up on the porch with your head on your knees, crying so quietly it barely made a sound. when you whispered to your flowers, begging them not to die yet. when you stared at your plate and blinked too much because the soup reminded you of her.

you didn’t speak to him much in the beginning. you didn’t speak to anyone, really. everything felt foreign—the food, the air, the way the girls whispered behind doors, the way mrs. choi hummed songs that weren’t lullabies you knew. but soobin... he was different. he was quiet too, in a way that made space for your grief. he didn’t ask questions. didn’t tell you to smile. but sometimes he left things on the edge of your desk—a mango candy, a piece of folded paper with a doodle of a cat, a small rubber eraser shaped like a strawberry. small things, nothing dramatic. but enough to say: i see you. i know you’re here.

as you both grew older, the quiet began to change. he started to fill out, his voice cracked, his limbs became less awkward. you watched him help his father at the factory, lifting sacks that looked too heavy for his back but never once did he complain. he would come home with his shirt sticking to his skin, his arms smeared with sweat and grease, and something inside you stirred that had no name yet. he started smoking, poorly, like a boy trying to understand what made a man, and you watched from the second floor window as he lit a cigarette behind the shed, cupping it with one hand like a secret.

you noticed how he argued with his mother when she scolded him, how he slammed doors when frustrated, how he bit his nails when he was nervous, but no matter what, he never skipped school. never missed a test. he would throw pebbles at your window at night when he couldn’t sleep, just so you’d peek through the curtains and roll your eyes at him. he liked making you roll your eyes. he said it made you look less sad.

and somewhere along the way, something else bloomed.

you stopped looking at him like a housemate, like the boy you were supposed to call ‘brother.’ you started looking at his hands, long and veined, stained with ink from the homework he scribbled down too fast. you watched his mouth when he chewed gum, when he muttered curses under his breath, when he grinned after winning a bet. you listened to the sound of his footsteps down the hall, the way his door clicked shut every night at 10:07.

you didn’t understand what you were feeling at first—just that it wasn’t the same warmth you had for the girls who braided each other’s hair and gossiped in the kitchen. it was something else. something heavy and warm, like the sun sitting low in your belly. and you knew, even if you couldn’t say it out loud: soobin wasn’t your brother. not to your heart. not to your body. not in the way you caught yourself staring when he wasn’t looking, or how his name felt softer on your tongue than any other word.

he had changed your world the moment he saw you standing there with your dead flowers and broken heart.

and you had changed his, too.

he just didn’t know what to do with it yet.

you were fifteen, maybe a little older, but still young enough to call it curiosity—though in truth, it was far more than that. the summer was thick with heat, and everything around the house had slowed to a drowsy lull. the trees hummed with cicadas, the air tasted like metal and dust, and the scent of boiling soy lingered in the corners of the kitchen long after dinner was cleared. you had taken to escaping out back, into the barn where the air was still and dense, where the light filtered through slats in golden beams that danced with motes of dust like fireflies.

he was already there when you arrived. you paused in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the amber gloom. he was sitting on a stack of old burlap sacks, his sleeves rolled up, shirt stuck to his back, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers even though he wasn’t smoking it. he looked older like that. worn in. dangerous in a way that made your heart twist in your chest.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he said without looking at you, his voice low, almost careful.

“neither should you,” you replied, just as quietly, closing the door behind you.

you didn’t mean to sit so close. you hadn’t planned it. but there was a pull between you, invisible but certain, that made you drift toward him like gravity itself had changed direction. the silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward. it was thick, electric. the kind of silence that buzzed in your ears and made you hyper-aware of the space between your knees, your fingers, your breath.

he glanced at you then. not in that way he usually did, not like a passing look or something casual. this time it was deliberate. his gaze caught yours and didn’t let go. your stomach flipped. you wanted to look away. you didn’t. couldn’t.

“your braid’s messy,” he murmured.

you reached up instinctively to touch it. he reached too. fingers brushing yours. and for a second—barely even a second—you both froze.

that was it. that was the moment.

his hand didn’t move away. and neither did yours. your fingers were touching now, not quite entwined but pressed together, uncertain, trembling with the awareness that you were crossing a line that no one had drawn out loud, but that you both felt.

he shifted, just a little, just enough to close the breath of space between your shoulders. your thigh touched his. the fabric of your skirts rustled against the coarse material of his pants. you heard the softest intake of his breath and realized it matched the way your own lungs had stalled.

and when he looked at you again—really looked—there was something new behind his eyes. something tender, but also hungry. a question. a truth.

“you’re not my sister,” he whispered, like it hurt to admit it, but more than that, like he couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

and you didn’t flinch. didn’t correct him. because you weren’t. not in your heart. not in the way you had begun to trace the shape of his body in your dreams, or the way your thoughts wandered to the curve of his neck, the roughness of his hands, the softness of his voice when he was half-asleep and called out for someone—maybe you.

you nodded, just barely.

“i know,” you breathed.

and that was the first permission.

nothing else happened that day. no kiss. no confession. just that quiet, burning truth. your fingers, still touching. his hand, warm and trembling like yours. the silence stretching again, but now laced with something heady and forbidden and sacred.

a promise, unspoken. an understanding.

the beginning of the end of pretending.

the second time it happens, it feels different.

not like the first—the accidental touch of hands as you both reached for the same rusted pair of shears outside the shed, and your fingers had lingered a moment too long. that first time had left your stomach in knots, your breath caught, your chest rising and falling too quickly as he quietly pulled his hand away and murmured, “sorry.”

but this time... this time there’s no accident.

it’s late, the sun long set behind the ridge of hills, and the house is asleep, wrapped in silence except for the occasional groan of the old wood settling into the cold of night. you should be in your room. you should be under the covers, eyes closed, heart still.

but you’re not.

you’re barefoot, quiet, holding the hem of your nightgown in one hand as you creep down the hallway. you don’t even know what you’re looking for. or maybe you do—but you’re not ready to say it aloud.

not even in your mind.

you find him by the back door, half-shadowed in moonlight. he’s sitting on the bench where they usually leave baskets of vegetables from the garden. the window above him spills silver across his cheekbones, and his shirt is loose, sleeves rolled up, collar open. he’s always been handsome, even before you understood what beauty meant. but now... now there’s something dangerous about the way his eyes find yours, like he’s been waiting.

you hesitate. he doesn’t speak. neither do you.

his gaze drops, just for a second, to your bare feet. then travels up slowly, too slowly, until it meets your eyes again. and in the space between your lungs, something flutters wildly. heat creeps across your skin, shame and longing tangled like vines. you’re not a child anymore. and neither is he.

he nods toward the empty space beside him.

you sit.

for a while, there’s only silence.

the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but thick, heavy with everything unsaid. your knees almost touch. your arms almost brush. and every breath you take is a little harder to swallow.

when he finally speaks, his voice is low, a rasp in the dark.

“can’t sleep?”

you shake your head.

he leans back, hands braced behind him, elbows sharp against the wood.

“me neither.”

more silence.

but now it’s louder.

because you feel it.

the pull.

your hands are clasped tightly in your lap, knuckles white, trying to anchor yourself to something safe. but your eyes betray you—they wander, tracing the curve of his throat, the way his collarbone moves when he swallows.

“you’ve changed,” he says suddenly, not looking at you.

you stiffen. “what do you mean?”

he exhales through his nose, almost like a laugh. “you don’t cry as much anymore.”

you glance down. “i still do. just not where anyone sees.”

“i see you,” he says.

the words hit you like a match to dry leaves.

you turn to look at him, really look. and he’s already looking at you. the kind of look that strips you down—not your body, not yet—but something more.

he sees all the parts you try to hide. and he doesn't look away.

his hand lifts. hesitates in the air between you.

then slowly, so slowly, it brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

his knuckles graze your cheek.

and you swear your breath leaves your body.

“you’re not my sister,” he murmurs, voice thick, hoarse, sinful.

and you whisper back—because it’s the only thing your throat can manage—“i know.”

his hand lingers. the warmth of his touch a brand on your skin.

he doesn’t kiss you.

he could have.

god, you wanted him to.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he stands.

and before he walks away, he says, “go back to bed, y/n.”

but you don’t sleep that night.

not even a little.

the barn is quiet at night.

too quiet.

you’re standing in the middle of the hay-covered floor, arms crossed over your chest, breath shallow. the wooden beams creak with the wind, and the air smells of earth, dust, and something older—memories soaked into the grain of the walls.

you came here looking for silence.

but he found you anyway.

soobin steps in through the side door, the same door he always slips out of when he’s trying to disappear for a few hours. there’s something about him in the moonlight—like a ghost from your dreams or a boy made of secrets. his hair is a little messy. his lips a little parted. and he’s looking at you like he already knows. like he feels it too.

“you followed me,” you say, not turning to face him completely.

“i always do,” he answers softly.

he walks closer. slowly. like he’s giving you the chance to run. but you don’t.

you can’t.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“neither should you.”

you finally look at him. and something in you folds. caves in. aches. because his eyes are saying everything his lips won’t.

and maybe… maybe you’ve waited long enough.

“do you think about it?” you ask, your voice trembling, “what would happen… if we let it happen?”

he doesn’t blink.

he doesn’t flinch.

he takes another step, then another. until he’s right in front of you.

your chests almost touch.

your fingers almost brush.

“i think about it every night,” he breathes.

your heart stutters.

“soobin—”

but he’s already reaching for your face, gently, reverently, like he’s holding something sacred. his thumb strokes your cheek, slow and warm, and he leans in just enough for his forehead to touch yours. your breath mingles. your lashes brush.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

you don’t.

you tilt your chin up. just enough.

and he takes it as permission.

his lips meet yours softly at first—so soft it barely feels real. a ghost of a kiss. a breath. a promise. your eyes fall shut as your hands lift to his shirt, fingers clenching the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

he kisses you again. deeper. longer.

his mouth moves against yours like he’s waited years to memorize the shape of it. and maybe he has. because everything about this feels inevitable. like gravity. like fate.

your back bumps against the wooden post behind you. he cages you in with one arm beside your head, the other curling around your waist, drawing you in like he can’t get close enough. and still, you want more. your bodies fit together like pieces of something ancient—unfinished until now.

his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, each kiss burning hotter than the last.

“this changes everything,” he whispers.

you nod, eyes fluttering open, chest heaving. “i know.”

“but i don’t care,” he says.

and when he kisses you again, it’s with a hunger that leaves you breathless.

this isn’t just a kiss. it’s the start of something irreversible.

something beautiful.

and forbidden.

and yours.

the back wall of the school gym was cracked and sun-bleached, half-covered with faded graffiti and vines that curled like claws. gyuri sat on the cold concrete ledge, her legs pulled up, hands wrapped around her knees. the others were older, louder, and more careless. but she didn’t mind. she liked to watch. to listen.

hyunjoo was tossing rocks at a rusted trash bin, each metallic thud sharp against the dusk. sungchan smoked lazily, leaning back against the wall with his hoodie halfway down his arms.

gyuri broke the rhythm.

“do your parents ever lie to you?” her voice barely carried.

sungchan rolled his eyes. “they lie all the time. it’s their thing.”

“what kind of lies?” gyuri pressed.

“the kind that don’t matter,” said hyunjoo. “the kind you get over when you’re not fifteen.”

miyeon exhaled sharply from her place near the fence.

“parents have shit they don’t want to explain. maybe yours just had a fight. maybe they hate each other and pretend not to for your sake. why are you digging?”

gyuri looked down at the scuffed toes of her shoes. her heart buzzed. “my mom… she never talks about her parents. she acts like they never existed. and my dad, he’s… careful. with her. in this weird, quiet way.”

jaemin, quiet until now, glanced over. “so? it’s not your business.”

but a moment later, as the others argued over a broken lighter, jaemin leaned closer and murmured, “if you really want answers… check their drawers. the back of closets. old boxes. they always keep the truth somewhere they think no one will look.”

gyuri didn’t reply. but the idea burned into her mind like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud.

that evening, while you were out running errands—your cloth bag slung over your arm, your steps light down the dirt path—gyuri waited exactly nine minutes before pushing open the door to your room.

it was quiet inside, filtered with afternoon light, the tatami floor warm under her socks. she moved with practiced silence toward the chest of drawers you always kept locked. but the latch was old. with a little effort and a bobby pin, it clicked open.

papers. ribbons. folded cloths scented with lavender.

and photos.

she pulled out a faded photograph: a little girl, no older than six, in a pale floral dress, straw hat tilted, hugging a small bouquet of sunflowers. you.

your smile in the picture was wide, your cheeks round and eyes bright. it didn’t look like the mother she knew.

then—another photo, hidden between envelopes.

you again, but older. a teenager, your hair windblown, your eyes narrowed like you’d been laughing or crying. and beside you, soobin. he looked younger too, with his arm slung around your shoulders, a cigarette in his other hand, lips slightly swollen. your bodies pressed close, close enough to feel the heat through the photo itself.

gyuri stared at it, something tight in her chest.

this was not the calm, practical love she saw at the breakfast table.

this was fire.

the photo haunted her. not in the way ghosts do, but in the way questions do—questions that twist themselves under your ribs and refuse to leave, even when you close your eyes.

gyuri hid the picture beneath her mattress. for now. but the next morning, when you hummed softly while making barley tea and the radio whispered old songs from the kitchen window, she watched you with sharper eyes.

you didn’t notice.

you never did.

your hands moved with the grace of someone who had made peace with their days. folding his shirt just so. placing the thermos into his old canvas satchel. checking the weather by stepping outside barefoot, always barefoot, and squinting at the clouds.

when soobin came down the stairs, you straightened his collar. he bent slightly to kiss your cheek. it was all routine. all silence and smooth edges.

but gyuri saw it now—the way your fingers lingered too long on the buttons, the way he looked at you like a man who once knew chaos but had buried it beneath the soil.

and when he left for the school, driving that wheezing car that always coughed twice before starting, you stood at the gate until the sound faded.

only then did you return inside.

gyuri waited until your steps disappeared down the hallway before slipping into the back room again. not your bedroom—this time, the storage closet at the end of the hall. the one that always smelled of cedar and old cloth.

she found a wooden box tucked behind a stack of winter blankets.

inside: a handkerchief, embroidered with a sun. a wrinkled envelope with no stamp, just your name written in all lowercase letters. and a necklace—simple, silver, with a tiny locket that clicked open like it still remembered how to breathe.

inside the locket: a dried petal. yellowed, fragile. maybe from a sunflower.

gyuri sat back on her heels, heart stammering. what was this? a keepsake from before her father? or something that belonged to him… before he was him?

she wanted to ask.

but how do you ask someone about the pieces of themselves they’ve hidden?

that night, soobin came home late.

he looked tired. not in the way the body is tired—but the soul. the kind of exhaustion that clings behind the eyes. you met him at the door, towel in hand, wiping your damp hands from washing dishes.

“dear husband, you stayed late again,” you said softly.

he nodded, kissed your forehead, then leaned against the frame. “new kid. cried the whole hour. didn’t want to let go of his mom.”

you smiled, sad and gentle. “you used to be like that.”

“i was worse.” he laughed, a soft sound.

you watched him. and he watched you watching him.

the kitchen smelled of garlic and rice, of comfort. but the quiet between you suddenly felt charged. like static before a summer storm.

“gyuri,” he said.

you tilted your head.

“what about her?”

he hesitated. eyes dropping to the floor. hand curling slightly at his side.

“she’s… asking questions.”

you stiffened, barely. “what kind?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he crossed the room and poured himself a glass of water, fingers trembling just slightly as he set it down on the table.

“she’s too curious. like you were.”

you blinked. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he didn’t look at you. just stared out the window, where the moon was a thin white scar in the dark sky.

“you remember that night… outside the temple?”

your breath caught.

he never talked about that night.

you stepped closer, fingertips brushing the edge of the table.

“what about it?”

soobin’s jaw clenched. his voice dropped.

“i should have left town after that. should have gone somewhere far.”

you flinched.

“you didn’t.”

“no. because you kissed me like you meant it. and suddenly leaving didn’t make sense anymore.”

you stood there, silence thick and trembling between you. the kitchen light flickered once.

“you’ve never said that before,” you whispered.

he turned to you finally. eyes soft. aching.

“i know. and i don’t know if i ever should again.”

then he touched your cheek. one finger, barely there.

“if she finds out how it really began… if she knows the weight of everything we chose to forget…”

you swallowed.

“then we deal with it. together.”

but neither of you said what you were really thinking.

what if we can’t?

dinner was quiet. too quiet.

the clinking of cutlery against ceramic plates echoed louder than usual, like a metronome ticking down to something inevitable. the stew was warm, the bread fresh—but there was a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the autumn breeze outside the hanok’s wooden walls. gyuri sat across from you, eyes sharp, lips pressed into a tight line. beomgyu, as always, was oblivious—talking about school, a funny story from his literature class, a friend who forgot his homework.

but gyuri was watching soobin. not with affection or casual curiosity, but with the precision of someone looking for cracks.

soobin chewed slowly, eyes down. he hadn’t noticed the intensity of her gaze—yet.

“appa,” she said suddenly, voice smooth, too smooth.

soobin looked up. “mm?”

“why did we never visit your family?” she said, resting her chin in one palm, elbow on the table like she knew it would annoy you.

soobin blinked. “we talked about this before. it’s… complicated.”

“complicated?” gyuri’s tone was light, but her eyes were anything but. “is that why you’ve never even tried to reconcile? not even once? not even for us?”

soobin’s jaw tensed. he put his spoon down gently, the soft clink against the bowl somehow louder than necessary. “gyuri.”

“no, really,” she continued, still smiling, but her words were daggers. “you never thought maybe beomgyu and i deserved to meet our grandparents? or your sisters? or your old friends from the village? anyone from your past?”

“gyuri, that’s enough,” you warned softly, but your voice barely reached her.

“because it almost feels like…” she tilted her head, watching soobin intently. “you’re ashamed. or hiding something. like maybe… you weren’t supposed to marry mom?”

soobin’s head shot up. his eyes locked with hers, and for a moment, you saw the flicker of something primal. something raw. he looked like a man trying to hold the world together with two bare hands.

“what did you say?” he asked, his voice low.

“i said,” gyuri leaned forward, her voice cutting, “maybe you and mom did something that would’ve made your family disown you. something… sinful.”

“gyuri!” you snapped, but she didn’t even flinch.

“and maybe,” she went on, ignoring the rising tension in the room, “that’s why we live here. why we’re so far from everyone. why there are no photos from before. no stories. nothing.”

soobin pushed his chair back. not violently, not loudly—but the screech of wood against wood was enough to make beomgyu look up from his soup, eyes wide.

“stop it,” soobin said, barely holding himself together. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

gyuri didn’t stop. her tone turned mockingly sweet. “or maybe i do.”

you moved before you could think.

the sound of your hand striking her cheek echoed across the table like thunder.

gyuri froze. so did beomgyu. even soobin looked stunned.

“that’s not how you talk to your father,” you said, breath trembling with fury. “you don’t get to sit there and act like you know what we’ve been through. like you understand.”

gyuri slowly turned her head back to you. her eyes shimmered—not from the slap, but from something deeper. fury. pain. betrayal.

“then tell me,” she said, voice breaking as it rose into a scream. “tell me what you’re hiding!”

you froze.

her words struck deeper than your slap ever could. your eyes widened. your heartbeat roared in your ears.

soobin stood behind his chair, fists clenched, knuckles white. his face was pale, mouth slightly open like he wanted to stop her—but couldn’t.

gyuri stood now too, breathing hard, staring at both of you with a fire that could burn the whole house down.

“i’m not stupid,” she whispered, trembling. “i see the way you two look at each other. like there’s something more than just love. like there’s a… weight. and i’ve always wondered why it felt like i was born from a secret.”

you opened your mouth to speak—but no sound came.

there was nothing you could say.

because the secret she was clawing toward wasn’t just a shadow. it was a truth buried deep beneath years of silence.

a truth with sunflowers and barn dust and trembling hands. a truth that still lived behind the locked door of your bedroom each night.

gyuri’s chair scraped back sharply as she stood, her breathing erratic and shallow, eyes glistening with unshed tears. the sting on her cheek had faded, but what remained was far worse—a wound that no reprimand could erase.

“i hate this,” she spat. “i hate this family. it’s all fake.”

you tried to reach for her, but she flinched away before your fingers could even graze her sleeve.

“don’t touch me,” she whispered.

and then she was gone—barefoot, running out through the wooden door of the hanok, her footsteps echoing down the porch, swallowed by the night. beomgyu started to rise, confused and unsure, but soobin shook his head gently.

“let her go.”

the house fell into a silence so thick, it hurt. only the soft crackle of the oil lamp by the wall offered a heartbeat.

you stood frozen in the middle of the room, hand still trembling from the slap you hadn’t even realized had landed with so much force. shame burned under your skin, and guilt twisted your stomach in violent knots.

you turned slowly to look at him.

soobin hadn’t moved. he stood there, staring at the space gyuri had just occupied, shoulders hunched forward as if the weight of her words had crushed something inside him. his lips parted slightly, but there was nothing left to say—at least not out loud.

you walked to him, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. your hand reached for his, the same hand that had struck your daughter, and laced your fingers with his.

“dear husband…” your voice cracked.

he looked at you finally. god, his eyes. they were the same ones that used to look at you through haylofts and chapel candles and whispered sin. the same eyes that had begged you to run away with him when the world turned against you. now they looked tired. defeated.

“we’ve hurt her,” he said quietly. “we’ve hurt her without meaning to.”

“i know,” you whispered, stepping closer, your forehead gently resting against his chest. “but how do we explain what they were never supposed to know?”

he wrapped his arms around you. it wasn’t lustful. not tonight. it was grounding. protective. desperate.

“maybe we don’t,” he murmured against your hair. “maybe we just hold on to what we still have.”

you stayed like that for a long while, swaying slightly, the cool air creeping in from the open door where gyuri had disappeared.

you remembered a night years ago when you were the one who ran—barefoot, tears in your eyes, with soobin chasing behind you. how he held you then, in a field of stars and silence, swearing that no matter how wrong the world said your love was, he would carry it like a vow. not once, not out loud—but every day, in every look, every secret touch behind closed doors.

and now here you were. grown. older. married. parents. but the sin never washed away.

“she’s not wrong,” you whispered. “we did something we can’t undo.”

“but we never regretted it,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “not once.”

“no,” you admitted, looking up at him with tear-glossed eyes. “not once.”

he leaned down slowly, so slowly, as if kissing you in that moment might shatter something irreparable. but your lips met anyway, soft and solemn, like a prayer spoken through breath.

when you pulled apart, he didn’t smile. he didn’t need to.

because you both knew gyuri’s question had cracked open the past—and whatever came next, it wouldn’t be silence anymore.

the next morning arrived heavy with a silence that pressed against the walls like fog. the table remained untouched, bowls of rice cooling, untouched plates of banchan abandoned in awkward arrangement. the hanok, usually filled with soft rustlings, tea being poured, the creak of floorboards—felt like a house holding its breath.

beomgyu sat alone on the porch, his long legs folded, head resting against one of the wooden pillars. the air was still, early sun flickering through the slats in golden lines. he had barely touched his food. eyes puffy. quiet.

soobin found him there. he approached slowly, cautiously, as if stepping into a room mid-prayer. he stood for a moment before lowering himself beside his son, knees cracking, posture weighed with unspoken things.

"she didn’t come back," beomgyu said without looking at him.

soobin nodded. "i know."

silence.

"what happened?" beomgyu finally asked, turning his face, those dark eyes searching—gentler than gyuri’s, but sharp with their own awareness. "why did she say all that? why did mom slap her?"

soobin exhaled. "it’s complicated."

"it always is. but she’s not stupid. neither am i. i’ve seen how you two look at each other when you think no one’s watching. the way you… hold her hand. the way she disappears into the room with you for hours. it’s not just marriage. it’s something else. it always has been."

soobin closed his eyes, feeling the weight of every word press deeper into his chest. he wanted to speak, to explain, to protect.

but how do you tell your son that the woman he calls mother once arrived at your doorstep with a braid, a bouquet of wilted dahlias, and the saddest eyes you had ever seen?

he opened his mouth, but before anything came out—

—he remembered.

it had been a rainy afternoon.

she had just turned fifteen. her body had begun to shed its childish awkwardness, and the girl who once cried quietly in the corners of rooms had started to smile again, though only when no one was looking.

he was seventeen then, taller, broader, already helping his father in the workshop, muscles forming from labor, hands always smelling faintly of metal and pine.

she came in from the rain that day, soaked through her hanbok, her braid unraveling, clutching something to her chest.

"they trampled the dahlias," she whispered, trembling. "the neighbor boys. i left them by the grave and—"

she couldn’t finish.

soobin reached for her instinctively. hands warm, steady. he took the crushed flowers from her palms and placed them carefully in a bowl of water on the kitchen counter.

when she looked up at him, her lips trembled.

"do you ever forget her face?" she asked. "your real grandmother. or anyone who died?"

he shook his head. "no. not really."

she blinked rapidly. then nodded.

"i think i’m forgetting my mother’s voice."

that broke him. and before he could think, before he could breathe—he cupped her face. gently. reverently. his thumbs brushed her cheeks, wet from tears and rain. and in that moment, neither one of them saw the other as siblings.

her lips parted slightly, eyes wide but unafraid. she leaned forward. and so did he.

their lips met like a question. like a secret held too long.

when they parted, they stared at each other. and neither ran.

because they both knew, deep in their chests, that whatever had just happened—it was the beginning.

a love too strong for rules.

a devotion born not of duty, but of recognition.

and they never looked back.

the rain has been falling for hours now—thick and steady, soaking the ground, turning the gravel road to sludge, beating soft rhythms against the tiled roof above your kitchen. it’s well past dark, the dinner dishes washed and dried, the lamps dimmed, and the fire still flickering low in the hearth. you had tried not to look at the clock too much, had tried not to glance at the window every few minutes or keep imagining the sound of footsteps beyond the gate. but you failed. every few moments your heart skipped in your chest, waiting—aching—for her.

and then, just as the wind howled again and you stood from your chair with a hand to your chest, you heard it. the creak of the gate. the hurried, uneven footsteps through mud and puddles. the jingle of the latch being lifted with cold, clumsy fingers.

you rush to the door before anyone else can. and there she is.

gyuri.

drenched. breathless. her long hair plastered to her face, her clothes soaked through, clinging to her like wet fabric against porcelain. her cheeks are red from the cold, her eyes swollen from crying, her hands trembling at her sides. she looks exhausted. like she’s been running for hours and has only now remembered where home is.

you don’t hesitate. not even for a second.

you step into the rain, barefoot, dress billowing behind you, and you wrap your arms around her so tightly that she gasps. you don’t care that she’s dripping wet. you don’t care that her boots smear mud across your skirt or that your own hair is beginning to cling to your temples. she’s here. she’s safe. she’s in your arms.

“beomgyu,” you call behind you, voice shaking, “bring towels. now.”

but you barely hear your own voice. everything in you is focused on the girl in your arms—the girl who came from your body, who once fit into the crook of your elbow, who now stands almost eye to eye with you but still feels like your baby. your gyuri. your stubborn, wild-hearted, sharp-tongued daughter. the one who slammed the door and said things that broke you.

and yet here she is, returning through the rain like something half-drowned and half-redeemed.

you press your hand to her cheek, feel how cold her skin is. you smooth the hair from her face even though it’s soaked. your hands tremble as they touch her, as if trying to memorize her all over again. your eyes sting. and you can't stop them.

the tears fall without permission. silently. without sound. just warm trails down your cheeks as you kiss her temple, her forehead, the corner of her eye. her wet lashes brush your lips.

“you’re home,” you whisper, voice cracked and trembling. “thank god, gyuri… you’re home.”

she doesn’t say anything. not at first. her chin lifts slightly, defiant still. proud as ever. the tears on her cheeks mix with the rain, and she refuses to meet your eyes. but her hands clutch your dress tightly, fists balled against your waist like a child afraid to let go.

and then, quietly, like the softest confession—

she sobs.

her shoulders shake. a small, broken sound escapes her throat. she doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain, doesn’t apologize. but she cries. and you hold her even tighter, swaying slightly on the porch, the rain still falling around you both like the sky is mourning too.

beomgyu appears at the door with a stack of towels and wide eyes, unsure of what to do. you don’t even look at him. you just say, “leave them by the fire,” and he does, retreating quickly, sensing something sacred unfolding.

you guide her inside. you don’t let go of her for a long time. not even as you wrap her in towels, not even as she sits beside the fire and you kneel in front of her, drying her hands gently, brushing the water from her hair like you did when she was five years old and cried because her favorite dress got muddy.

she doesn’t speak. neither do you.

but your eyes say everything.

you’re forgiven.

you’re loved.

you’re my daughter.

and i will always open the door for you.

always.

gyuri sat on the edge of her bed, the room swallowed by darkness except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside casting soft shadows across the walls. her clothes had long since been changed, the damp fabric replaced by the warmth of dry, soft fabric, but the weight of everything lingered on her shoulders. the fight. the words she’d thrown, the anger that had surged up from places she didn’t want to acknowledge. she didn’t regret them, not exactly. but as she sat there, your face came to her mind, soft and sad in a way that made her heart ache.

you had embraced her in the rain—soaked, cold, angry—and she hadn’t said a word about it. just held her, wrapped her in warmth, never letting go, even when gyuri had tried to distance herself. gyuri could still feel the dampness of your dress against her skin, the way you held her so tightly, as if afraid to let go.

it was a strange feeling, one gyuri had never truly known before. this kind of care. it wasn’t like how other parents might act. it wasn’t just about doing what was expected. it was something deeper. something that, sometimes, made her feel guilty.

the door creaked softly, and her mother had left her there, alone, with only her thoughts for company.

as the minutes passed, the tension in gyuri’s chest slowly began to loosen. she couldn’t explain it—didn’t understand it. but something inside her shifted. the anger, the frustration—it all started to fade away. and what remained was that feeling, the warmth of your arms, the unspoken words of forgiveness that hovered in the space between them.

she pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, feeling small again. the way you had always made her feel safe, even when she didn’t want to admit it.

but now, in the silence of her dark room, it was like she was seeing you in a new light. not just as a parent, but as a woman. someone who had her own history, her own battles, her own wounds. and gyuri didn’t know everything about you. didn’t know the full story. but she knew, deep down, that you had fought for her—for all of them. and maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong to shut you out. wrong to think she could handle everything on her own, without you.

there was still so much she didn’t understand about her family. so much she didn’t know. but as the night stretched on, with the soft sounds of rain tapping against the window, gyuri slowly started to piece together what she’d been too stubborn to see before.

you weren’t perfect. but you had always loved her. loved them. and that, more than anything, was something that gyuri could never push away.

the darkness of the room wasn’t so suffocating now. she could breathe again.

and for the first time that night, gyuri closed her eyes and allowed herself to let go of the tension in her shoulders, curling up in bed as a tear slipped down her cheek, swallowed by the pillow beneath her.

the chapel is small, quiet, and slightly hidden at the edge of the new town, nestled between low hills and the old almond trees that lean in like witnesses. it's not grand. the paint is chipped, the wooden pews creak when you sit, and the stained-glass windows cast warm, dusty colors on the stone floor. but it’s perfect. it feels untouched by the world’s noise—like this place was waiting, quietly, just for you and him. and that’s all you’ve ever wanted. a place to say “yes” to him without having to explain to anyone why your heart has already been his for years.

you stand at the entrance in a simple dress, soft and cream-colored, stitched lovingly by the widow down the street who still remembers when you were just a quiet girl walking alone to the bakery. your hands aren’t shaking, though your heart is loud in your chest. there’s no veil, no jewels—only your unpinned hair, your sun-kissed skin, and the bouquet of sunflowers you picked yourself from the edge of the field. the same sunflowers he once tucked behind your ear when you were seventeen and he told you he couldn’t live without you. the memory presses close to your skin as you step forward, your bare feet soundless against the floor.

soobin waits for you at the front, his hands clutched so tightly in front of him you’re sure his knuckles are white. his suit doesn’t quite fit—it’s borrowed from a cousin—and the tie is a little crooked. but nothing could make him more beautiful to you. he’s only twenty, but he already looks like a man who has chosen his path with his whole soul. he looks at you like you’re everything. and you are. to him, you’ve always been everything.

there’s no one here from his family. no tears from a mother, no handshake from a father. the last time you saw them, his mother couldn’t even meet your eyes, and his father had shouted so loud the walls shook. they had made it clear you were not worthy. not with your history. not with your name. not with the scandal of that summer still clinging to you like sin. they told him he was throwing his life away. but soobin had looked them in the eyes, said nothing, and walked out. walked toward you.

you’ve never had family to disappoint. no father to give you away. no mother to kiss your cheek and smile through tears. you’ve known the ache of empty chairs all your life, and today is no different. but it doesn’t hurt the same, not now. because every step you take toward him fills the hollow places you once feared would stay empty forever.

the priest’s voice is soft, worn by time. he says the words that have been said for centuries, but they feel new in your ears. he asks you if you choose him, and you say “i do” without hesitation. and when soobin says it back, his voice is low and steady, like a vow that’s already been living in him long before this moment. he slides the simple gold band onto your finger, hands trembling as they always do when they touch you. and then he kisses you. in front of god and sunlight and the smell of lilies—he kisses you like you’re his miracle. like you’re the salvation he never dared to hope for.

you walk out of the chapel hand in hand, the sun hanging low and golden behind the hills, and his thumb traces small circles over your knuckles the entire walk home. when your heels begin to blister, he lifts you onto his back and laughs when you call him ridiculous. you laugh too, pressing your face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of sweat and sunlight and everything that is him. your home is small, paint peeling, the furniture mismatched. but it’s yours. it’s safe. it’s real.

and that night, under the flickering light of a single candle, he kisses you again—slower, deeper, with the weight of something holy. you undress for him like you’re unwrapping a secret you’ve kept only for him. and when his hands explore the curves of your body, they do so with reverence, with familiarity, with love that has never asked for permission. your first night as husband and wife is not hurried or wild—it is sacred. it is soft moans and slow breaths and eyes that never stop searching. it is whispered promises between each thrust, each gasp, each whispered “i love you” pressed into the skin of your throat and the shell of your ear.

and afterward, when he holds you against his chest, when your fingers find the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat and your limbs tangle beneath the thin blanket, there is only peace. only the kind of silence that means something has finally come home.

the next spring, gyuri was born. and a scowl that already reminds you of her father. you hold her to your chest and feel something shift inside you—like your heart just split open and poured itself into her tiny body. soobin cries when he holds her for the first time, rocking her gently and whispering that she is everything. everything.

your love never needed the world’s approval. you never wore it proudly in public or shouted it from rooftops. but behind the locked door of your bedroom, where the children never knock and the world can’t reach you, it still burns. it is magic, sacred, eternal. even now, when the house is quiet and your hair is no longer the same as when he first kissed you by the temple, he still undresses you like you’re the same girl who changed his life with a sunflower in her hand.

because behind that door, with the lock turned, with the moonlight brushing over your bare shoulders and his name whispered like a hymn from your lips—nothing has changed.

and everything has.

the following day, the heavy silence from the night before still lingered in the air. gyuri moved cautiously through the house, her steps softer than usual, almost hesitant, as if every sound she made could shatter the fragile peace they had reluctantly agreed to. her eyes would flicker to you and soobin when they were close, but she said nothing. there was still so much left unsaid, too many unspoken questions hanging in the space between them.

after breakfast, when the house seemed to quiet down, gyuri finally found herself alone with you in the living room. the weight of their secret hung over them, but you’d never let it show. you had mastered the art of keeping it buried, safe under layers of silence. you looked at her with a soft, almost sorrowful expression, but there was strength there too—something in her gaze that said she wasn’t about to back down. it was that same strength that had carried them through everything.

"gyuri," you began, your voice calm but with an undertone of resolve, "we’ve said this before, and we’ll say it again: there are things from the past... things that we simply can’t bring to the surface. some things are better left buried. not because we want to lie to you, but because some truths aren’t meant to be known. not now. not yet."

gyuri’s gaze flickered to her father, who was sitting on the couch, his eyes lowered in thought. he didn’t look up, but the silence between them spoke volumes. he agreed. you both did. you had made their peace with the past, even if it was a peace built on secrets.

"but..." gyuri started, her voice quieter than usual, uncertain. "don’t you think... don’t you think that if i knew the truth, i could understand? i could... i could make sense of things? you always tell me to be strong, to face the world head-on. but how can I do that when there’s so much I don’t understand about... about you?" her voice trembled slightly, but she held her ground.

your expression softened, but her tone remained firm. "there are things that, if you knew, would only hurt you. the truth you think you want could be a heavy burden to carry, gyuri. we protect you, and we protect your brother, by keeping this buried. some things should stay locked away, hidden in the past where they belong."

you look at her, and your heart aches. you want to tell her. you want to let her in, to tell her the story that’s been buried beneath so many layers of silence. but you know that revealing it would only break her. break all of you. some truths, you’ve learned, are too heavy to carry.

you can see the doubt in her eyes, but she doesn’t push. not anymore. instead, she takes a step back, her shoulders sagging with the weight of what’s unsaid. she lowers herself slowly to the floor, kneeling before you, her hands clasped in front of her in a quiet show of respect. her head bows, and you can feel the depth of her apology, even if she doesn’t say the words aloud.

"i’m sorry," she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. "i shouldn’t have spoken to dad like that... or left the house. i didn’t understand." her hands tremble slightly as she presses them to the floor, as though hoping the act of humility will somehow atone for the anger she’d shown. the anger that came from a place of confusion and hurt, but a place you, too, had once known.

you kneel beside her, your hand gently resting on her back, comforting her in the way you always had. "it’s okay," you whisper, your voice soft but firm, the love for your daughter unwavering. "we understand. just remember that there are things we protect to keep you safe. it’s not about hiding the truth from you... it’s about protecting you from it."

gyuri remains still for a moment, her breath shaky as she tries to hold back her tears. she doesn’t look up, doesn’t try to meet your gaze. but you can feel the relief in her posture, the small weight lifting from her shoulders as she finally lets go of the anger that had built up inside her.

"thank you," she whispers, her voice barely audible now. "i won’t ask again. i just... i want to understand." she pulls herself to her feet, still not meeting your eyes, but her body language softer now, more vulnerable than before.

you pull her into a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around her, holding her close, not letting go. she doesn’t resist. you can feel the warmth of her body against yours, the beat of her heart under your palm. "i know, gyuri," you whisper into her hair. "i know you want to understand. but some things, you just can’t change."

you hold her for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch between you two. this is how it is now. this is how it will stay. you will continue to live with your secrets, your past buried deep within, and your children will carry on without ever knowing the full story. you’ll keep them safe, even if it means keeping them in the dark. it’s a sacrifice you’ll make, over and over again, for their peace.

when you finally pull away, you kiss the top of her head, feeling the weight of your decision settle around you once more. "we’re here for you," you say, your voice steady but full of the unspoken promise of your love.

gyuri nods slowly, a small, uncertain smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "i know, mom. i know."

and as she turns away, walking back to her room, you watch her go, the ache in your chest a quiet reminder of the love you’ve always had to protect—love that sometimes needs to stay hidden, even from those who deserve to know it the most.

it’s 2023, and gyuri is now 39 years old. she stands in the quiet living room of her home, staring at the old photo album she found in the attic earlier that day. the room is softly illuminated by the light of a late afternoon, with the fading sunlight casting gentle shadows on the walls. the scent of rain still lingers in the air from earlier in the day.

as she flips through the pages, memories flood back to her, each photo telling a story she once tried to forget. some are faded, some are torn, but they all hold a part of her past—a past filled with both joy and sorrow. she lingers on the picture of herself as a child, her six-year-old self dressed in a simple, but beautiful, floral dress, holding a small bouquet of dalias.

next, her fingers trace over the picture of her mother—you—as a young woman, smiling brightly, so full of life. and then, she stops. her gaze lingers on the next photo—the one of her parents on their wedding day. the two of you, so young, so in love, sharing a moment that was supposed to be your forever. soobin, her father, had passed away just a year ago, leaving her with a gap that could never be filled. he was her protector, her provider, and now he was gone.

gyuri gently places the album down on the coffee table, and for a moment, the house falls into complete silence. a deep, unsettling silence that reflects the weight of what she’s just seen. the family that once seemed so whole, now fractured. her father, the man who’d always been there for her, was gone. you, her mother, were now all she had left. after soobin’s death, you had moved in with gyuri, her husband, kang taehyun, and their son jeongin, who was now nine years old. despite the changes, the memories seemed to weigh heavier with each passing day.

as gyuri looks at the photos, she notices something in her mother’s eyes that makes her pause. there’s a heaviness in the air, something unspoken, something buried deep within you. she’s seen it before, but now, after all these years, it feels like the right time to finally ask.

gyuri turns to you, her gaze soft but searching. “mom,” she begins, her voice careful, “i’ve always wondered about these pictures. about you before… before everything changed.”

you stay silent for a long moment, the words you’ve kept hidden for years threatening to surface. you’ve kept so much from her, from everyone. the truth about your past, about who you were before meeting soobin. the pain, the love, the sacrifices—all buried beneath a veil of silence. but now, as gyuri looks at you with those eyes full of curiosity and longing, you know it’s time to tell her the truth.

you close your eyes briefly, taking a slow, steadying breath. then, with a voice barely above a whisper, you speak. “there are things you don’t know, gyuri. things i’ve never shared with you... because i wanted to protect you. but now, i think it’s time. you deserve to know.”

gyuri’s expression softens, concern growing in her eyes. “what do you mean, mom? what things?”

you don’t speak for a long time. the photo album rests open on your lap, but your gaze is no longer focused on the images—it’s turned inward, heavy with years of silence. gyuri sits beside you, quiet, respectful, but the tension in her shoulders reveals her anticipation. she knows there’s more. you feel it too. this moment has been waiting for decades.

finally, you shift, your fingers lightly brushing over the wedding photo. soobin, with his solemn eyes and gentle smile, standing beside you in the white chapel, the day the world seemed to stop for both of you. you were eighteen. he was twenty. you had never felt more certain—or more afraid.

“gyuri,” you say her name with the softness of a prayer, “what i’m about to tell you... i’ve never told anyone. not even your father spoke of it again. but you’ve always known something was different. i saw it in your eyes, even when you were young.”

she nods slowly, silent. you know she won’t interrupt.

you take a shaky breath. “we were sinners.”

your voice trembles, not with regret—but with the weight of the truth.

“people would say we were. and perhaps they were right. we weren’t related by blood... but the world wouldn’t have cared about that technicality. not in a place like ours. not in a time like that.”

gyuri blinks, confused, brows tightening.

“soobin’s mother... she adopted me.”

the words hang in the air like thunder before the rain.

“i was just a child when she took me in. i had no family, no name anyone remembered. i was a stray soul. she raised me as her own. gave me food, a roof, a school uniform. i was expected to grow beside soobin... like a sister.”

you pause, your hand clenched gently on your lap now, voice low.

“but i never saw him like a brother.”

your throat tightens. the guilt returns—not because you loved him, but because you had to hide that love behind closed doors for so long.

“i saw him grow taller, stronger, kinder. i saw the way he held books like they were sacred, the way he spoke when he was angry—so full of fire and righteousness. the way he looked at the stars, like they were speaking directly to him. i fell in love with that boy. and he... he looked at me not like a sister, but like i was the center of his world.”

you wipe a tear from your cheek before it falls.

“we tried to deny it. we tried so hard. but you can’t unfeel something like that. not when it consumes you.”

gyuri’s hands are folded tightly on her lap. her eyes are full, but her face remains still.

“when his mother found out... she was furious. betrayed. she called me names i’ll never repeat. she accused me of corrupting her son. she said i was ungrateful, a viper who’d been fed and turned to bite the hand that saved her. i was cast out. just like that. no farewell. no kindness. just the door, and the rain, and a suitcase that wasn’t even mine.”

you close the album now, holding it against your chest like a shield.

“but he followed me, gyuri. your father followed me into the night. and he told me that if the world condemned us, then we would build our own. that if god turned his eyes away, then we’d find a new kind of holiness—in each other.”

your voice breaks for a moment, but you smile through it.

“we found a chapel in another city. a small, crumbling place that smelled of wax and roses. no one asked questions. we exchanged vows with trembling hands and lips that had already known each other’s sins. a year later, you were born. our little miracle. our redemption.”

gyuri is crying now, silently, hands trembling on her lap.

you reach for her, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, just like you did when she was a baby.

“i don’t tell you this to shock you. i tell you because it’s part of who we are. we weren’t perfect. but we loved fiercely. we defied every warning, every doctrine, every cruel whisper... because what we had was real. and that love—it carried us through decades. it gave us you.”

you lean forward now, resting your forehead gently against hers.

“so don’t hate your past, gyuri. don’t hate the pieces of us that had to hide. because without them, there would be no you. no jeongin. no home full of photographs and laughter. we did what we had to... for love.”

gyuri doesn’t speak for a long time. her eyes stay lowered, heavy with emotion, and for a second, you wonder if the truth was too much. too old. too strange to comprehend. but then she shifts forward, takes your hand gently in hers, and kisses the back of it with reverence—like a child greeting a sacred object. her voice is hoarse when she finally speaks.

“i’m sorry,” she whispers, “for everything i said. for the way i left. for how i judged you. i didn’t understand. i didn’t see...”

you shake your head gently, placing your palm on her cheek.

“you were just a girl trying to understand her world,” you murmur, “and we never made it easy.”

gyuri lowers herself slowly to the floor, knees against the wood, hands pressed together flat in front of her in that deep, traditional apology—one only offered when words are no longer enough. her tears fall quietly, but she doesn’t hide them this time. and you… you can’t hold back your own.

“appa would be proud of you,” you whisper, voice trembling with memory, “he always was.”

and it’s in that silence, the warmth of her reverence still lingering between you, that your thoughts drift—past the years of pain and secrecy, past the small house and whispered nights behind a locked bedroom door, all the way back to a moment that never left you. a single fragment of time, like a pressed flower hidden between the pages of a long-forgotten book.

you’re sitting on the grass, the warm light of late spring wrapping itself around your shoulders like a shawl. soobin’s arms are behind him, leaning back as he laughs at something beomgyu says—beomgyu, barely five years old, climbing over his father’s legs with a paper crown on his head. gyuri, only seven, is running barefoot across the small field, a ribbon tied in her hair, holding a wooden sword and pretending to battle invisible dragons.

soobin turns to you, and his eyes are so full of quiet love that it still takes your breath away. he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t need to. his smile says it all. we made it. against everything, we’re here.

you remember reaching out and placing your hand on his cheek, the stubble rough beneath your fingers, the sun painting him golden. he kissed your wrist then, soft, grateful. and in that moment, you believed—fully—that whatever sins the world placed upon you were washed away by the love you had built together.

you blink back into the present, your hand still holding the photograph of that sunlit day. your fingers trace the faces, the ghost of his smile, the youth in your own eyes.

“he was everything,” you whisper, barely audible.

gyuri leans into your side, head resting gently on your shoulder.

“and so were you,” she says.

outside, the wind carries the scent of blooming dalias from the garden. jeongin’s laughter echoes faintly from the hallway where he plays. and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself smile—not with longing, but with peace.

because even if the world never understood the story you lived, your heart always did. and that… that was enough.

yes, you were sinners.

but you were also in love.

[aerynwrites]

Rain

Sebastian (SDV) x fem!Reader

------

A/N: idk what this is y'all LMAOOO. i love it, it's cute, it's fluffy, and I am apparently in my emo boy phase because between this video game emo boy and the emo eepy bois of sleep token they all have me in a chokehold i swear to god. Anyways. hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: none.

Summary: You propose to Sebastian after waiting much longer than intended.

------

You always knew you were an impatient person. It’s just in your nature. 

Which is…probably not a great quality to have as a farmer, considering how much waiting there is to do in this profession. Waiting for crops to grow. Waiting for animals to mature. Waiting for the kegs to ferment, waiting, waiting, waiting…

Well you didn’t want to wait for this. 

You knew very quickly into your relationship with Sebastian that you wanted him to be in your future. But you had taken things slow for once, that worry in the back of your mind that you didn’t want to hold him back. 

He always talked about wanting to go back to the city, to get out of Stardew valley…You almost pulled away when he had mentioned that to you. But then, not even a few weeks later you’d found him at the beach, rain pouring down from the sky and soaking him clean through from where he stood on the pier.  The rain was so loud he didn’t even hear you approach on the rickety wooden boards of the docks.

“You’ll catch a cold if you’re not careful!” You call to him, shielding your eyes from the downpour with your hand. 

Sebastian turns to you then, dark hair plastered to the sides of his face as his brows raise in surprise at your appearance. But he smiles anyways, hands tucked into the pocket of his sweatshirt. 

“You’re one to talk,” he says as you move to stand beside him. “You’re out here, same as me. I’m surprised actually.” 

You look at him from the side of your eye. “Surprised?”

Sebastian shrugs, eyes turning back to watch the black storm clouds rolling over the ocean. 

“Most people don’t like the rain. They’d rather stay inside next to a warm fire or tucked into bed.”

You shift your weight slightly, the boards creaking beneath you. “But not you?”

He shakes his head. 

“No, I…I like the rain. It’s comforting, I guess,” he begins pausing for a long moment before continuing. 

“I get anxious around people,” he admits. “It’s why I spend so much time in my room or in this case, the rain.” He chuckles, the sound trailing off as he finally turns to look around you. 

“But I don’t feel that way around you.”

Warmth spreads across your cheeks at his words, a stark contrast to the chilling rain pelting your skin. 

“Sebastian..” You trail off as he waves his hand, a blush of his own tinting his cheeks as he turns to grab an umbrella he had laying at his feet. 

He pushes it open, shielding himself from the downpour before he motions to you. 

“Come on, there’s room enough for both of us.” 

You oblige immediately, scooting closer a few small steps at a time until your side is pressed into his own, a familiar arm snaking around your waist as you both huddle beneath the umbrella. 

“I feel safe with you too,” you say softly, the only acknowledgment he hears you being a small hum in his chest. 

That was months ago now. 

After that, you’d been brave enough to give him a bouquet, heart bursting with delight when he accepted the colorful flowers, warm lips gracing your cheek as he did so. And it wasn’t long after that when he took you on a ride on his bike just outside Zuzu city. 

When he revealed to you that he might not feel called to the city after all. When he chose you. 

You were certain then of your decision. 

But no matter how many times you checked the beach that following winter, the damn mariner was no where to be found. Days turned into weeks, which turned into months which started to drag by in agonizing torture for you. 

At least Sebastian seemed happy. 

You tried to stop by and see him as often as you could between your running around. And every time he was elated to see you as you were to see him. Sweet words falling from his lips before you both caught up talking about your days or talking about nothing at all. 

Impatience. 

It truly was the bane of your existence. 

Because as happy as you were with how things are, you want more. 

Which is what brought you here now, smile nearly splitting your cheeks in half as you gallop through the rain on your horse, the delicate shell pendant clinking softly in your pocket. 

It’s spring time now, and you almost broke your streak of checking the beach today because of the downpour happening. But something told you to go, a feeling so strong, it urged you from your cabin without so much as a raincoat and onto your horse to head to the beach. The rain almost stung as you raced down the familiar path, chest bursting with excitement as you spot the strange man stand beneath the protection of the trees on the beach. 

You dismount just a few feet from him, and he gives you a knowing look as you approach, saying not a word as you hand him his payment. He places the necklace in your hand gently, the blue shell practically sparkling, even in the dim light of this stormy day. 

It’s then that you speak, confusion tugging at your brow. 

“You said last time I wasn’t ready,” you say to him, recalling your previous attempt to buy the pedant. “Why now?”

The older man smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“It’s easy to tell when someone’s in love.” 

You’d turned and raced away without another word, only a wave goodbye to the mariner as your horse’s hooves dig deep into the sand as you depart. 

The rain soaks through you completely as you move through town, your excitement never fading even as you fail to find Sebastian in all his usual spots. Gus even gave you a worried look as you all but burst into the saloon, dripping onto his floor before turning and leaving without a words when you didn’t see your partner. 

You’re now leaving Robin’s place, not finding Sebastian there either, and deciding to go and check Sam’s when you see him trudging up the path in front of the community center. He’s not wearing a rain coat either, or carrying an umbrella, so he’s just as soaked as you are when you climb down from your horse and call out his name. 

“Seb!” 

He looks up at you then, and your suddenly brought back to that day on the docks all those months ago. His hair plastered to his face agin, water dripping down the tip of his nose and gathering on his lashes. 

And in this moment, you’ve never been more sure of a course of action in your life. 

He says your name in question as you approach, but cuts himself off as you launch yourself into his arms, laughter escaping your lips without control.

“What are you doing?” He asks, chuckles of his own slipping from his lips as he pulls away just enough to look at you. “Why are you out in the rain?” He smirks, “You’ll catch a cold if you’re not careful.”

His words mimic your own, and your cheeks hurt from how hard you’re smiling.

“You’re one to talk,” you repeat, back to him. “You’re out here, same as me.”

He laughs at this, cheeks tinted pink once again, as he squeezes you in his arms. “You’re such a dork, you know that?”

“I do,” you say, reaching one hand down into your pocket, fingers brushing the smooth shell hidden there. “But I…I have a reason for being out here today, at least.”

Sebastian’s brows furrow at this, looking at you questioningly. “Looking to get away?” 

You shake your head, chuckling lightly. “The opposite actually. I was looking for you.” 

His lips quirk upwards slightly. “Me? What do you need?”

You reach up with your free hand, cradling his cheek as your other hand pulls the necklace from your pocket. “You. I’ve always just needed you,” you say softly, bringing the pendant up between you, unfurling your fingers to reveal it. “If you’ll have me.”

You watch the next few moments as if they were in slow motion. 

Sebastians eyes widen in surprise, the red tint on his cheeks getting even darker before the biggest smile you’ve ever seen on him splits his lips. 

And then he’s kissing you, lips warm against yours in the cool rain as his arms wrap around you and he’s spinning you through the air. You can’t stop the surprised yelp that slips past your lips at the unexpected moment, laughter quickly following as he slows to a stop and takes your face in his hands to kiss you one last time. 

“I accept,” he says softly, lips brushing your own. 

You smile wide, pulling away just enough to place the necklace over his head, watching at the crystal blue shell stands out against the black of his hoodie. 

And as you look back up to him, his smile small but loving as water continues to soak you both. 

You suddenly know that you love the rain too. 

[misswynters]

Seaside

Addam Velaryon x Targaryen Princess!reader

[note | my very first drabble for the handsome valeryon bastard! nothing of the reader’s appearance is specified :3

[a/n: this was not planned and was out of a spur of the moment kinda thing <3

The night sky was clear, dotted with stars that shimmered like diamonds on black velvet. The salty breeze from the sea wafted through the open windows of the Dragonstone balcony, carrying the faint sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below. You stood there, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, gazing out at the horizon where the sea met the sky. The cool air nipped at your cheeks, but you found comfort in the tranquility of the night.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you close. You leaned back, melting into the familiar warmth of Addam Velaryon. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his silver hair tickling your neck.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked softly, his breath warm against your ear.

You sighed, shaking your head. "Just needed some fresh air. Dragonstone, the handmaidens, the lectures, everything feels so stifling to me sometimes."

Addam chuckled, his chest vibrating against your back. "I know what you mean. It can be quite... unbearable."

You turned in his arms, looking up into his eyes. They were the color of the sea, deep and full of secrets. "But it has its moments," you said, a smile playing on your lips.

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Especially when shared with you, my princess."

Your heart swelled at his words. Being a Targaryen princess often meant a life of duty and expectations, but with Addam, you felt truly seen and cherished. He had a way of grounding you, of making the burdens you carried feel lighter.

"Let's take a walk," he suggested, taking your hand. "There's something I want to show you."

You followed him down the winding staircase and through the moonlit gardens of the castle. The flowers seemed to glow under the soft light, their petals glistening with dew. Addam led you to a secluded spot overlooking the sea, where a small picnic was laid out, complete with a blanket and lanterns casting a warm glow.

"What's all this?" you asked, your eyes wide with surprise.

"I thought you might like a change of scenery," he said with a grin. "And I know how much you love the sea."

You settled down on the blanket, pulling him down beside you. The two of you sat there, sharing stories and laughter, the world outside fading away. In that moment, surrounded by the beauty of the night and the warmth of Addam's love, you felt truly at peace.

As the night wore on, you rested your head on his shoulder, your eyes growing heavy. Addam wrapped an arm around you, holding you close. "Sleep, my love," he whispered. "I'll keep watch."

With a contented sigh, you closed your eyes, knowing that as long as you had Addam by your side, everything would be alright.

taglist: @benjicotblckwood @spn-obession

banners: @cafekitsune

[finalgirlmorgue]

LATE NIGHTS AND EVEN LATER GOODBYES

SUMMARY -༶ ⋆ Losing someone that you love isn't easy, not going back to them is even harder… Leon receives a picture of you late at night that rekindles the flame in his heart that once burned for you. What's another night spent with you?

༶ ⋆ Leon S Kennedy x F! Reader ༶ ⋆ Angst and Smut

༶ ⋆ No warnings ༶ ⋆ Requests Open

TAGS: AFAB reader, ended established relationship, nudes, breakup sex, happy ending, angst, resident evil 4 Leon, hate sex to makeup sex, P in V action.

༶ ⋆ ------------ NSFW UNDER THE CUT -----------༶ ⋆

The tears had already grown stagnant in Leon's eyes. Months of silence and no communication gave him the false sense that he had gotten over you. It had been months since you left. He only thought of you on the rare occasion he would find a piece of you in his haven. A lipgloss in his bathroom drawer, a sock that was too small to be his own in his laundry basket, and a stray hair on his pillow.

It was like you were planting seeds in his mind. They kept growing until they reached the back of his brain. The roots wrapped themselves around nerves and muscles and pulled until everything went numb. The flower bloomed in his mind, and he unblocked you. He hoped that you would reach out. Take his hand and pull him from the ocean and into the sun. Bring his heart through the dark sea as the storm clouds rolled in, threatening to rain more. Bring sunshine onto his skin so he might breathe once again. But it didn't happen that way. The storm came and crashed, the flowers withered away, and the cold, black water took its place once more. It was several more months later when you reached out.

Leon was in bed, blanket resting loosely over his body, when he felt it. The familiar sensation of electricity. His phone vibrated against his nightstand. His body reacted almost immediately, adrenaline flooding into his veins. In seconds he was sitting up, blankets and sheets falling forgotten to the floor. He was woken up like a sleeper agent. Your name, his Instagram dms, one attachment.

He stared at the button. 'photo'.

He would have to make the move to open it. He knew that he had given himself away, It had already notified you that he had seen it. He had once been a patient, stubborn man. But tonight a blue moon must have hung in the sky because after 5 seconds he opened it.

It was you, in the same situation as him, in bed, covers tossed aside, skin taking in the glow of a dim lamp, hair loose. In the light of the phone camera, you looked intangible and angelic. He barely noticed you were naked, barely. One hand held your pajama shirt up, exposing your tits, the other held the phone and pointed at a mirror opposite your bed. You sat there, leaning forward with your knees together, looking directly into the camera, smiling at nothing, posing for him. The angle was perfect, with just enough lighting to highlight the curves of your body, but enough to hide some of them entirely. Leon tried to catch every detail. His gaze swept across the curve of your neck, your shoulders, your arms. His mind reeled with images that he hardly tried to repress.

After 30 seconds, the picture closed on its own. Leon would never get to take in a sight exactly like that again. His thumb moved before he could even think about stopping it. "What the fuck." He texted. He wanted to tell you how beautiful he thought you were. How much he missed you. How long it had been. Tell you to come back to him. That he was sorry, he loved you. He needed you, he still did. But words failed him. So instead, he texted again. "I thought we were done. Is this your way at getting back at me? Huh?"

There was no answer. No movement on his screen. Just the sound of his breathing, fast and heavy. Leon's finger hovered over his keyboard. The urge to press send burned within him. To finally say something meaner, scare you off. Send those messages before he could chicken out.

No. That wouldn’t do. He had said all of it.

Now, he wanted you here. He wanted to talk to you, hear your voice, see you smile at him. He wasn't going to lose another chance at you now. So, instead he said. "Call me." He paused and added a couple of periods just for good measure. "Or I'll call you."

After a moment, his phone rang. He picked up after his ringtone sounded once, he wasn't taking his time tonight. Then he heard your voice, sweet, and low, "Hello?"

"Got bored? Decided you wanted to torture me?" His tone was teasing, but it shared a small indication of hurt underneath. Leon wasn't sure how he managed to keep his composure, but he did manage to.

Your laugh was soft, but it filled the hole Leon felt inside of him in completion. "Sorry," you said, breathy and warm. "Did you not like it?"

He cut you off, as he got out of bed and stared out of his apartment window. "Shut your fucking mouth." He whispered, trying hard to maintain control over his temper.

"Don't you ever fucking apologize. Don't you fucking leave me." Leon's tone turned vicious, his throat tightening, "I miss you." He sounded angry, frustrated, broken. He couldn't stop talking, just like he couldn't stop thinking about how much he wanted you here. It wasn't fair. "Get in your fucking car and drive over here, I know you remember my address."

You hesitated, unsure if you should follow his command or not. "I'm sorry. But can't we just sit tight, talk first? You're gonna need to give me a minute, Leon." Leon shook his head. He couldn't wait any longer. "No. We don't have a minute. Not anymore. Come over. Now."

It was silent for a few moments. Long enough for Leon to grow impatient. Then, "Alright," your voice softened, becoming quieter than usual. Leon could almost feel the guilt radiating from his side of the line.

"But, if you really want to see me, you can't stay mad at me. Can you?"

Leon sighed, shaking his head. "Not forever," he agreed. He wasn't completely confident that the anger he harbored would melt away with time. "I'm hanging up. Get your ass over here."

He hesitated for a moment. "I love you" He added, and quickly ended the call, discerning a sense of excitement and anxiety that he could not name. He walked out of his room, heading toward the stairs, he was nearly at the bottom step when he remembered he was in boxers, not exactly presentable. After a beat of hesitation, he returned to the bedroom, grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the closet, and ran down the stairs to the bathroom. He combed his hair, washed his face, and dressed his lower half hurriedly.

When Leon reached the living room he sat on the couch, arm on the armrest, palm on his cheek, other hand on his thigh. "Come on," he mumbled to himself, waiting. His fingers tapped the leather of the couch lightly, his foot tapped in anticipation. Then he texted. "Don't knock. Just come in."

He wouldn't greet you at the door like a gentleman. That wouldn't be appropriate for a man who hadn't been your man for a year. He didn't want to act like he had been waiting for you this whole time. Leon wanted to show you, without saying anything, that he'd made progress. He would show you just how serious he was, how over you he was. If not then maybe you could show him. Show him the way back into your arms. That was the more realistic option.

The doorbell rang, but Leon remained seated on the couch, staring at the door. You stepped inside, looking at him on the couch. Much to his disappointment you were clothed.

"Um.. hi.." you smiled at him nervously, your hands fumbling with the buttons of your coat. Your eyes flicked towards the window, then back at Leon. The tension between the both of you is discernible. Neither of you wanted to look the other person in the eyes, but you found yourself unable to break contact. Your lips parted slightly, but the words died as he spoke in your place.

"Come here."

Slowly, you approached the couch, placing your feet carefully on the ground. Leon watched you with a passion that you were not used to seeing. And then, slowly, hesitantly, you crawled onto his lap. His legs tensed under your body, as he assessed you into an acceptable position, making no move to embrace you. When you finally settled, Leon spoke again. "Tell me what you want." He whispered. You bit your lip, nervousness overtaking your features, as well as your thoughts. You didn't know what to tell him.

He unbuttoned your jacket, then gently pushed it to the floor where it landed on the carpet. Once your coat was off, he wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling your shirt over your chest. "This is what you want, huh?" His voice was rough, and he leaned closer, capturing your lips with his. He kissed you softly at first, allowing you to relax and enjoy the moment before deepening the kiss. Leon pulled away, holding you firmly against him, kissing along your jawline as he held you in place by your neck, his thumbs massaging your soft skin, watching as your skin moved and formed around his fingers. As much as he might want to continue, he knew better than to push too far.

"Tell me, tell me this is what you need."

"Yes- Leon just- keep"

He put a hand over your mouth. "That's all I needed." And he kissed you again. Pulling you apart nerve by nerve, relaxing you, he lifted your chin with his index finger and kissed your cheeks gently one last time. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too." You replied, smiling shyly.

Leon took his hand from your shoulder, placing it on your neck. "shh." He whispered, pressing his fingers to your lips, "We can talk later." He gave a gentle push. "Bedroom. Wait there for me."

Your eyes fell shut at his touch. For a split second, you wondered why he was being so generous. Why he was taking such good care of you when he knew everything was over now? You wanted to say, "why?", but then realized that you wouldn't get any reply. So, you stayed quiet, nodded, and left to walk upstairs.

His room was bare, aside from a bed, a closet, and bottles of alchol. The rest looked like a guest bedroom. Leon's gaze lingered on you before he entered his room. A small smile came to his lips.

"You know," you began, your eyes fixated on the floor, hands clasped behind you, swaying slightly as you continued your story. "For someone who was always so eager to talk to me, you sure are quiet tonight."

Leon chuckled lowly. "Yeah, guess I am," he admitted, running his hands through his messy, swarthy locks as he leaned against the wall by the entrance, arms crossed against his chest. "What brought this sudden interest in me anyway? Wasn't expecting this, but I wouldn't say I mind it. It's been, so long.." he trailed off, not wanting to bring up anything unpleasant that went on before.

"I've thought about you every day for the past three months," you confessed, glancing sideways at Leon with a playful smile on your lips, hoping it would ease some of the stress in the air between them. "And I want to make things right."

"How are you gonna do that, hmm?" Leon inquired, moving towards you. "By sitting naked in my bed for me?" He hooked his thumb under your panties and tugged them down a little, exposing the sensitive skin underneath. He smirked, licking his lips at the sight of your flushed puffy, beautiful skin. He pulled his gaze upwards, looking directly at rosey, swollen lips. He lowered his eyes, looking straight at your soaking clit. "Fuck, you're beautiful." Leon breathed, "How do I make you scream my name?" He teased, running his fingers gently across your slit, teasing it slightly. "I hardly remember.."

You blinked furiously. "You don't even need to try." Your voice cracked slightly, and you cleared your throat, "Please, Leon. Make it easy for me." His hands slid up beneath your thighs, lifting you until you straddled his knees, pressing against him. "You sure?" He asked, running his tongue over his bottom lip, licking away a bead of sweat that had appeared on your brow. "Cause it doesn't seem that easy to me, babe." His fingers glided into your pussy, massaging your clit slowly as he ran his tongue across your neck. "Just let go, be a good girl." He suggested, pulling his fingers away and dropping his weight on top of you.

All 6.7 inches, pulsing against your navel, he pushed you down on your back as he lay atop you. Your hips automatically rose and sunk into the mattress, feeling his length glide up your thighs. He positioned himself between your legs, resting his upper body against yours. He kneaded the skin on your hips and waist as he situated you so you were ready for him. He paused momentarily, looking at you intently, before dipping his head down low and letting spit dribble over your folds, covering your flower with spit.

As you felt his saliva enter your body alongside his fingers, your eyes closed tightly and you cried out at the intense sensations. He kept working the moisture in between your legs, spreading it around lazily, as he waited for you to adjust.

You moaned, arching your back, your back hitting the mattress as Leon pushed his fingers deeper into you and then out, causing you to whine. "Shhh, it's okay," Leon whispered, leaning forward, pressing his forehead against yours. With his fingers spread wide over your opening, he slowly pushed himself inside of you, his head hanging loosely over your shoulders. You gasped at the feeling of Leon entering your middle. "There we go, yeah?" Leon whispered, still holding you close, his mouth brushing against the shell of your earlobe. His tip squished against your walls. You squeezed your legs together on either side of him, feeling yourself getting wetter. "Relax," Leon instructed. Slowly, you relaxed your muscles. It was only after several seconds that he seated himself completely, stretching you. You whimpered at the sensation of Leon filling you up, almost overwhelming. Leon's face contorted into a smile as he watched you writhe helplessly under him. He started thrusting into you hard, making you gasp and moan loudly as your hands searched wildly for stability as you both rocked against each other. "Oh god.." You murmured breathlessly, wrapping your legs tightly around Leon's waist, holding his hips tight.

"That's it, baby, take it." He encouraged, increasing his pace. He reached up and grabbed the headboard, pulling his hips back and snapping into you as his entire length filled you once more. Plushy walls encircled his cock. "God.. Little slut's… so tight." He muttered, throwing his head back as he thrust harder, faster, harder. The both of you were panting now, and he threw his head forward, almost slamming against your cheek. "So close. Fuck, so fucking close." He growled. He pressed the back of your head harder into the pillow in order to hold you in place. "You're so fucking- mean.. Leaving me all alone for a goddamn year" He panted. "You don't get to leave. Not this time-" he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse while his dick pumped lazily inside of you. You clenched your fist tightly around his hair, his name slipping from your lips involuntarily.

"Shit!" He cried, snapping back up, sensitive and overstimulated. He captured your nipple in his mouth as he thrusts into you again, and again, and again, faster and harder, your cries muffled by his hand as they vibrated in your neck, his breathing labored. "Come on.. baby." He begged. "Cum for me." He groaned against your neck. His words were slurred and his movements were slow, but he was still moving so vigorously inside of you that it sent shocks of pleasure through your whole body. Leon's grip on your waist tightened as he grunted, pulling you tightly against him. He was so sensitive that he could barely stand it. When he felt you tighten and cum all over his dick he pulled out. Looking down at your wet folds and his soaked, shiny shaft, Leon swallowed dryly, closing his eyes briefly. He stood up, bending over to the nightstand. He grabbed a half-drunken bottle of whiskey, uncapped it with a shaky hand, and drank from it. He barely felt the burn. He came back to rest and forced you to sit up. You reached for the bottle but he pushed your hand away.

"Open your mouth."

You opened your mouth wide enough for him, watching as he poured some of the alcohol into his mouth, and then he kissed you, lips moving against your mouth as fire trickled down your throat and warmed your insides. He tasted of liquor and mint.. and Leon.

You flopped against his pillow, still leaking and exhausted from your orgasm. You lay there quietly, waiting for Leon to finish drinking, but instead, his body tensed and he quickly got off you. "I'll be back." He took the bottle with him downstairs. You sat in his room, cold and beginning to feel a small bit of regret for what happened between you two. Leon returned moments later, carrying a towel and a glass of water. "Oh..' You smiled, laughing to yourself. Still so fucked out and intoxicated by him. You hadn't even noticed that Leon began cleaning you up. He dabbed at your lips and chin with the towel, wiping away any remaining evidence of his presence. You gasped and whined. "shh baby.. I'm here."

"always will be."

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [14]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 4.8k words cw: drug withdrawals and relapse. 18+ mdni

he helps you. he hates himself for it.

Ghost grows more worried about you with each passing minute. 

No, he reminds himself, not worried about you - worried about the state of you, worried that your condition will continue to deteriorate to the point of incapacity. Worried you’ll lay waste to the entirety of his scheme by merely being too feeble to enact any of it. 

He doesn’t know how to help you. 

When he asks you what is wrong, you give him nothing. You sweat and writhe and wretch into paper bags and nothing comes from your throat, no amount of water or air or comfort brings you any relief. Not ill, you insist; not pregnant, not made motion sick by the turbulence of the short ride in your private jet.

He couldn’t help but feel repulsed when he first laid eyes on the aircraft - your aircraft. Needle-nosed and jet black, needlessly large engines almost a third of its size stuck out from either side of its tail. So lavish and ostentatious it could have been played as a joke. The interior had been equally glitzy. Reeked of pine and rubbing alcohol. Vases secured to every surface, stuffed with real flowers, cut fresh. 

For the duration of the short flight, you uttered not a word. Not to him, nor the pilot, nor the Ultranationalist footmen that had bid you farewell. He merely heard a whimper or a groan from you every odd minute, and you clutched your motion sickness bag wrenchingly tight in a sweaty fist. 

Your eyebrows would twitch, curl in apparent distress, your eyes would remain squeezed shut. Lips would part softly to draw in wet breaths. You would stroke yourself where you clutched your shoulder, a rub of your thumb, as though yearning for comfort. 

It made him itch. Itch with a pity, begrudged and discomforting - if you were anybody else, he might have felt inclined to ask if you are okay. To render aid. To offer the comfort you yearn for. 

He hates feeling helpless. But he can’t bring himself to help you. 

It’s not in his typical nature to be compassionate. Particularly toward the enemy. In truth, it has been so long since he employed any compassion that he thinks he might have lost the capacity entirely. In this state, though, you almost wring it out of him. You squeeze and wrench the dry cloth of his sympathy with an open mouth, hoping a single drop will land on your tongue.

The ear-splitting thunder of your private jet begins to quieten as it disappears through the cloud cover - it had taken off minutes after your disembarking, leaving him and yourself on the bare tarmac of your small personal runway. 

Even still you struggle to keep yourself upright, knees wobbling and head bowed as you meander alongside him towards the sleek garage adjacent to the runway. He feels compelled to offer you an arm, to balance you, but keeps his mouth shut. Chooses to look away from you. 

In the warmer south of Kastovia, the snow barely sticks to the lush green landscape of your summer estate. Where dense alpine woods had served as a natural rampart around your husband’s flamboyant palace, here pepper the skeletons of towering beech trees bare of leaves, spotted occasionally with richly green pines, taller still. The sky above them glows a dim white, the thin sheet of cloud inhibits the lustre of the setting sun from beaming through. 

He inhales a deep and steady breath of the brisk air, cool and crisp in his chest - there’s a clearness to it, a weightlessness where the smog of your palace was thick with evil and the iron smell of blood. Your estate is alive with gentle evening birdsong, where your fortress had only the droning wails of owls and hawks from deep in the shadowed forest. 

He wonders how often you came here. How often your husband allowed your escape. 

Did he send you here when he grew bored of you? Did he ever accompany you? Did he ever pretend to be your loving husband, as loving as you must have believed him to be? 

“Riley,” he hears you utter, and his drifting attention returns from the trees to you. 

Riley? 

Flummoxed at the use of his surname, his jaw tightens. The familiarity is sharp like a blade, grievously jarring. The first time you have earnestly addressed him, but you say it like you know him. You must have overheard it, and clung to it - somehow having only heard Riley and not Ghost, the name far more aligned with how you must see him. Monster and not man. 

And yet, you call him Riley. 

“Hey,” a bark from you regains his focus, and before he can answer, you throw a keychain at him. He catches it in a fist. Two car keys, three house keys, one key for a padlock. 

The wide garage door opens smoothly, the metallic rumbling of its stainless steel panelling noisy in the breezeless quiet of the evening. Inside warm lights flick on automatically, illuminating two cars; one an ivory sportscar with a black convertible top, as glimmering and gaudy as he would have expected from the likes of you. The other a range rover, deep green and wearing a fine coating of grime, the tires muddy and door handles embellished in fingerprints. 

With a quiet groan, you rest yourself against the side of the four-wheel-drive. Is that your preferred one? 

“Can you drive,” you murmur, a whine of exhaustion in your throat. “Please.” 

Only offering a terse nod, he unlocks the car, and you yank open the door of the passenger side and climb in without a word. The interior smells like leather and stale perfume, the woody undertone of tobacco, cigarette smoke having embedded itself deep and permanently into the seats and carpets. He adjusts the driver’s seat back with the lever underneath, having to fit his hulking form in the small space tailored to your body. 

You reel down the window the moment Ghost revs the engine and reverses out of the garage, following the only road that leads from the tarmac. The road, lined with bare white oaks and dead hydrangeas, is made of bound gravel, crushed beige stones crackle loudly under the weight of the tyres. You rest your arm out of the window, surfing your hand in the gentle wind, and lie your tired head on your shoulder. The brisk breeze sends your hair billowing, silky tresses lap at the steel frame and over your neck. 

There’s a loosening in his chest, a softening of the muscles that wrench around his ribs, an easing of his fist that grips the top of the steering wheel. It’s his exhaustion, he tells himself, that relaxes him. It’s the break from conflict that unwinds him. Not the subdued humming of the engine, the whisper of the wind through the car window, the image of you reposing unmarred in the seat beside him. 

Not the brief imaginings of normalcy that cross his mind, each lasting the duration of a single heartbeat - sepia pictures of you in a different life, of himself as a different man, an elementary affection and a quiet drive through the country. Unspoken trust and unacknowledged bliss, a life where you would have known nothing different. Nobody to run from, nobody to chase. 

He feels contrite even subjecting the image of you to such an impossible fantasy. A fantasy of a life he actively bars you from ever experiencing. 

“How long is the drive,” he asks, voice gravelly after the duration of his silence. 

He knows the answer. Price had sent satellite images of the entire two-thousand-acre property the moment he reported back detailed coordinates. He just wants to hear you talk. 

“Not much longer,” you muse, followed by an agitated sigh. 

It is another five-odd minutes on the quiet road, driving through lush unused farmland and fields of trees - melting into manicured formal gardens as he approaches your summer house. 

Pulling up the gravel driveway, your second mansion is far sleeker than the baroque palace he had stolen you from. A mid-century modern sculpture - towering glass windows wrap around the building, framed by honey-stained walnut panelling and black trim. In the blue light of the late evening your villa lights up automatically, small glistening bulbs pepper the edges of the driveway as he comes to a stop by the front steps. 

You don’t stir once he kills the engine. “We’re here,” he says dully. 

He gets out, slams the door, and you stay put. So he trudges to your side, boots loud in the gravel underfoot, you rub the heels of your palms into your eyes and let out a soft whimper. 

He begrudgingly opens your door, and you simply groan, “I’m coming.” 

You follow him up the steps, barely lifting your feet. It’s alien to him, surreal; punching the code you give him into the black panel above the door handle of your grand front entrance. Something he would have spent hours of research attempting to acquire, if not resorting to simply shooting a few nine-millimetres through it. No, you just murmur it to him uncompelled; one-four-seven, five-three-five, nine-two-six. You repeat the last three digits when he asks you to remind him.

The downward lights in your white ceiling turn on by themselves, motion-activated, and he is confronted immediately with the vast emptiness of the foyer. Along the right wall is a staircase, modern slabs jutting out from the wall with a shimmering glass balustrade. A lush champagne runner carpet spans the length of the hall, a towering mirror confronts him to his left. So familiar with it all it must bore you, you wander straight past him and veer into the darkness of another room. Venturing deep into your mansion as though returning home from a long day of spending money. Ready to kick your feet up.

So he follows you. Doesn’t feel the need to bark orders at you, to tell you to stay within his sightline. 

Into a formal living room, illuminated only by the ultraviolet dusk that glows dimly through your windows. Within sits a sumptuous sectional sofa and polished leather armchairs, all surrounding a standalone fireplace. The beige rubblestone of the chimney breast extends upward to the towering ceiling, a pillar in the centre of the room, the firebox closed off by glass and activated with a gas dial. 

He snorts. Can’t even expend the effort to use firewood? No servants to chop it for you, hm? 

But the needless insult he begins to utter is bitten off as he watches you kneel in front of the hearth, slipping off your plush fur coat and leaving it in a pool around you. Shaky fingers slither up your spine to grip the zipper at the nape of your neck, and you yank it down with a hiss. You shimmy the black sleeves down your shoulders, exposing your bare back just enough for him to swallow. 

Toying with the gas dial, he hears a few loud cracks of the ignition, and the fireplace bursts to life. Faint blue and yellow flames rise in undisturbed tongues from the artificial coals. A quiet moan of relief escapes you. You lie yourself down directly in front of the warm glass, curl tightly into a knot. Nestled deep in your furs like a kitten in its mother. 

He takes a step, and the sound of his boot on the stone tile makes you wince - so he stills. 

“Just let me lie down,” you breathe. 

He swallows the urge to defend himself - he had no intention to insist you stand, to disturb you, to force you to act in his favour. Not now, not yet. He’s keenly aware this is your last, your only chance to recuperate - your cruel and impatient comrades gave you little time to prepare before their invasion. 

And if in your current state upon their arrival… he grits his teeth at the fear you’ll fail to fulfil your part in the mission. 

So, if just for now, he’ll let you rest. He supposes you deserve it.

But, despite the sentiment, he finds himself unable to say so. “I’ll recon,” is what he settles for, uncaring and blunt. 

With a grumble, you utter; “What does that even mean.” 

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, you can’t see it. “I’m going to look around,” he clarifies. 

“Okay,” you sigh. 

“Stay put,” he orders, as he turns to begin his reconnaissance in the kitchen. 

A moan. “Does it look like I’m going anywhere?” 

He sweeps the mansion room by room. The kitchen, modern and marble, wears a layer of dust on every surface. Long unused. A wooden knife block stuffed with damascus blades, a glossy induction stovetop, a brushed steel fridge with an ice dispenser. 

The dining room is sealed off by glass doors at each entrance, the long mahogany table seats eighteen. On the east wall towers a ceiling-height wine rack, stuffed to the brim with dust-covered bottles, and the first one he pulls out to inspect is twenty-two years aged. 

The informal lounge is the first indication of life - a messy blanket tossed over the couch, cushions disordered, one on the floor. A shag rug sits under the glass coffee table, itself covered in dog-eared books, a pair of reading glasses, and a scented candle. Certain you can’t see him as he looks around so forwardly, he inspects your novels. Each unfinished two-thirds through. Normal People, A Game of Thrones, The Secret History. None of which he has read or has any interest in, and yet, he opens to the pages you last touched. Stare flits about the words for a moment, not absorbing any in particular. Curious at which point you gave up, which sentence prompted you to shut the book and leave it to gather dust with the others. 

Lands on one line, at the end of a paragraph; we are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy. 

He scoffs to himself. Finds it difficult to picture, the thought of you rugged up on your couch, a mug in hand, a blanket over your knees. Reading a book with your glasses perched on your nose, in blissful escape from the life you have made for yourself. Pleasant nescience of the carnage that paid for the cushions you sit on, for the woollen sherpa blanket you curl between your fingers. 

He can’t even fathom it. And if he tries to, the disease of guilt churns in his gut. If he offers you hobbies, interests, personhood - sheds the image of the machiavellian profiteer he once knew you as - how can he justify how cruelly he has harmed you? He puts your book back down on the coffee table, grunts in disdain as he moves to the next room. 

Bathroom one, bathroom two, conservatory, drawing room. He ventures up the sleek staircase once he is satisfied with the first floor. Takes mental notes of all entrances and exits, all strategic advantages, all choke points. 

Down the hallway. Bathroom three, bedroom one, bedroom two, bathroom four. Empty study, linen closet, balcony. 

At bedroom three, he finds himself paused. This one must be yours. Where the other rooms had sheets made so tightly, so crisply they looked like hotel beds; yours has thick plush blankets, one pink, the other navy with white polka dots. 

Drawers pulled haphazardly from their teak chest, tongues of clothes sticking out where they hadn’t been properly shoved in. A pink tray housing seven or eight half-empty bottles of nail polish. Four varied shades of red, the others bright and shimmery, or dark and sombre. A small gold jewellery tree, a few necklaces knotted permanently hang from a branch. 

You’ve got three bottles of the same perfume, two of them empty. As he nonchalantly saunters into your room, he tugs off the cap of the only full one and holds it under his masked nose. Even through the dense knit he can smell it, the same one you wore when he stole you. It fills his chest and makes his mouth water. Jasmine, rose, silk, musk. 

Not long until he is snooping, and it serves utterly no tactical purpose. There could be no strategic benefit gleaned from whatever pieces of you he might find in your room, here untainted by your husband’s influence. 

And yet, he snoops. 

He opens your closet, runs his hand along the velvet sleeve of one of your dresses. He peers into the trinket boxes that sit atop your dresser, finds little pieces of doubtlessly priceless jewellery, or tiny keepsakes that to him seem unintelligible. A beaded bracelet, made with the dexterity of a child’s fingers. A collection of foreign coins. A small notebook, he flicks through the pages. 

Sketches. You’re no undiscovered master, but he’s impressed all the same - pencil and ballpoint drawings, pieces of nature captured through your eyes. Flowers, trees, insects, a cat. 

He yanks open the drawer of your nightstand, shuffles through the piles of clutter - receipts, notes, nail clippers, earrings. A bullet vibrator, one that he switches on unintentionally as he knocks the button with his bullish fingers, the hum echoes out of the drawer. 

Finds himself inspecting it for longer than he should. So small, so innocuous, shorter and thinner than his little finger. Is that all your husband allowed you while you were parted from him? Too insecure to permit you something that might bring you real pleasure? 

He holds it between fingers and pushes the button at the base with his thumb. Five settings, the highest intensity barely a whisper. Are you too sensitive for anything more than that, little thing? 

He pictures how you use it. Imagines you trailing its silicone tip down your soft belly, letting the gentle vibrations of its engine tickle your mound before you allow yourself to move it any closer to your centre. Maybe you tease yourself with it, tracing it over your supple outer lips like a finger. Maybe you’d suck your bottom lip between your teeth, tucked under your thick duvet - maybe you’d stifle your private moans with the eiderdown as you push the end of it between your slippery folds, applying the perfect amount of pressure to your long-deprived clit. 

Imagines your lips parting, brows curling, imagines the buck of your hips and the closing of your knees around your little hand. Imagines the orgasm it gives you is empty and unsatisfying, leaves you ravening and angry, hunger slaked only insofar as it allows you to sleep. Alone.  

With a ragged huff and a tightened jaw, he switches it off and puts it back in the drawer. 

He continues his rummaging, and his fingers land on a short stack of photographs. Only three, he tugs them out as he sits down on the side of your bed, the mattress sinks beneath the weight of him.

The first looks like it might have been taken in the seventies, the faded film capturing a bearded man playing an acoustic guitar. Your father? Grandfather?

The next of a little girl holding a black cat, squeezing it tightly and holding its little furry head against her plump cheek. Taken on a digital camera, dated in yellow font to 2005. She grins at the camera, eyes glowing red by virtue of the flash. Is that you?

The last, no doubt, is you. Barely younger than you are now. A photo you had taken of yourself and another woman, a friend, he assumes - her arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders, the both of you painted in makeup and beaming widely and dimly. Drunk. The picture is slightly blurry, captured in motion, taken on a night out. 

The first time he has seen your smile. 

His eyes fix on it; the points of your canines, the reflections of the flash on your teeth. The way your bright eyes squint, thick lashes weaved together, pushed shut by the full apples of your flushed cheeks. The creases and dimples your beaming grin pulls in the corners of your mouth, he can almost hear the music of your laughter. 

You’re so pretty. 

So normal. A girl and her friend, free to giggle and to dance and to move through the world unhampered. 

Do you keep it as a memory? To remind yourself what your freedom looked like? Does it torment you?

He feels sick. 

He stares at you for too long. He wonders if he’ll get to witness you smile so brightly, but knows that he never will. His observation alone would inhibit any smile that might ever stretch in your lips, as the architect of your suffering, the arm of your captivity. He won’t ever witness you as yourself, your unfettered self, if such a person exists anymore. Even if you escape the present cage of your life, he won’t be there to see it. You’ll fade into the obscurity of false identity and witness protection. Your paths have crossed, and once deviated, will continue as separate in perpetuity. 

Before he has the chance to ruminate any further, his sat-phone beeps where it is hitched on his belt. 

He releases a sharp breath, finds his stare clinging to the photograph as he brings the phone to his ear. 

“Zero-seven.”

He hears a shuffle before a voice responds. “How’s the weather?”

Price. 

“Clear out,” Ghost replies robotically. Code. Stormy would relay that he isn’t in safe company.  

“Good. We - we’ve had some new intel from Laswell. One of her sleepers.”

He frowns. “Good news?”

“Negative. It’s fuckin’ missiles. Konni pricks have somehow manufactured three ICBMs.” 

The surge of adrenaline hits him like a kick to the ribs. 

“Shit.” He swears under breath, rubbing the back of his head with a tense hand, his mask suddenly too hot to breathe. “Nuclear?” 

“Not sure,” Price answers, and even through the phone Ghost can see the divot of concern pulled between his brows. “Previous intel suggested they were manufacturing VX, but the leads have gone cold.”

“I’ll see what I can get.”

“Si- zero-seven, whatever the payload,” the Captain hesitates, “we need to know where they are storing it. Where they’re launching it from. That’s the priority.”

Ghost nods stiffly, forgets his captain can’t see him. “Understood.”

“Don’t fuck this,” he orders solemnly. “Millions. Millions of lives on the line if those warheads launch.”

“Copy that.”

Price releases a hoarse sigh, a brief and agitated pause. Eventually, he asks; “Sit-rep?”

“Sweeping the mansion. Nobody here. Makarov and his minions arriving tomorrow at eighteen-hundred.” 

“Good,” he grunts. “Other VIPs going to be there?” 

“Certain Vasiiev will be. Can assume the rest will tag along. We’ve kicked the hornets' nest.” 

“Sure have. Primary COA?” 

“Got an idea. Working on it,” he admits; in truth, he’ll play it by ear. “Will need some input from the wife.”

“Princess is still breathing, is she?” He asks it with a droll nonchalance. 

Princess. The diminutive codename that had been bestowed upon you. Ghost’s mouth forms the word barely, but he holds his tongue. Doesn’t want to give Price any further reasons to doubt him. “Affirmative. She’s fine.”

“Not sure I believe that,” he snorts. “Gaz is worried about the bird. Won’t stop bitching about it. Too soft, that boy.”

“Worried about what, eh?” Ghost asks, through his jaw. Wonders if Price has the gall to say aloud what he already assumes Ghost to have done. 

“Don’t play rough. Leave her walking.”

His blood runs cold. The mere suggestion fills him with a bubbling fury, acid on his tongue. Not merely the repetitive accusation that Ghost is capable of doing that to you, to anybody - but that his Captain would unrepentantly condemn you to that fate. Would knowingly allow you to be subject to the Lieutenant he believes to be so cruel.  

Ghost chews the contempt in his words before he utters them. “What’re you suggesting, sir.”

“You know what I’m saying, Simon.”

With a dark growl, he threatens; “Say it.”

Price returns only a beleaguered sigh. “If you’re going to-” He cuts himself off, a hesitated pause. “Don’t stray from the mission. Don’t do something that’ll haunt you just for the fun of it.”

He swallows a venomous retort, jams a furious thumb into the end call button. Should have signed off properly, but he knew the direction the call was taking. He didn’t want to hear it.

Biting on nothing, he glances again down at the photograph in his palm. You smile at him, and he can’t look at it anymore.

He tosses the pictures back into your nightstand and shuts the drawer with a slam. He needs to focus. Needs to stop pissing around, rummaging through your belongings like an unashamed creep. 

But there’s a second drawer, below the first. Bounced slightly ajar with the impact, something catches the light in a glint between the crack. And while he’s here…

He tugs it open, and hears the scratches of tin and the clicks of loose plastic. First dismissing it as more rubbish, he does a double-take - quickly leans over to inspect the contents. 

Pills. 

Blister trays, orange bottles, white cardboard cartons. It strikes him like a stab through the heart.

You’re in withdrawal. 

The sweats, the vomiting, the itching. He’s painfully familiar with it all, has seen it far too many times. Chastises himself for failing to realise it sooner - it was so plainly obvious. Your denial that anything was wrong should have been enough evidence in itself of your affliction. 

How long had he had you in his captivity? Close to forty hours? How long since you had taken anything prior to your abduction? He guesses you won’t even be at the peak of it yet. It’ll only be downhill from here. 

He shuffles through the garbage and the paraphernalia. OxyContin. Vicodin. Percocet. Roxicodone. A real variety. Though most of the bottles and blister packs are empty, some are unopened. Saved for later.

You must know your stash is here. Plainly ready for you to alleviate your sickness and yet you have avoided it. Why?

Whatever the reason, he cannot abide your self-sabotage. There is too much at stake, too many casualties rest on his shoulders in the event of failure. You can hardly talk, scarcely even breathe in the state your withdrawal has left you in. He can’t let you around those mongrels, not like this - if the stories you tell are anything to go by, they’ll kill you just for the inconvenience of having to look at you. 

A resolution to that problem has fortuitously presented itself to him. An act of a truly sick God. 

He digs around the carcasses of your addiction, decides on an orange tube of Roxicodone, one of the few actually containing tablets. Fast-acting. Should pull you out quick. 

He makes his way down the stairs with a hopeful confidence, that you’ll take the pills when he offers them to you. That you had simply forgotten the cure to your sickness is within reach. That you’ll be grateful he expended the effort to get them for you.

When he returns to the sitting room, you’re still coiled up in the nest of your fur coat, soaking in the amber warmth of the fireplace before you. Still you shiver, trembling as though hypothermic. He stands in the shadow for a beat. He can’t let the guilt find him.

But an unconscious movement of his body alerts you to his arrival, and with a jolt you shoot yourself upright and glance around panicked before you spot him. Even like this, still so frightened. 

With the fire glowing orange behind you, he can’t make out the features of your expression. Are you scowling at him? Bereft at his return? Pleased for the company? 

You stay perched upright, unmoving save for your quivering, watching him like cornered prey and waiting for him to act, to speak. 

“Still feeling sick?” He asks monotonously, and as though the utterance of his voice settled you only slightly, you wipe a sweaty lock of hair from your forehead and your shoulders loosen. 

You give him a slow nod, and murmur, “I think I just need some sleep.” 

He reveals, then, your panacea - between two thick fingers, he gives the bottle a shake. He needn’t say anything. You recognise it immediately. 

On his slow approach he can see your face more clearly, reflecting the faint glow of the fire that bounces around the room. Your expression crumples into a broken scowl, and he spots the glittering tears that quickly begin their swell. It makes his heart sink.  

“You looked through my things,” you hiss. 

His heavy boots echo loudly in the hollow cavern of your sitting room, despite the caution of his steps. “Was looking for something that might help.” 

“Bullshit,” you growl, but the sorrow in your throat belies your anger. “You asshole. You didn’t need to go into my room.” 

“I did,” he grunts, but you are right. He feels no regret, though, not anymore. “I can’t have you like this.” 

Your chest rises and falls with a shaking breath, fingers claw into the furs beneath you. “I’m - I’ll be fine,” you breathe. “I’ll be better by tomorrow.” 

“No, you won’t.” 

“How would you know,” you snap, aggression unconvincing. 

He grits his teeth. Thinks of his brother. 

He spent years, decades, watching Tommy fall into the same pit you’re in. Watched him, helped him climb back out - only to see him fall again. How many times did he overdose? End up in hospital? Drop out of rehab? 

He sees the glassy eyes, the pallid skin, feels the one-thump-a-minute heartbeat under his fingertips. Feels the terror of waiting for the naloxone to kick in, the apocalyptic possibility that it wouldn’t. Feels the crippling grief of watching him slip back into his vices, after weeks of a fragile sobriety he seemed to find more painful than his addiction. 

“I know,” is all he says. 

A whimper. “I’m almost there.” 

He crouches down in front of you, boots squishing the soft mink of your coat. Hot tears trickle in a steady stream down your cheek, dripping off your chin, eyes averting the orange bottle in his hand at all costs. “You’re not even two days in. It’ll take weeks.”

“Don’t make me take it,” you plead, through a sob, and he feels his ribs close in around his lungs. 

His eyes pierce through yours, hoping you’ll do something, say something, anything to make him feel less guilty. But, he knows, there’s nothing. Nothing you can do to make yourself deserving of this, of what he’s about to do to you.

“You need to,” he insists, through teeth; it hurts him viciously to say so. 

You weakly shake your head, staring deeply; red eyes carve into him, chip away at his pitiless resolve with every tear that rolls from their corners. “I don’t want to.” 

“You need to,” he repeats, hoping you didn’t hear the break in his voice, as he pops off the cap. Drops two eggshell-blue tablets into his palm. He hopes it’s enough. Suspects you’ve got a high tolerance.  

“I don’t want it anymore,” you whine, “I’ve never got this far.” 

He swallows a painful breath, takes your jaw in his hand. “I’m sorry,” he grumbles, and he means it. The first time he has said it. The first time he has earnestly felt it. 

At his apology, you still, drawing in a quivering breath through wet lips. “I want to be clean,” you whisper, through a squeak, “It’s - it’s the last thing keeping me here. The last thing keeping me his.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, with nothing more to say. He feels your resistance crumbling, feeble enough already. Your self-restraint is as fragile as glass, and as his thumb travels between your lips and hooks behind your bottom teeth, he feels it shatter. 

Jaw now loose and pliant, you let him open your mouth for you, you let him put the tablets on your glistening tongue with two finger tips. He pushes them deeper, feels the grain of your tongue against his skin, his fingers not quite in your throat. 

He waits for you to swallow. Feels your warm and slick throat roll against his fingers, and you shut your eyes, release a pent sigh that escapes as a sob. 

You blink up at him, then, damp eyelashes clumped together. Your mouth grows wetter around him, your saliva coats his fingers and makes them slippery and warm. You raise a trembling hand as you keep his eye, and hook it gently around his wrist. Your palm is hot and sticky, but the tips of your delicate fingers are cold as ice. 

With tentative stroke, a test of the waters, the pads of your fingers run over the rigid tendons in the back of his hand. So softly, and yet the touch sends a searing fire beneath his skin, it radiates through him like a high-voltage current and forces him to draw in a stifled but ragged breath.

Don’t.

Your other hand meets your first, then, and you hold his wrist resolutely with both - clutching his hand like a vessel you might drink from, you swallow his fingers deeper, and the tips of his fingers touch the hot wall at the back of your throat. Your writhing tongue runs down the length of them, jutting out above your lower teeth, you lick his palm, drinking from him. 

That surging heat flares in his chest, potent and dizzying, pumps hot blood that burns in the back of his neck and swells in his cock. His eyes grow dark, lidded low, he tilts his head downward to glower at you from under his brow. 

Don’t.

You blink at him, a flutter of your lashes, purposeful temptation as you suckle on his hand like he might alleviate your thirst. 

He knows what you want. Viciously evident in the knitting your brow, and the fervour of your tongue. 

His resolve grows weaker with each passing microsecond, each an eon. He could push his fingers deeper. Could press down on the back of your tongue and listen to you gag on him. He could feel your tight throat open and close around him, as you try to swallow the spate of saliva he milks from your mouth. He could trail your spit down your chin, between your breasts, down your stomach - use it to lubricate you as he slides his fingers into your warmth, though he wouldn’t need it. 

Might you be wet already for him, little thing? Might your pink bud be swollen and eager, yearning for his touch?

Don’t.

With a grunt, he forces himself to look at the floor. Musters the dire effort to draw his fingers resentfully from your mouth, pulls with them a string of glossy saliva that sticks to your lower lip. 

Don’t mistake the shameful comfort of relapse for his desire to bring you pleasure, little thing. 

Maybe he will oblige you, one day, but not here. Not while you’re like this. 

He wouldn’t do that to you.

[hikawilla]

Yuu = reader = female. Yuu is over the age of 20. All the other characters have also reached adulthood, well, or have been old for a long time.

The sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, giving off its last rays and painting the sky with pastel colors. Every now and then the sun would hide behind fluffy clouds, causing the temperature to become chilly, and the wind only made the coldness worse. But for one long ago old fairy, who didn't have much longer left to walk this earth, didn't care. He was sitting on a small hill in front of a glade of various flowers, whose fragrance mingled and gave a unique taste of something magical, and was having a dialog with someone.

“And then that counselor got struck by lightning, ha-ha! Malleus not only inherited his mother's looks, but picked up a couple of her bad habits,” Lilia said with a laugh in her voice to her long silent interlocutor. Lilia had visited Yuu every day for the past decades. Even grew his hair, rather, he did it for Yuu herself. Yuu had mentioned sometime in the distant past that Lilia liked long hair so much that Lilia had decided to grow a ponytail again. Although Lilia himself will mention at least once in a conversation that the locks get in the way and he would love to cut them off, he just can't seem to get around to it. Lilia and Yuu know it's a lie.

“Yuu, Silver's descendants have a new addition! It turns out that you and I are now great-great-great… In short, very ancient grandparents! Tell Silver that they inherited his eyes,” Lilia's voice trembled for a second, but it quickly returned to a mischievous tone.

“Daddy, there you are!” - Lilia and Yuu's eldest daughter came up to him. Lilia remembered the day their daughter came into this world. Malleus had jokingly said, or maybe seriously, that it was the third most joyous day of Lilia's life. And then a couple years later Lilia and Yuu had a second son, 3 years later opposite-sex twins, and 5 years later a third daughter. Once Lilia joked that there were enough “Lilia colors” for 4 children, but not for 5 children. Now, in the back of his mind, Lilia wanted all their children to be copies of Yuu.

Lilia didn't want favoritism among his children and grandchildren, but in recent years he had been spoiling his youngest daughter and her children and Silver's descendants more often than not. Lilia hated himself for it, but he couldn't help it, his heart was grieving, and it was the only way he could dull that pain for a second. “Hey, sweetie! Is something wrong?” - Lilia turned his head towards his daughter and smiled.

“Dad, you're over 900 years old! Your bones are all sand! I don't want to run all over the continent and collect your ashes,” the eldest daughter said jokingly. The father of the family made an insulting face in response and then laughed. “Visiting mom again?” - The eldest child looked at her mother's grave, walked over to her father and sat down next to him. “Dad, why is mom's grave here and not next to Brother Silver?”

“Because Yuu loved this place… And a sea of good memories are connected here. This is where I proposed to your mother. The wedding. This is where I found out Yuu was pregnant, you know, for the 5th time in a row. Family picnics… I wanted to make sure that even after Yuu left this world, she could admire her favorite field,” Lilia gave each subsequent word with difficulty, and traitorous tears came to his eyes. “Sweetheart, bury me here.”

“Yes, Daddy,” and the daughter lowered her head onto her father's shoulder. Lilia's hand slowly stroked her daughter's black hair, and the baby's cradle slowly lulled the child to sleep.