#this fic is embroidered on my soul

[vvviktor]

I personally love "this fic will be a family heirloom"

okay we need to have an intervention.

i've noticed that people don't leave the same kind of unhinged compliments under fanfics that visual artists usually receive (eg, "i want to eat your art"), so i've come up with a list that you need to start employing when your friends send you their WIPs and when your favorites update on ao3 but you're having a hard time commenting something that sounds intelligent and you still want to support them

"you're like if [famos author] (eg, Victor Hugo if the fic is angst) was into [fandom]"

"well THIS has been added to my pre-sleep daydream schedule"

"this fic invaded my mind and consumed my brain like a spore"

"I'M LOSING SLEEP OVER THIS ONE, FOLKS"

"yOu'Ve AlReAdY lEfT kUdOs HeRe"

"this fic has me scratching at my yellow wallpaper, it's so good"

"this fic has me checking under my floorboards for the heart of a kind man i murdered, it's so good"

"i'm making my parents read this"

"i know only one chapter is out so far, but i'm going to print this out, staple it together, and put it on my bookshelf next to the canon material"

"this fic gave me another mental illness"

(you can only do this one once) "i made an ao3 account specifically to bookmark this"

"i'm going to print this out so i can eat the words on the paper"

and a couple that are just nice (without the feral nature):

"i made a custom playlist to listen to while i read this fic"

"this fic reminds me of [song]"

"i really liked the part where [x], it really stuck with me"

"i really liked this line, [quote the line,] it was so well-written!"

artists: draw fanart of the fic!! it doesn't matter if you think your art skills are good and it doesnt matter if it's just a sketch!! let the author see it!!

make a moodboard!! for the fic!! let the author see it!!

[allsassnoclass]

i vote PDD director's cut or get off your computer and do something fulfilling for your soul also i love you xoxo

very valid i will take your vote into consideration! thank you for your vote

[chocosvt]

HER | part two.

✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 22.7k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.

(!) warnings: drug use (weed, cocaine, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.

✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!

the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s! 

all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates

any smut or potentially triggering scenes are NOT MARKED bc the content is already quite mature, so just plz be aware of that! 

bolded and italicized text implies the characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!

the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts.

updates: in terms of a posting schedule, i'm pre sure i'm just gonna post every saturday night ~12am EST (so technically sunday lol). taglist is included in the comment section since tumblr now has limit as to how many peeps are mentioned per post :p

thanks againnnn! 🌟

⇢ part one | part three | part four | part five | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)

—MAY 12TH.

Wonwoo was sat on his couch with your laptop glowing in front of him, one hand holding up his chin while the other scrolled slowly through your writing. Finally, you’d let him actually glean your work, and he was quite impressed with your natural skill. He supposed the biggest issue was the choppiness—your sentence structures were much like your racing tangents, and in some areas the writing lacked flow and a smooth continuality. But that sort of ability would just develop on its own as long as you were practicing.

For the most part, Wonwoo was leaving behind small notes and highlighting areas that you could revisit at a later time.

“Okay, I’m going to do a handstand.”

However, as Wonwoo had been combing through your work for the past half-hour, that left you with an apparent boredness which somehow translated into an acrobatics session in his living room.

“I’d really prefer you didn’t,” he answered through the fingers covering his mouth, his eyes trained with focus on the document.

“No, no. I used to be so good at them. Watch.”

Wonwoo was in the midst of typing a note when a small, circular embroidered pillow had suddenly struck the laptop, nearly forcing it shut. It was then that Wonwoo looked up with a long sigh, acknowledging the devious, shining smile that sprung to your face.

“Now that I have your attention—”

Wonwoo titled his head, folded his arms, and propped one foot onto the coffee table, somewhat like an exhausted parent who was being heckled by their child to watch the “special trick” they’d just learned. He was internally praying you actually were good at handstands, because that fragile pottery vase and the antique gold clock sitting on the fire mantel had never looked so breakable until now. A cool breeze slivered in through the open window as your arms began raising above your head, and he heard you inhale steadily.

“Go!” You then shouted, either in motivation or impatience aimed at yourself, loud enough to make Wonwoo flinch.

The next moment, you were basically flipped upside down, your socked feet sticking pointedly in the air while your hands stumbled about on the brown rug for a few seconds, attempting to find their place rooted in the fuzz. Wonwoo pursed his lip, impressed.

“See! Told you!”

“I mean, I never said you couldn’t.”

“Are you amazed?”

He watched with a slight bit of nervousness as you walked a few paces forward with your hands, though he kept his calm composure from the couch and dealt you about three dull claps.

“Cirque de Soleil is asking for you, actually.”

To Wonwoo’s utter relief, you collapsed back onto your feet, probably because the blood was gushing to your head and he’d rather not have you faint squarely on the face in his living room. You then sat on your knees for a moment, rubbing slowly at your scalp.

“I’m almost done,” Wonwoo reaffirmed, moving aside the stitched pillow you’d chucked at him earlier and reopening the laptop.

“Don’t let me rush you.”

He chuckled instantly. “You mean to tell me you’re not bored out of your mind? Why else would you be doing cartwheels.”

Finally, you got up from the rug.

“Um, it was a handstand,” you were hasty to correct him, now sinking into the seat beside Wonwoo on the couch with the circle pillow pulled onto your lap. “I could do a cartwheel, though.”

“Yeah, not in this house you’re not.”

“Not in this house you’re not.”

He merely smirked at your attempt to mimic him by employing a cartoonishly deep tone that you found very amusing, made evident by your prideful giggles close to his ear. Just as Wonwoo scrolled to the end of the document to type his last note, you were piqued with curiosity and leaned over his lap, grabbing at the screen to examine how far he’d come during your hour together.

“So, where are you at anyway?”

Wonwoo pressed himself back into the couch, immediately removing his hands from the keyboard. It felt like at the most random, unpredictable times you would swoop in so close to him, and he never quite knew how to react. Most times he would freeze, become stiff and hardly breathing, run his eyes in all different directions around the room because everything seemed easier when he pretended you didn’t exist.

He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat.

“I’m basically done.”

“You are? Okay. Hm… it seems like you made a lotta notes.”

Wonwoo squirmed in his seat as though it were scratching him. You eventually pulled away, but your knee was now resting on the side of his thigh and you were sitting much closer than before—close enough that your shoulder was digging into his and he could sense your full, bright eyes burning a stare at his pink cheek.

“They’re mostly easy fixes…” he mumbled, refusing to look at you, instead scrolling impetuously through the document with jerks of his pointer and middle finger.  

“Well, what do you think of it?”

He paused, still staring at the laptop.

“Of what?”

“Wonwoo, my writing, obviously,” you said with a warm laugh and a soft breath that rushed over his neck in such a pleasurable, lightheaded way. “And look at me,” he heard you ask in a lower, more sincere voice, your fingers then ghosting along his tense jaw in a fleeting, sensitive touch as you guided his head gently in your direction, “I just want to know you’re telling the truth.”

He was accustomed to your eyes being filled with sparks and the readiness to pit the most sharp-tongued comment in history, and so Wonwoo was able to relax ever so slightly upon realizing how your gaze had become increasingly mellow, welcoming even.

“Well, you’re obviously good at it,” he managed to answer the question without his voice trembling, “just some pacing issues, mostly. You’ve got a bit of an issue with run-on sentences and closing up a scene. But you plan a lot, which is nice. I mean, you can only get better.”

An earnest smile picked its way across your face, framing your polished teeth and pushing up the apples of your cheeks. Wonwoo had to look away—sometimes it was too much—you were too much, and he refused to let himself drown beneath your intensity that he found purely terrifying. Your knee proceeded to pull from his thigh and you were now dragging your body off the couch, which meant that Wonwoo could safely exhale the breath he was holding. He wondered if you just wanted to hear the compliment, or if you were legitimately pleased with his praise.

You walked up to his fireplace mantel, examining the items left along the white, sparkling trim he’d spritzed clean of all dust.

“Did you make this?” Came your inquiry, a curious finger pointing toward the round-bottomed, thin-necked red vase.

Wonwoo shook his head.

“No, it was a welcome gift from the landlord.”

“She made it?”

“Yeah,” he hummed. “Didn’t I tell you? She owns the pottery business downstairs. Saskia. She immigrated here like, eighteen years ago, now. From Poland. I thought you might’ve run into her.”

Shaking your head, you turned back to the vase.

“I didn’t see her at all.”

“She was probably in her office.”

“How did she make all these little emblem thingies? Around the base? Like, this one’s got an elephant. This one is a fruit tree.”

Wonwoo squinted at the vase from his place on the couch. He hadn’t really examined it much, apart from when his landlord had thrust it into his hands while she welcomed him to the building. It never held any flowers, either—not even the brilliant ruby coloured poinsettias his ex-girlfriend's mother was supposed to send.

The relationship has disintegrated before it could ever happen.

“Fuck, don’t know. She has a bunch of little tools down there for more detailed work. Maybe a stamp. You’d have to ask her.”

“It’s really pretty.”

His brows furrowed. “Yeah? You like ceramics or something?”

You turned back to him, shrugging.

“I don’t know. I was just saying, it’s pretty.”

“It is. It’s very pretty.”

With a sigh, you climbed back onto the couch.

“Do you think you’re done editing?”

He picked up the laptop and set it down on the coffee table.

“I think so. For the day.”

“Perfect.” You smiled. “I’ll make time to read your notes tomorrow morning, if I can. Seems like there’s about eight-hundred.”

Wonwoo chuckled, “not eight-hundred. Try twenty.”

“Twenty?!” Your eyes bulged in shock as you gripped onto the embroidered pillow hugged back into your lap. “That’s so many!”

“What—twenty is somehow more than eight-hundred? What fucking planet are you living on where numeracy works like that?”

“Wonwoo, I have so much to do tomorrow!” You winced, tossing your head against the couch and slipping down the cushions.

“Okay, like what?”

“… Gosh… no, no. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter.”

“No, tell me. What have you got to do tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to tell.”

“Why not?” He murmured.

“If I talk about, then I’ll want to do it even less.” There was an empty sigh he heard from your chest as your arms curled tight around the pillow. “Besides, it’s squished all into my colour-coded block on the schedule. The pink one. I just—I don’t want to think about it.”

“Fair. I get that.”

“It’s complicated family stuff.”

Wonwoo huffed sympathetically. “I get that even more.”

“… So, we’re still good for Spring Street on Sunday?” You asked, staring up at Wonwoo from your sunken, defeated slump.

He nodded.

“I’ll be there if you are.”

—MAY 14TH.

The Spring Street Fair. It happened every single May, for three days straight, usually Friday to Sunday. In the daytime it was cheerier and more watered down for the children that came hand in hand with their parents, looking to feed the alpacas and ride those nauseating teacups and sob until exhaustion because they accidentally let go of their kitten-shaped balloon. However, at night, the fair had become a beacon for the older, rowdier university crowd.

Wonwoo never went despite all his recent years living in the city, but Vernon had, usually on accounts of “business” which really meant selling drugs for idiotic prices behind the Whirler or the Starship. You wanted to go, but hadn’t told Wonwoo the reason. He opted to assume it was another part of your story—maybe you ran into Mingyu at a similar fair when you were younger, and it was therefore very integral you go Spring Street tonight. It was the exact opposite of what Wonwoo typically appreciated doing on Sundays, and he knew for a fact he’d loathe it, every single part.

“No fuckin’ way!” Vernon’s voice exploded through the crackly static on Wonwoo’s phone as he stood in line for the fair, gazing over top everyone’s heads to gauge the ticket booth. “I can’t believe your loser ass actually crawled outta bed for that.”

Wonwoo scoffed, “yeah, it wasn’t my choice.”

“Then what for?”

“Her. She wanted to go. It’s for the book.”

He was supposed to meet you inside the fair. It was almost ten o’clock at night. The sky was beautifully clear, illuminated with pinpricks of starlight, and the air had once been crisp. Now, Wonwoo was beginning to smell sparked cannabis, and he assumed a likewise scent would follow him all damn night. The horrid, anxious process of standing in the mile long line was made palatable through his conversation with Vernon, who—shockingly—wasn’t even there.

“Ohh, the book, the book. Wait—she’s gonna write her book at the fuckin’ Spring Street Fair? How the fuck does that work?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Wonwoo chuckled. “It’s stuff about the settings, the environment; she uses it to help with her writing.”

“Hm, doesn’t make much sense to me, probably ‘cause I don’t like readin' or writin' or anything with books. But, damn, I’m jealous of you, Glasses. Do y’know how hard I tried to smooth talk my way into that girl’s pants? N’somehow, you can write good—”

“Write well, not good.”

“Oh, fuck you—write well—so she takes you everywhere like a little purse dog. When does that happen to me, yeah?”

The line started slowly pouring forward, and Wonwoo felt himself get dragged along. Probably another five minutes and he would be at the ticket booth, getting one of those neon bracelets circled around his wrist that were nearly impossible to rip off.

“Why didn’t you come?” Wonwoo asked.

Vernon groaned, “got into some bullshit with this guy who’s not payin’ up. I’m handlin’ it, though. If I can manage to get it all sorted, I’ll come later. It’s too fuckin’ easy selling those gummies to the first years, dude. Shit, it could be some Flintstone vitamins and they’re actin’ like Chicken Little. Cracks me the fuck up.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat, smiling. “You’re such a cunt.”

“Hey, hey, you are what you eat, okay? And, when you get inside or whatever, text me where you’re hangin’ so if I do come, I can see you for a bit. Dunno if your girlfriend will approve.”

The air began mottling with a thin, chalky smoke that drifted from somewhere down the crowded string of university students. Again, the line shuffled, and the congestion gradually broke up as more people were allowed into the fair. Wonwoo switched the phone to his other ear, getting his wallet ready.

“Don’t even start.”

“Start what? I said nothin’.” Vernon’s laughter was raspy and obviously laced with a smirk that Wonwoo could hear.

“Don’t be such a prick. She’s not my—”

Suddenly, Wonwoo’s phone began vibrating against his palm, and when he pulled it down an immediate lump conjured in his throat upon reading your name. His heart jolted, and it wasn’t until someone pushed hard on his back to urge him forward that he realized the line was once again ambling closer to the ticket booth.

Vernon sighed, “so, again, tell me where you’ll—”

“Shit—uh, gotta go. Talk to you later.”

A few remnants of Vernon’s miffed, guttural cursing managed to leak through the phone before Wonwoo could press to accept your call. In an instant, his friend was blipped away, and he heard your voice instead. He held back a cough from the astringent, cottonish air.

“Wonwoo, hello. I’m glad you picked up. So, where the hell are you? It’s nearly ten! Did you not get in line early?”

Wonwoo kept the phone secured between his shoulder and ear while he shimmied the coins out from his wallet.

“No, I did, promise. Just about to pay. Where are you?”

“When you get in, just follow the arrows. They're lit up with those blue lightbulbs. They go to the tavern. I’m having some drinks with my friends. Don’t worry. You won’t have to do much socializing.”

“Uh, okay,” Wonwoo answered, internally counting up the money in his hand until he was certain of the amount. “Mingyu’s there?”

“No. He always plays poker with his friends on Sunday.”

An unbeknownst pressure escaped his chest.

“Okay. I’m close to the front. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Sure. Don’t be late!”

“I know. Bye.”

Hanging up the phone, Wonwoo had just enough time to wriggle the device into his back pocket before handing the ticket booth clerk his coins. She dropped the cold change into his hand, then asked to see his wrist, where she proceeded to attach the bracelet with the words Spring Street Fair etched into the orange, plasticky-feeling paper.

Finally, he was let inside.

Blue arrows, blue arrows—that was all Wonwoo kept reiterating in his head like some religious hymn as he followed the glow throughout the fairgrounds, weaving his way between large groups of people that he gleefully didn’t recognize. Eventually, he saw the tavern you were referring to—an outdoor bar with picnic tables set up everywhere, beneath cheap little strings of warm, lambent lights.

Even with his glasses on, Wonwoo was still squinting as he walked between each table, attempting to discern your dolled-up face somewhere amongst the strangers sipping on their large mugs of alcohol, that was until he heard his name being called over the music rumbling from the bar’s horrible speakers. When he looked straight ahead, he saw you cutely waving him over. With each step he took, Wonwoo reminded himself to breathe, to loosen up, to stop clenching his fists so painfully tight as though he were going to split someone’s eyebrow. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Just breathe.

You stood up from the table to welcome him, and he felt your hand settle softly on his lower back. The touch was grounding.

“So, everyone, girls, if I could get your attention for just a moment despite the general impairment going on here—this is the mystery guy whose been helping me write. Wonwoo.”

God—he wanted to puke, all those big, curious, unabashed eyes soaking him in like freshly dipped watercolour to a cloth canvas. There was a cluster of high-pitched voices that repeated his name in a shrill, unison greeting. However, Wonwoo was unable to meet a single girl’s gaze, and so he opted to stare down at a paper plate on the table aligned with cinnamon-sprinkled churros.

Again, he wanted to throw up.

“So, of course, Wonwoo’s been the biggest help with everything,” you said, to which he could sense your nails subtly digging at him through his clothes, most likely a silent urge to say something so he didn’t seem so unprecedentedly stiff and metallic.

He cleared his throat.

“Uh, yeah. I’m just proofreading, really.” Wonwoo had to swallow. “Some tips here and there. But, she’s pretty good as is.”

“Is that your actual voice?”

His eyes darted to find who asked the question. She was toward the end of the picnic table, tucking a lock of short, coffee brown hair behind her ear. Before the girl was a gigantic and fluorescent pink drink, the glass resembling the shape of a fish bowl.

“… What do you mean?” Wonwoo replied.

She sat up on her knee, continuing to ogle him with those fixated but glazed chestnut eyes. Her mouth seemed to drag as though it was thawing when she spoke. Wonwoo could tell she was already well inebriated. There was no way that was her first drink.

“Your voice,” she repeated, “it’s so… deep.”

“Well… I don’t know. Puberty.”

His comment elicited some giggles from around the table, to which he could feel the cartilage in his ears burning.

“Wonwoo—” another girl then leaned forward with her head tilted up and a coy, drunk smile flittering on her mouth, “—I think it’s so, so great you’re helping Her write. I actually think it’s the sweetest, ever.” Her lashes were coated in smooth mascara and her eyelids were remarkably glimmery, drenched in an electric shade of blue that he couldn’t stop staring at. “Also, sorry, but you’re like, super gorge.”

“Super what?” He repeated, confused at her wording.

But she didn't seem interested in repeating herself, instead scooping the long and impressively silky black hair off her shoulder to spill down her pale back.

“Okay, okay, okay. We’ve all shared some impetuous conversation and we’ve all swooned over him now. Yippee. Unfortunately, we’ve gotta get going, friends.”

Wonwoo felt your hand land on his shoulder and gently tug him backward, away from the table. You then proceeded to grab the glass left at your seat, chugging the remaining alcohol until there was nothing but a melting block of ice cubes clicking at the bottom. While you wiped your mouth, you began aiming a finger at each girl.

“To make a long story short, that’s Princess, Clara, and Bells. Do you have any comments for them before we go?” The impatience in your tone was bleeding through with sheer apathy.

Wonwoo shrugged. “Uh, nice to meet everyone? I guess.”

“Short and efficient. How perfect. Okay, I’ll see you guys later, I think. Actually—probably not. So can someone eat my churros?”

Your arm curled around Wonwoo’s bicep as though to whisk him away as hurriedly as possible. Everyone left at the table began waving, and Wonwoo couldn’t even bring himself to force a fake, pleasant smile because he was still attempting to understand what all those comments even meant. You walked briskly until the poetic, firefly lights of the tavern were lost long behind in the distance, and when you finally paused, he had not a clue where he was standing—a busy centre with people mingling all around him, the wild whirring of carnival rides and chaotic, blinking hues strobing above his head.

When he looked down at you, he was surprised to see you were already staring back, and he could only hold the eye contact for no more than a few seconds or else his heart would skip a beat.

“Sorry about all that,” you said, rolling your shoulders, “I tried to be somewhat reasonable with my drinking for once. I can’t say the same for Clara and Bells. They guzzle cocktails like apple juice.”

“Bells is… the one with all that sparkly blue eyeshadow?”

“Oh—yeah. She loves sparkles. Glitter. Anything glimmery. She’s been like that ever since I’ve known her. Clara was the one who asked about your voice. She has a thing for guys with deep voices and you unfortunately fit the bill. And I’m sorry that Princess didn’t say anything. She kind of just looks and observes. Also I’m like ninety-eight percent sure she popped something in a porta-potty before we met up so she’s probably in a mental state of star-surfing. Anyway. You don’t have to worry about them, alright? It’s just us for tonight.”

 “Well, that’s… easy enough.”

“I’m not sure if we should stand here.”

“Hm?”

You then pointed to something behind Wonwoo, and when he turned his head, he felt a gust of wind from the gigantic, spinning ride that resembled a flying saucer in the nighttime sky. It was always beyond him why anyone would choose to strap themselves into a machine that terrifying. It made him sick just watching.

“If I get throw up on my head, I’m killing myself.”

“Okay, so let’s find somewhere else.”

As he began walking away in search of a quieter area, you grabbed onto the back of his clothes. Wonwoo raised his eyebrow.

“We have to hold hands, or have arms linked,” you said.

For some reason, Wonwoo presumed you were joking, and so he tilted his head at you with a questioning smile. But when your serious expression didn’t crack, he realized it wasn’t a joke at all.

“Oh… why?”

“Because—” you then took a step toward him and spoke matter-of-factly, like you were reading a rule book, “—it’s the buddy system. Always have someone at your side, and make sure you’re linked in some way. It’s too easy to get separated in places like this, otherwise. Have you never heard of that before?”

“I have,” Wonwoo answered, adjusting his glasses. “My—um, my hands are a little cold. I don’t have the best circulation.”

The truth was, Wonwoo didn’t want to hold your hand. He didn’t want to link arms with you. He didn’t want you pressed into his side all night. He didn’t want to have the scent of your hair under his nose or feel your ticklish breath against his neck each time you spoke.

But he didn’t have a good enough excuse to fight it.

“Oh my god, who cares,” you retorted. “And I have super sweaty hands. Like, uncomfortably warm. We'll balance out.”

 “Actually?”

“Yes! Is that a problem for you, sweetheart?”

Wonwoo quickly shook his head in response to your condescending tone. You then reached for his hand, which he offered up for your required holding, and chose to ignore the butterflies in the deep pit of his stomach when he realized how perfectly your fingers slotted with his. He followed your lead through the fair until you came outside a small lemonade booth. Wonwoo thought you would drop his hand, but you didn’t, and his knees felt like gelatine.

“I want another drink,” you told him.

He squinted at their options, which didn’t really consist of much. The prices were obviously insane—it was another reason he hated going to fairs. His wallet always got cleaned out.

“You’re going to have to use the washroom a lot.”

“Ugh,” you gritted in response, brushing some hair from your face, “I hate public washrooms. They’re so gross. Completely unsanitary. Awful maintenance. One time I was here and I walked into the washroom by the Mirror Hall and I swear, a freaking rat ran across the floor! I screamed bloody murder. I’d rather squat in the bush and risk getting, like, poison ivy. But the washrooms have mirrors obviously, and I like checking my makeup and stuff. I wish I could check now.”

“Right now? I mean, your makeup looks fine.”

Wonwoo saw your entire face freeze, and then begin to warp, as though he’d just said the most dreadful thing he could think of.

“Fine?” You glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He started stumbling over his words, feeling his chest tighten.

“So, what you’re saying is that I look ugly? That my makeup looks bad? Because if you really thought it was ‘fine’ then you wouldn’t have said it looks ‘fine’ because everyone knows that word is a substitute for passable and passable is just a substitute for ugly!”

He opened his mouth, then instantly closed it.

“So what’s wrong with it? Are my under eyes creasing? Is my contour too dark? Is my lipstick smudged? Did it get on my teeth? Ugh, I knew I should have brought my compact!”

“No, no, no.” Wonwoo squeezed your hand, hoping that he could somehow undo the damage he had no intention of even inflicting in the first place. “Uh—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. You look—” he wasn’t sure he could say the compliment without shivering, but Wonwoo didn’t care in the moment, “—your makeup is beautifully done. There’s no creasing or smudging, there’s none of that."

You kept touching worrisomely at your face. “Are you sure?”           

“I promise.” Wonwoo confirmed, giving your hand another tight, reassuring squeeze that seemed to calm you down.

He had never seen someone switch gears that quickly. You could be perfectly amicable one second, and then break down into near hysteria the next, a slew of anxious thoughts running straight from your brain to your mouth like clockwork.

Wonwoo wondered how Mingyu dealt with such tangents all the time. The trait almost didn’t seem to fit your image.

The line moved forward another step.

“Are you going to drink anything?” You asked after a moment of silence, in a quieter voice. “I want to get the strawberry refresher.”

“Maybe.”

“What will you get?”

“I… don’t know. A regular lemonade?”

“No,” you shook your head, pointing toward the corner of the booth’s menu, “get the pina colada thing. I want to try it, too.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo agreed with a shrug as he retrieved his wallet, not really caring about what he drank. “I’ll pay for it. No worries.”

The longer Wonwoo was at the fair, the less he actually thought about why he was there, until the question leapt into his mind at random while he stood beside you, waiting for a seat on the dauntingly large Farris wheel. He removed the straw from his mouth, swallowing a gulp of his pina colada flavoured drink, and peered down at you. His hand was still interlinked with yours. You had finished the strawberry refresher in about five minutes.

Now, you were texting someone. He didn’t know if it was a friend from earlier or perhaps your boyfriend, but Wonwoo wasn’t a serious sleuth, so he opted to look away despite the natural urge that was pricking him. When you finally tucked the phone back into the small bag slung around your shoulder, Wonwoo lowered the plastic cup from his mouth, making sure to clear his throat.

“So, uh, why are we here, exactly?”

You sniffled. “What do y’mean?”

“Does the fair have anything to do with your writing? Is that why we’re riding the Farris wheel? Oh—speaking of which, I didn’t think to bring the camcorder, in case you wanted any footage.”

“Oh, no,” you said, waving a dismissive hand, “this has nothing to do with my book. We’re palate cleansing.”

“Palate cleansing?” He echoed.

“Yeah. It’s like, doing something different in between a routine, to keep yourself fresh. You always eat breakfast at home but today you skip it and go out for brunch. Y’know, shit like that.”

Wonwoo huffed in amusement. “You could have told me beforehand.”

“Uh, no—” your face scrunched up in clear disagreement, “—I couldn’t, because then you wouldn’t have gone. No offence, but you’re a hermit, Wonwoo. You don’t really like going anywhere or doing anything and you’re definitely one of those people who bores themselves into hating their own life because your stimuli is so limited. That’s why I didn’t tell. Again, no offence.”

“Oh.”

That was all he could string together in response—not even string together, because it was just one boring, monotone sound that basically got carried away in the chilly wind, tinted with the smell of buttery popcorn and weed. It sounded like something that was supposed to sting, but it didn’t really. Maybe he was growing more accustomed to your unprompted judgements on his personal life.

Suddenly Wonwoo had blinked and you two were next in line for the empty cart. The clerk pointed at Wonwoo’s drink.

“You can’t bring that with you,” he said.

Before Wonwoo could think to respond, you had already grabbed the cup from his hand, chucking it straight into the garbage.

“We’re not.”

Pulling on his hand, you guided him into the shaky cart, both of you squishing onto the cold, metal bench. It was quite literally the tamest ride in the entire fair, and yet Wonwoo was still feeling nervous about it—though, that was possibly the fact he was going to be sailed one-hundred feet into the satin black sky, left amongst the stars and the bright, shimmering halo of the moon with you and you alone. He was actually relieved you had tossed his drink, otherwise he might have dropped it due to the trembling in his fingers. It was easier to fiddle with them in order to disguise their shakiness.

“I guess I should have asked if you’re afraid of heights,” you said.

The cart jerked abruptly as the ride began to move and lift you two ever so gradually from the ground. Wonwoo peered over the edge for a brief moment to watch his distance grow from the people below, their jumbled mess of conversations fading in place of quiet.

“Uh, no. I’m okay with heights,” he finally answered.

He saw you glancing down as well, smiling to yourself.

Wonwoo wasn’t sure if he should attempt at conversation or just maintain the stillness between you. Usually, he couldn’t stand it, and the pressure to talk and fill the silence always tended to fail or squander something potentially enjoyable. But he supposed it was typically like that in a situation where two people weren’t the best acquainted—that’s why Wonwoo always quite liked Vernon, despite his rough, nonconformed edges and often vulgar way of speaking.

He was able to carry a conversation so naturally that the quieter moments never felt suffocating, instead falling exactly where they should, like puzzle pieces. But that was harder with you.

Maybe it was because you could be intimidating, unpredictable—Wonwoo was never truly relaxed around you because there was this intangible, looming worry that he needed to have the perfect responses and be the most perfect person. He found that perfect people only hung out with other perfect people and Wonwoo was certainly not that—perfect. You must have seen it by now. He was just as rough as Vernon no doubt, but in a different, hidden way that had to be dug into like an archeologist looking for broken bones.

The Ferris wheel slowed down, coming to a stop. You weren’t at the very top, though the air was notably cooler and much fresher. When he inhaled a long breath, it smelled purely of night and not overpriced, buttery fair food and burning weed. He noted that you stared straight ahead, at the crescent-shaped moon, which mirrored a backward stare with how squarely it sat in front of the ride. For once, Wonwoo wasn’t squirming, wriggling, stressing at the silence. When he spoke, he did it because he genuinely wanted to.

“How was your Saturday?”

“My Saturday?”

“Yeah. I saw the schedule. You had to run a bunch of errands with your mom. Looked like you were pretty keyed up.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, I want to say I was overreacting the day before about how much I was dreading it. But then it fucking happened. And… I, uh… I realized I was exactly right. It was awful. I did get to your notes, though… yeah—I just—I squeezed them in between brunch with my mom’s friend who could talk herself to death and the excruciating car ride to the publisher’s office.”

“Mmhm.” Wonwoo smiled tenderly. “Did they help at all?”

“Yeah,” you breathed out, “a lot, actually… thank you.”

“I’m sorry your Saturday went so terribly.”

Huffing in response, you nibbled on your inner check.

“Yeah, well, it is what it is… I already knew it was gonna be a shit show. So, what is it that you write about, anyway? Because you seem like you know a whole lot. Seokmin says you let him read some of your poetry, but it was only like, two excerpts.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Wonwoo recalled the memory of Seokmin picking up his leather notebook when it fell out from his bag one day. He’d pestered him about the contents until Wonwoo succumbed and presented him with some lifeless, impatiently scribbled prose that he’d most likely jerked out on the bus or in between his lectures. Seokmin seemed to treat it like fine, prestigious gold, though Wonwoo knew it was the least personal of his work that he would never let another living soul on the planet breathe—not one scent of the ink or even the paper.

“So, you write poetry?”

“I started writing poetry, haikus and all that easy stuff. I developed the interest a lot more through high school. But I never sat down and tried writing anything like a novel until I... I started uni.”

“Yeah. Deciding to be a math major. I still don’t get it,” you sighed, fidgeting with some rings on your fingers. “But what do you even write about? Like, what’s your inspiration?”

Wonwoo paused, looking down at his knees.

“… Life.”

“Life?” You defeatedly slumped into the seat. “That’s the million dollar answer your intelligent brain chose to erect? It’s just that when I think about it, I’m letting you help me with my writing, but I’ve never even read a little smidgen of yours. How’s that fair?”

The higher the Farris Wheel climbed, the stronger the breeze blew, and Wonwoo could feel its tendrils lashing across his cheeks and parting through his hair. You huddled further into your jacket.

“Well, you took Seokmin’s word for it,” Wonwoo laughed.

Your eyes rolled, but you smiled gently. “I know.”

Suddenly, your hand had reached out, and you were pushing the floppy, black tresses off his forehead. Wonwoo’s fingers dug bluntly into his arms. You then angled yourself in the small cart, looking back at him, sculpting your gaze to each crest in his face.

“Why don’t you ever push your hair back?”

The question hit the dark, cold atmosphere like a sizzling ember and Wonwoo was afraid to even open his mouth because he was certain a dying squeak would come out. You continued to play around with the locks, earthing your fingers deep into its texture and attempting to style it despite the persistent, fluttering breeze.

“Um…”

“If you styled it like this—” you moved in closer, staring with so much focus at your nimble movements, “—yeah, like that. It shows off your forehead, gives you a bit of class. I mean, the wind’s messing it up. You don’t tend to do anything with your hair.”

“No.” Wonwoo swallowed, hard.

“Well, you should. Not all the time, obviously. And I’m not saying you look bad with it down—not at all. But you’ve got nice, smouldering features and they’re so much more… framed… when you show your forehead.” You collapsed back into the seat, and that tingly feeling he experienced when your fingers had been tugging and pulling was disseminating throughout his entire body. “I mean, look at how my friends reacted to you. I should apologize for that again, by the way. O-M-F-G, they see one hot guy, and they lose their grip.”

He nearly choked. “Hot?”

It didn’t sound right. Not at all.

“Well, what the fuck, Wonwoo? You’re not ugly.”

“Did you think that when you first saw me?”

You had folded your leg again as the Farris wheel came to another stop. This time, at the very top, at the centre of the night.

“Did I think what? That you’re not ugly?”

“Never mind,” Wonwoo grimaced, hearing the cart creek as you better positioned yourself to face him. “It’s pathetic like that.”

“No. I didn’t think you were ugly. Did you think I was ugly?”

Wonwoo wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the question, but he smothered it down because he knew one little laugh might hit your ear the wrong way, and it would be flames, sputtering and spewing. Obviously, he didn’t think you were ugly—he never had, even before he ever spoke to you. But he wasn’t so shallow as to only regard someone’s physical appearance. You were still terrifying.

“I wouldn’t consider anyone ugly... and I wouldn’t ever use it to describe some aesthetically. But—I mean, I think people can become ugly through their personality, if that makes sense.”

“Yeah, like, if they’re rotten inside.”

“Mmhm.”

“I agree.”

“What was that word your friend Bells said?”

You shrugged, “which word?”

“She said something like, you’re super… I don’t know… super something.”

“Oh—” you sat up more in the cart, your back pressed against the uncomfortable corner, “—Bells said you were super gorge.”

“Meaning…”

“Meaning super gorgeous.” You made a big show of the rehashed compliment, parroting your friend's tone and swaying your shoulders.

“Oh… really?” Wonwoo shook his head. “I thought she was referring to gorge as in when you gorge yourself, from eating.”

“No,” you giggled at him, “it’s a short form, dumb-dumb.”

“Why make a short form out of that? Is it really that strenuous to say the word gorgeous? It’s only an extra syllable.”

“Okay, well, this isn’t the nineteen-twenties. We don’t all cross our T’s and dot our I’s. It reminds me of how you text.”

He furrowed his brow. “How do I text?”

Your eyes rolled frivolously. “I dunno. Like you’re typing to a business colleague or something. You’re so formal. When I think of you texting, I imagine it’s like someone using a typewriter. And that funny little ding sound it makes whenever you start a new line.”

“Oh.”

“What—no one’s ever told you that before? No way.”

“That I text like I’m using a fucking typewriter? No, actually. I can’t say I’ve heard that.”

“Well, it’s not a big deal. You’re just not very plugged into the internet, I suppose. Which is a good thing. It gives you prestige.”

At that, Wonwoo chuckled. “Does it?”

“Yes,” you smiled, eyes full of starlight, “and—just ignore Bells, okay? She was being kind of weird but that can be fully attributed to those three shots I told her not to take.”

“Hm.”

You continued to stare at him with a plotting smile.

“Hm what? What’s the matter?” The metal of the cart squeaked as you leaned forward, your voice suddenly lathered in mischief. “Did you think she was cute?” He heard your tone drop, and your low, smooth voice breathing hot against his ear. “Did you think about fucking her, Wonwoo?”

“No—what the fuck—not at all.” Quickly, he’d pushed you away and off his shoulder, to which you retreated into the corner with a giggle that should have made his skin crawl, but didn’t.

“Well, how would I know?” You answered, tilting your head and stretching out your arms high into the blackness, as though you were trying to reach for a star. “I never know, because you never look at me. It makes me think you just lied and you do think I’m ugly.”

Wonwoo glanced over the edge of the cart, at the almost nauseating distance between himself and the fairgrounds, covered with miniature, bustling people that seemed like breadcrumbs by comparison to their place in the sky. He didn’t want to sink into this conversation. Besides, how was he supposed to look at you when your fingers were just gliding through his hair and your lips were whispering close enough to brush up against his ear? How was he supposed to act composed? Normal?

“Hey, Wonwoo?” Your fingers snapped.

But he just kept thinking. Like he was cut from a separate cloth than you—the fabric of his universe wasn’t woven with yours and he could ruminate as much as he wanted to and it was impossible to hear your intrusions. Why couldn’t he look at you?

You intimidated him, yes. You scared him, double yes.

He already knew that. It couldn’t just be that.

“Wonwoo? God… you shut down over the simplest things.”

“I don’t know.”

You paused, staring him up and down, perplexed.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know why I can’t look at you.”

There was a lasting silence between you. Wonwoo felt like he might throw up for acknowledging the fact out loud, and his fist tightened in his lap as though to ground himself—to remember where he was and to breathe slowly, because having a panic attack on top of a stupid Ferris Wheel was the last place it should happen. He hadn’t even realized that you’d shifted closer, one leg curled beneath you while you spoke at the side of his head. But he didn’t hear you, couldn’t see you—there was a harsh void inside him that sounded like suctioning air and static. His fingernail was pressing so deeply into the flesh of his pale skin that it was beginning to faintly bleed.

And—all of a sudden—there were these hands cautiously gripping onto his face, pulling him toward you. He kept staring at the movement of your soft lips, focusing on their pronunciation until everything flooded back in one overwhelming whirl and it felt like being slammed by a freight train.

Wonwoo then grabbed onto your bare knee as a crutch. He didn’t mean to. But you didn’t seem to care.

“—everything okay? Wonwoo? Do I need to like, call someone? Because you look like you’re going to be sick.”

He heaved in a gaping breath, feeling how cold the midnight air was in the thinning atmosphere that encompassed him. It was soothing, akin to a hand massaging along his back.

“Wonwoo?” You repeated his name, sounding awfully scared.

Pulling off his glasses, he rubbed at his eyes. He blurrily saw you touch the spot on your knee where his hand had buried into.

“Sorry,” he then coughed through the heartbeat raspy in his throat, bringing the glasses back to his face, “I spaced out.”

“Spaced out?” You echoed. “That wasn’t spacing out.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He thought you fight might it.

“Well…” you sighed, glancing around uncertainly, “are you okay? Is there someone you want to call? I don’t know.”

But you didn’t. Thank God.

“No, I’m—” he stopped, gulping back the words.

“… Yeah?” There was a softer intrigue in your cadence.

Wonwoo looked at you. Fully this time. He looked straight into your eyes that were like a glossy, moonlit ocean, detailed with swirling riptides of surprise and apprehensiveness, but also immense depth that seemed genuinely appreciative of his gesture.

“I’m fine.”

And then he watched you nod, smile, and in return study his cavern eyes with the same intensity and wonder. It was such a peculiar experience, staring at you, understanding a little more of your truth, your gentleness.

He didn’t feel as scared.

—MAY 16TH.

Wonwoo had been standing before the mirror in his washroom for the past half-hour or so, primarily just staring, examining, and pulling at the long, limp fronds of his hair. There was a point in his life when he legitimately put effort into styling it, and all his old hair products were still sitting in the cabinet. Though, his ex-girlfriend had tended to help him with it most days, because he found the strands were just too thick and stubborn to work with.

However, since the Spring Street Fair, Wonwoo hadn’t been able to shake those comments you made—about how nicely his face could be framed and the smouldering nature of his features. He would never think to describe himself that way as it seemed particularly pompous and kind of foolish, but hearing you say it was different. The thing was, Wonwoo had no idea where to start, and attempting to rummage his fingers through his hair just didn’t feel as stimulating or electric compared to your meticulous, sweet touch.

In the midst of opening his cabinet for a comb, Wonwoo heard his phone vibrate. He looked down at the sink, seeing the screen brighten with a text notification from Vernon.

[ Vernon | 12:54 pm ]: hey Glasses

[ Vernon | 12:54 pm ]: Solar Pop at 2?

Wonwoo thought about it for a moment, running his thumb down the spine of the comb to hear the little thwip. And then he sighed in decision, texting back a thumbs up. It’s not like he was working later, and as much as Wonwoo would love to believe that today might be the day he made actual progress on his own story, he knew it was just wishful thinking. In reality he’d waste ample time staring into the document, pondering all the scenes and emotions and nuances he could write rather than moving to write anything at all.

Besides, he hadn’t eaten yet today. The thought of a juicy, sauce-slathered, bun-toasted burger being his first meal prompted the boy’s face to sallow greenly with sickness, but the longer he stood in the washroom, combing and slicking and running styling balm through the black bird’s nest on his head, Wonwoo felt the hunger start to bite like an emaciated, starved dog. He left his apartment knowing he would be somewhat late, but Vernon was always later.

And while Wonwoo sat in one of the booths at Solar Pop, flicking the laminated menu back and forth despite knowing the exact order he was going to place, he thought about sending Vernon another text to ask where the hell he even was. Wonwoo could only sip his slippery glass of coke for so long until the waitress decided he was crazy and had been one-hundred percent stood up.

“Hey, fuck, I’m here.”

2:24 pm—that’s when Vernon finally arrived, sliding himself into the leather bench opposite to Wonwoo while tossing his big, metallic clump of keys onto the table. The boy then proceeded to shimmy off his black jacket, propping his elbows onto the table.

If Vernon ever pulled a tardy stunt like that with you, Wonwoo imagined his friend would probably get stuffed into one of those boxes for sawing people in half. Except it wouldn’t be magic.

“Did you get pulled over or something? Police raid? Traffic stop?” Wonwoo asked, now resting his menu down flat.

Vernon laughed, shaking his head. “Uh, no. Couldn’t find my fuckin’ car keys,” he spoke in a breathless voice. “Sorry ‘bout it.”

“Couldn’t find them?” Wonwoo almost scoffed at the excuse while his friend began scouring his way through the menu. “Dude, they’re the fucking size of a bowling ball. How could you lose them?”

“Okay, okay. Fuckin’ skin me alive, why don’t you?”

“You didn’t come from your place, I’m guessing.”

At that, Vernon began to grin, the metal on his pierced lip glinting underneath a ray of sunlight through the blinds. He was still occupied with choosing which burger he wanted. Wonwoo picked the same choice every time. Vernon always tried something different.

“No, I didn’t,” he rasped, flashing his sharp teeth and flipping the menu over, “but when Maleeha Rabia sends you a text at goddamn one in the morning of her tits, you don’t roll over n’ go to bed like some loser. Besides, my ecstasy was just sittin’ around and I had to use it one way or another. Anyway, doesn’t fuckin’ matter. I think I’ll get the Double Bacon Crunch Burger. Sounds good as hell.”

Finally, Vernon threw the menu down with conviction.

“Jesus Christ—” his copper-burnt eyes then flared open as he looked across the table at his friend, “—who the fuck are you?”

Wonwoo itched his nose. “Um, what?”

Vernon leaned forward, seeming captivated. “Uh, your fuckin’ hair? How’d you get it like that? It’s all brushed over and soft lookin’ and shit. I feel like I shouldn’t be sittin’ with you, Prince Charmin’.”

“I just put some balm in it, combed it around,” he answered, reaching for his drink. “Took me a humiliating amount of time.”

“Well, consider me starstruck. What’s made you do all that?”

Before Wonwoo could answer, the waitress returned to the table with her small notepad and shiny pen. Vernon pitched his order first, and Wonwoo followed, asking for the regular quarter-pounder with a side of hot crinkle-cut fries. Once she whisked the menus away and promised to grab Vernon’s root beer float, Wonwoo realized he still had to answer his friend’s question. He didn’t exactly want to tell the truth, because he knew Vernon would never let him hear the end of it, but Wonwoo also didn’t want to be too dishonest.

“Your face is doin’ that thing.”

“What thing?” Wonwoo answered, swallowing his sip of soda.

Vernon crossed his arms on the table, accenting the canvas of darkly-inked tattoos needled into his skin. He shook his head.

“It’s ‘cause of your little girlyfriend, isn’t it?”

Fuck. Wonwoo should have just opened his mouth straight away and spieled out some quick-witted lie. Now he would be painfully subject to Vernon’s unfiltered teasing. Leaning back in his seat, Wonwoo unearthed a miserable sigh at Vernon’s smirk.

“You’ve gotta drop that bullshit.”

“It’s true,” Vernon pressured.

“No, it’s not.”

As though to interpret Wonwoo’s steadfastness as a challenge, Vernon leaned further over the table, dropping his voice but still smiling devilishly through every word he mimicked between his teeth.

“Oh, Wonwoo, your hair looks so fucking sexy like that. It makes you look so perfect. You’re from my dreams. Please, just fuck me right here, right now so I can push my fingers through it ‘cause it’s so soft and silky and I’m basically in love with you.”

“Shut the fuck up. Please.”

“That was a good impression, though, wasn’t it?”

In the loud space of Wonwoo’s disgusted silence, the waitress placed Vernon’s drink onto the table and ensured the food would be coming soon. Vernon watched her walk away, back into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he then grinned in capitulating fashion, “take a stupid joke, alright? I know she’s not in love with you and she doesn’t wanna suck your dick—she’s got a fuckin’ boyfriend. If it makes you feel any better, I’m just projectin’ ‘cause you know I’m jealous.”

Wonwoo sucked in a sip from his coke, shaking his head.

“There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vernon dismissed, poking his spoon at the near perfect scoop of vanilla ice cream afloat in the frosty mug, “but just so y’know, your mopey ass left me out to dry on Sunday night. Shoved me off the phone, didn’t respond to one of my texts. You’re lucky I even asked you t’hang today. Did she take your phone or something’?”

Shit. When Vernon said it like that, Wonwoo seemed like a terrible friend. Maybe he did deserve a deal of teasing. But at the same time, Wonwoo knew how easy it was for your attitude to flip and he hadn’t been at all interested in starting the night with hostility.

“Okay, fair.” He admitted, rolling up his sleeves.

“And?” Vernon raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“I’m sorry.”

“There you fuckin’ go. That’s all I wanted t’hear, Glasses.”

The truth was, Wonwoo actually quite enjoyed his time with you that night—despite the transient, bickering hiccups and his nearly faltering panic attack, he had fun. Actual fun. Of course, as soon as your ride ended on the Ferris wheel, you’d clutched onto his hand like a snake sinking in its fangs and dragged him throughout the entirety of the fair to find a washroom. Nonetheless, he really loved playing some carnival games with you, like skee ball and the water pistol. He was even able to win you a pink stuffed bear that you had carried close to the chest for the remainder of your time at the fair.

Wonwoo thought he could spend another night like that with you again. Just to get out of his apartment, to feel exhilaration in the pit of his stomach, to laugh until his lungs dried out, to hold your warm, comforting hand in his even when it became too clammy or inconvenient because otherwise you would scold him for letting go.

“Food’s on the way,” Vernon perked up like a child about to be served a slice of birthday cake as the waitress walked over with two full plates, “if you can’t finish yours, I’ll take it.”

“Yeah—how about you focus on chewing and not choking to death first,” Wonwoo sighed, watching his friend’s metaphorical tail wag.

Once she set the food down, inquiring about any refills, and left while flashing her perfected customer service smile, Vernon grabbed the burger with both his hands, taking a gigantic, succulent bite that somehow didn’t singe the roof of his mouth. Wonwoo winced, instead going for his crisped, golden fries.  

“Damn. You’re really that hungry?”

“I’m ravenous,” Vernon mumbled, picking up a few caramelized onions that fell onto his plate. “Dude, I woke up at noon in Maleeha’s bed. She was out cold. Nothin’ in her pantry but some stale fuckin’ Fruit Loops that I may have tried. I’m a grown ass man. I need a meal.”

“I’m glad you’re so proactive," Wonwoo answered, sinking his burning hot fry into the small side-bowl of ketchup.

It took them less than half an hour to clean their plates. Wonwoo tended to eat at a slower pace, with smaller, more savoury bites, while Vernon sloppily devoured his entire burger and gobbled down his fries with the occasional dipping into the root beer float’s ice cream. They scarcely talked in between, too focused on eating and drinking. Wonwoo pushed away his plate when he’d finished and proceeded to wipe off his salty, crumb-speckled fingers with a napkin, meanwhile Vernon took a moment to sink backward into the leather seat, placing a hand over his full, satiated stomach.

“Hey, do y’think they have any Life Savers?” He eventually piped up while sticking a toothpick into his mouth. “I want grape.”

Wonwoo scoffed, tossing the napkin onto his plate and taking out his phone. “Who the fuck likes grape?”

“Me, you smartass,” Vernon answered, turning backward in his seat and scanning the restaurant for any colourful candy bowls.

He couldn’t deny that he was hoping to see a text from you, but there was nothing, and his chest dropped. Wonwoo decided to open the schedule you had made, curious as to what you were even doing today—work until five o’clock, and then you were going out for supper with some friends at Terra Cotta.

He thought about texting you. His thumbs kept hovering above the keyboard in contemplation, even though he knew for certain he wouldn’t text anything. He would just stare and hope.

“Holy shit. Uh, oh my God. Wonwoo. I-I see—”

Vernon had suddenly reached a hand onto the table, slapping the lacquered wood a few times to garner his attention.

“What?” He mumbled in agitation, keeping his focus glued to the phone. “If you see the Life Savers just go up and take some. I swear, they’re not gonna fucking care you’re not twelve years old.”

“No, no, no, dumbass,” Vernon hissed, turning back around in the booth, his honey eyes glistering in oils of dread and panic. “Look, actually look. That’s Mingyu, isn’t it?”

Immediately, Wonwoo clicked off his phone, instead squinting into the distant corner of the restaurant where a notably tall, black-haired boy with tanned, amber skin had emerged from a doorway, standing in a somehow casual but imposing way that only be Mingyu.

It must be Mingyu, and that fact became glaringly obvious when Wonwoo made the unintentional, floundering mistake of staring straight into the boy’s wandering and earthen brown eyes.

“Oh my fuckin’ God, oh my fuckin’ God,” Vernon kept reiterating under his breath, bouncing his knee like an anxious student waiting for their test. “He definitely saw us. Or—he definitely saw you. This is so bad, man. I think he’s gonna rock me.”

“What?” Wonwoo whispered back harshly, attempting to float his gaze away from Mingyu in a casual manner. “For what reason?”

It seemed like Vernon almost wanted to gag at him. “Um—because of what fuckin’ happened between me n’ his girl! At that party? I told you about that shit, didn’t I?” He rasped from across the table, his bottom lip worried between biting teeth. “Dude, what if he tries to pull a fast one? You’re what—like six foot something? You have to help back me up. I can throw a pretty solid punch—even better when I’m shit-faced—but that might not be enough. Lady Liberty’s built like a brick.”

“Okay, you’re acting crazy,” Wonwoo uttered in disbelief. “I doubt he’s going to be anything but physical, especially in a public place. And, you said you didn’t know Her was in a relationship.”

“How the fuck do I know he knows that? Can’t exactly use my infectious charm on someone whose girlfriend I tried to rail.”

Vernon somehow dared to spare another rapid glance over his shoulder, only to shed an entire mould of colour from his complexion.

“He’s coming, he’s—”

“Shut up and relax,” Wonwoo mumbled. “I’m sure it’s nothing big—he’ll say a thing or two and be on his way. God, I’ll handle it.”

For some reason, Wonwoo thought he should be sinking into consternation a lot more than he actually was, but it’s not that his chest wasn’t thumping or his mind wasn’t spinning amuck with worry. It was more so that he was managing the whirlwind, as best he could, as much as he could manage. Mingyu wasn’t a complete stranger, and all their past interactions had been boringly cordial or even forgettable. Nonetheless, Wonwoo would still prefer to avoid the boy because that made his life simpler in the grand scheme of anxiety.

“Hey, Wonwoo,” Mingyu approached the table with a confident, leisurely stride, extending his large hand for Wonwoo to grab, exchanging a dap. “I almost didn’t recognize you for a sec.”

“All good,” Wonwoo answered, attempting a polite grin that felt much more sweltering on the inside than out. “How’ve you been?”

Mingyu shrugged, burying his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants while he gazed at the slitted curtains for a moment, pondering his reply. “Decent. Playing a lot of basketball. I don’t think I’ve seen you since I came to the pharmacy. You still there?”

“Still there.”

“Well, at least I haven’t had to come in for a fuckin’ pregnancy test yet. That’s good I suppose, yeah?” The boy chuckled, then tilting his head a certain way to crack a stiff spot in his neck.

“Aisle five if you ever need it.”

Mingyu responded with a smirk that perhaps lasted a second too long, and these slimming, analyzing eyes—a gaze that Wonwoo felt ripple in his gut. He chose to believe it was nothing dire, or else he would spiral right there on the spot and lose all fine-tuned control.

Meanwhile Vernon had been sitting quietly the entire time, most likely hoping he would remain in the dark, skulking shadows outside Wonwoo’s spotlight. But he must not have been hoping hard enough, because Mingyu proceeded to smile at him, again extending his hand for another dap, which Vernon yielded apprehensively.

“You’re a pretty recognizable guy, unfortunately,” Mingyu acknowledged with a husky laugh—a clear reference to the boy’s identifying tattoos and numerous facial piercings, “I think you deal to at least a third of my friends. It’s Vernon, right?”

“Mmhm. Yes sir.” To Vernon’s luck, he had a well-polished and gleaming smile that made it impossible for him to seem disingenuous, though Wonwoo knew he was wilting inside.

“I’m sorry about Dots.”

“Oh, uh. All good. It is what it is, y’know?”

Mingyu nodded.

“Hey—those tattoos are crazy good. Where’d you get them?”

Vernon looked across his arm. “Thanks. Mostly Liquid Impact—dude there that I call Funfetti ‘cause he eats Funfetti box cake all the time. Uh, but his actual name’s like, Axel or some white-boy shit like that. He’s done a majority of it. The others—man, I don’t know. Half the time I’m off my fuckin’ face and wake up with shit I never remember.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mingyu sniffed, running a hand through his long, shiny onyx locks of hair. “Guess you also don’t remember promising my girlfriend the best sex of her life, right?”

At that, Vernon looked straight to Wonwoo, and Wonwoo returned the enlarged, incinerating stare straight back, reading the split-second terror that swam like flopping fish in Vernon’s eyes. The atmosphere hit the ground with a palpable and ugly shatter.

“Yeah, um—about that—”

Mingyu then balanced backward on his foot for a moment, beginning to chuckle, sway his head, as though to dismiss the entire accusation in the same intense breadth it was mentioned.

“Nah, nah. I’m playing around,” the boy chuckled, rubbing at his nose. “You didn’t know she was taken. No hard feelings, yeah?”

Vernon immediately nodded his agreement, and the tension nailed into his broad shoulder line seemed to melt. “For sure. No hard feelings. I mean, she’s beautiful. Can’t even imagine what it’s like bein’ her boyfriend when you’ve got sluts like me around.”

Mingyu grinned, “no, you’re good. I know she gave you some attitude about it. Bit of a troublemaker herself. But, yeah. Water under the bridge.” The boy’s attention then turned back to Wonwoo, who was more than eager to somehow extinguish the conversation from you as a topic. “I know she’s hangs out with you right now.”

“Oh, yeah,” Wonwoo hummed, “the book thing.”

“She doesn’t like talking to me about it.”

“Well, don’t stress,” he answered, catching the sunlight that blitzed through the curtains and dipped like a gold paintbrush into the boy’s eyes, turning them to warm molasses, “she’ll show you the whole damn thing when it’s over and done with.”

Mingyu huffed, “I thought she’d have dropped it by now.”

“I don’t think she will. She’s pretty committed.”

“Hm.” He nodded simply in response, kissing his teeth.

Vernon folded his arms, leaning back into the leather seat with the toothpick again sitting in his mouth. “You got any plans for the summer, then? Doesn’t your pal always throw a huge party?”

“Yeah, actually. Doing it this year if we can manage. Seungcheol’s parents pretty much spend their entire summer bouncing around all the Great Lakes. We’re gonna do a co-hosting type deal and—shit, since you’re here, this is really good timing.” Mingyu then looked down at Vernon and lowered his gravelly voice. “I know what your main gig is. What about blow? You sell it?”

A slow but gradual, catlike grin trudged the edges of Vernon’s mouth, to which he pulled out his toothpick and set his elbows onto the table. “Look, can’t chop it up here, man. Ask one of your friends for my burner. I can get you to the ski slope, but it costs, obviously.”

“Nah, that’s fine. It’s just—my last plug fell through.”

“Tough.”

“Yeah. Okay, well, I should get going. I’ll follow up with you later. Do you care if Seungcheol knows the number, too?”

“No,” Vernon shrugged, planting the toothpick into the corner of his mouth and flicking it with his tongue, “just don’t go throwin’ it around. I could only get enough for a couple people, anyway.”

“All good. Okay—later, guys.”

Mingyu stepped away from the table with a wave and a flash of his pearled, charming smile, nothing but the mild scent of his fresh and expensive-smelling cologne to swirl through the now vacant space. In true espionage fashion, Wonwoo and Vernon both picked open the slots between the restaurant curtains, cautiously observing the boy’s stride into the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, where he at last disappeared into the warm, sunny afternoon.

Heaving a gigantic exhausted breath, Wonwoo took off his glasses and set them in his lap, massaging deep into his eye sockets.

“Y’know, he’s not that fuckin’ bad,” Vernon commented, “I mean, he scares the shit outta me, but that could have gone worse.”

"Jesus Christ—I can’t believe what I just watched.”

His friend laughed, banging his fist excitedly enough on the table to engender the silverware clattering on their plates. “Ha! I know, right? Dude—Seungcheol and Mingyu are the kingpins of that fuckin’ university you go to. They can cough up the big bucks for that shit. Just imagine the distribution pay I'm gonna get with them on my roster—actually, that couldn’t have gone better.”

“And where are you gonna get it?” Wonwoo pressured, at last settling his glasses back on, clarifying Vernon’s smudged, blurry face.

“Well, let me fuck around and work my magic.”

“I don’t want him to use you.”

“Pfft. I don’t give no fucks about being used,” Vernon cackled, wearing a self-indulgent, luminous smile and continuing to play around with the toothpick while he readied his wallet to pay. “You know what you should worry about, Glasses? Sweet talkin’ the fuck outta that dude’s girl and securin' yourself an invite. You probably don’t even need to try sweet talkin’—she obviously likes you.”

“No,” Wonwoo grumbled, “no way.”

“You don’t want to go?”

“Why would I want to go, dumbass? The last time I went to a party, I ran into you. They’re loud and suffocating. I’ll pass.” Wonwoo also pulled out his wallet, taking his card. “Besides, I get the sense Mingyu doesn’t trust me a whole lot. I’m not gonna stir the pot.”

Vernon shook his head. “You stir the pot every time you hang out with his girl to go write romantic poetry and run around, gigglin’ at Spring Street. N’yeah, exactly. You met me. I don’t get the fuss.”

“It’s nothing like that," Wonwoo answered in frustration.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a Patron Saint. I just want my Life Saver.”

—MAY 19TH.

Wonwoo was going to your apartment today for the first time, and it had nearly killed him in the process.

His abhorrent sleep schedule hung over his head every single instance he woke up at lunchtime, the entirety of his mornings wasted to weathered heartbreak and its lasting, stained consequences. Needing to be at your apartment for ten had Wonwoo buckling his face into anguished hands the night before, wondering how he was going to pull off such a triumph without wishing for death.  

He did know one thing for certain—the sound of his alarm erupting into its timely, strident beeping made him instantly sick. In fact, the first thing Wonwoo did was half-stumble in complete bleariness out from his bed, dragging a white sheet along by his ankle as he burst into the washroom and hung his head over the toilet like he was sweating through a wicked hangover. But it wasn’t alcohol. It was months of bad, soul-stitched habit festered up in stomach bile and perhaps, a hatred for himself. It was his own fault, in a way.

And yet, when you texted him a half-hour later to reconfirm your address, Wonwoo replied with not the slightest hint that he was feeling pretty fucking terrible. The headache and shudders followed him down the street, onto the bus, and into the lobby of your notably opulent apartment complex. He felt rather incongruous amongst all the marble—the white trim, the clean, untainted air, even the breakfast table with dispensable lemon water and small, fruit-topped pastries that somehow made Wonwoo want to kill himself.

He looked down at his phone.

[ Her | 9:10 am ]: 717 thorton street, unit 61

[ Her | 9:45 am ]: are you almost here? :)

Wonwoo pressed the button to the elevator.

[ Wonwoo | 9:50 am ]: Yes. In the building.

His phone vibrated immediately with a text.

[ Her | 9:50 am ]: I’m so excited

The doors pulled apart. Wonwoo stepped aside for a couple who were leaving the elevator before he entered. Quickly, he clicked the button to close the doors, not wanting to share the space with anyone but himself and the headache throbbing at the forefront of his cranium. He sighed, glancing at his texts again to reply.

[ Wonwoo | 9:51 am ]: Do you have any Tylenol?

[ Her | 9:51 am ]: most def

[ Her | 9:51 am ]: what’s wrong?

[ Wonwoo | 9:52 am ]: Nothing much. Just a headache.

When he didn’t receive an immediate answer, he assumed you had put the phone down to search your medicine cabinet. Getting off the elevator, Wonwoo proceeded to find the correct apartment. He put his fist up to the door, and then, at the last second, stopped.

There it was again—the same melting pot of anxiety and butterflies that had bubbled up when you first visited his place.

He supposed the feelings never truly disappeared each time he would see you, and he was beginning to detest it. Why couldn’t his body just adapt? Get over it? What purpose did it serve to constantly remind him of his unkempt emotions? It was like the idea of you terrified him more than you as an actual person, because in person, he felt comfort, as crazy as it sounded. So why couldn’t his anxiety and security just complete that stupid sliver of a synapse for once?

Knock knock.

After a moment, the handle clicked, and the door to sumptuous unit 61 was pulled open. For the first time, Wonwoo saw your face without any makeup, and it sort of made him stutter in his words—not that he was shocked in abhorrence at the contrast, more so the vulnerability behind it, the fact you felt comfortable enough to shed your compulsion with always presenting a perfect, glamoured face. He was pleased to see you were in a fuzzy pair of pink shorts and a white, thin long-sleeve that were basically pyjamas.

Maybe it was weird to think, but you seemed more human.

“You made good timing. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” Wonwoo answered while stepping inside, toeing off his sneakers next to your plethora of shoes at the doormat.

“I would obviously say tour first, but I have your Tylenol sitting on the counter over here, for your headache. Can you dry swallow or do you need water?”

“Dry swallow?” Wonwoo laughed, following you toward the kitchen area. “Who the fuck dry swallows any sort of pill?”

“I don’t know! Personally, I don’t. But there are some freaks out there who do. I was actually testing you. And you passed.”

“Lucky me,” he sighed.

Taking a seat at one of stools displayed around the large, granite-surface island, Wonwoo waited for you to pour him some water. Obviously, the apartment was spacious, gorgeous—the large, white-fluffed rug in the centre of the living room was definitely suited to you, though he was surprised by the tall, lush potted plants aligned by the window panelling. He didn’t know you had a green thumb.

While placing down the water, you shifted closely into the seat beside him, and Wonwoo could smell the scent of strawberries on your skin. You let your chin press into the hammock made with your hands, watching as he set the pill on his tongue and gulped it down.

“So, is it really bad?”

Wonwoo turned the glass back and forth atop its coaster, deciding on whether or not he should tell the truth. It always tended to sting him when he lied, and so he turned to you, shrugging.

“I felt it when I woke up. But it’s manageable.”

“Oh, I get that sometimes.”

“It’s because of my repulsive sleep schedule, no doubt.”

You smiled at him, adjusting your leg under the island.

“Is that why you prefer afternoons all the time?”

“Pretty much. It’s a horrible habit. I’ll break it somehow, I’m sure. Just a stupid hump to get over. Anyway—” Wonwoo slung the laptop bag off his shoulder and onto the counter, “—your place looks pretty sweet. How are you? What’s the plan for today?”

“Well,” you hummed, slapping an arm down onto the reflective granite, “I’ve wrote some more this week. I’d love for you to proofread it. Maybe we can go out for lunch later, but you’d need to give me time to get ready. I mean, I did shower this morning…”

He watched you pause, and then swallow. "You don’t care, do you?”

“About what?” Wonwoo answered.

“Oh, well—never mind, then.”

“No, what is it? What don’t I care about?”

You started to grin, hiding half your face with a hand that slowly scraped across your cheek, as though to rub off any remaining lethargy from the morning light. Wonwoo waited for you to answer.

“… I look like a mole.”

He at last realized what you meant.

“No, you don’t.”

“I was just feeling lazy. I know, gasp, what an insane word to come from my mouth. But I’m glad you don’t care. I didn’t think you would, but I still wasn’t sure. At least your reaction wasn’t obvious. My chin is breaking out so please don’t stare at it, if you can help it.”

“Oh, well, you know, you look—” that one banished word almost slipped, but Wonwoo smoothly mended the break, “you—you have nothing to worry about. I get breakouts, too. It sucks, but it’s life.”

Your bare, soft face turned cheerful in a fawning smile.

“I know. I guess I'm just not very used to the feeling of people seeing me like this. Did you want to do lunch later?”

Wonwoo leaned back in the small seat, running his hands up his knees, knowing damn well he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

“Uh, I should probably start with like, cereal or something.”

“You didn’t eat?”

“No appetite.”

“I’ll fix you something. Unfortunately, no cereal. But I'll get some the next time Mingyu and I do groceries. So, what do you like best? Toast? Oatmeal? Scrambled eggs and toast? Orange juice? Bagel?”

At the mere mention of orange juice, his fist clenched. Attempting not to dwell so obviously, Wonwoo straightened up and smiled.

“I like toast.”

“That’s good. It’ll be easy on your stomach.”

Wonwoo watched you squeeze off the stool and open the fridge to pull out a plastic bag of bread. He watched you stand on your tiptoes to reach into the highest cupboard and grab a plate. He watched you pop open a jar of fresh raspberry jam and slot the bread into the toaster. He could watch you do anything, it seemed.

Anything at all.

It took Wonwoo about half an hour to eat his raspberry toast and skim through the newest additions to your document. You were getting more into the thick of your relationship with Mingyu—just as you’d warned—but Wonwoo was able to gloss most cloying paragraphs without too much bitterness or personal weight clouding his possible critiques. Wonwoo was still seated at the island, meanwhile you were lying face down on the plump-cushioned couch, an arm dangling off the side. In a morbid way, you looked very much dead if not for the shallow rising and dipping of your back.

“Done, for the most part.”

Your head perked up, and he was relieved to see you hadn’t fallen asleep or suffocated. “When will you add your notes?”

“After lunch. Is that okay?”

“Mmhm.”

“So…” Wonwoo slid down in the chair, reaching out his arms with a gigantic yawn, “you actually snuck into his basketball game?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, letting your chin snuggle into the blanket strewn underneath you, “I was obsessed with him. I couldn’t help it.”

“I wouldn’t expect your first date to be at the nature museum. The way you wrote about the butterfly exhibit was nice, though.”

“It was fun. Mingyu wasn’t the biggest fan, but I had always wanted to go. There was this huge skeleton of a blue whale, and sometimes the museum would play the whale’s ballad—” you flopped onto your back, staring up at the ceiling with a tender, ardent laugh as your fingers twirled the fluffy knots of the throw, “—it used to scare Mingyu so bad. He kept telling me he was gonna leave our date unless we went to another exhibit.”

“The sound can be pretty jarring if you’ve never heard it before, to be fair,” Wonwoo reasoned, now massaging down his legs.

Shoving your body to sit upright on the couch, you poked out your tongue at him, grinning, “don’t defend his loserness.”

He huffed in response, “my bad.”

“Should we do a tour now? I really want to show you my room. And if I keep lying on the couch, I’ll fall asleep.”

“Uh, sure. Do you want me to wash my plate?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Just leave it in the sink.”

After Wonwoo cleaned off the granite island, he came to join you in the living room, the white rug resembling what he imagined a cloud to feel like underneath his socked feet.

A thought had suddenly popped into his head.

“There’s a nature museum here, too.”

You grabbed the blanket, wearing it like a shawl around your shoulders. Wonwoo had never seen you so sleepy before.

“I know.”

“Have you ever gone?”

“No. Not at all. I did ask Mingyu once when we first came here for university. But I think he was still mortified from the whale thing. I dunno. Anyway, is that your round-about way of asking if I ever want to go? Because I would, to help with the story.”

Wonwoo scratched along his collarbone, heated with the itch of being blatantly exposed for his plotting. However, he hadn’t suggested the museum with the intention of employing it as a visual to sharpen up your scene-work. He was hoping to go just for the sake of it—like a palate cleanser, as you had previously mentioned.

But he obviously wasn’t going to articulate that.

“We can plan it more later,” he said.

The tour started in the living room, which Wonwoo had become well acquainted with throughout his half hour of sitting at the kitchen island, occasionally flicking his eyes toward the couch to ensure you were still alive. You explained that the pristine white rug was a housewarming gift from Mingyu’s parents when you first moved into the apartment, and he felt guilty for even stepping on it.

He decided to ask about the plants by the windows.

“Oh, I don’t actually look after those,” you answered, touching at one of the heavy and balmy-looking green leaves from a plant nearly as tall as you, “Seokmin comes over to water them and stuff, gives them special nutrient food—even sprays their leaves with this misty bottle thing. I tried giving them all to him, but he says he’s got no space at his apartment—which is total bull by the way.”

“Maybe he just wants an excuse to see you.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes, “doesn’t everyone?”

Wonwoo bit back a stupid little smile as he followed you into your bedroom—the place you seemed most enthralled for him to finally see. You twirled into the open space and threw the blanket off your shoulders, then whipping your hands into the air akin to a magician who’d just performed the most grandiose magic trick.

“Tada! Bedroom reveal!”

He pushed up his glasses, taking a good, solid look around at everything he could: the prestigious makeup vanity with the drawers left half-open, your dresser, lined with photographs of what he assumed to be friends, family, and Mingyu, the beaded, dangling chandelier, the ajar closet doors that revealed your unsurprising magnitude of outfits—skirts and dresses and professional blazers and lascivious things from threads of lace and silk. He finally looked to your beautiful bed, which you proceeded to flop onto.

“This is my favourite part,” you hummed.

Taking some further steps into the bedroom, Wonwoo began recognizing smaller details, though he couldn’t explain what he was feeling. He always thought a bedroom was such a personal, intimate space, like a treasure chest stuffed with memories and pieces of person’s essence that couldn’t be captured using words alone. To sit on someone’s bed, or sift through their drawers for a pen, or even grab a shirt from their closet—he felt it was all so… sacred. It was the reason he had such a hard time having others in his bedroom.

“The bed is your favourite?” He wondered.

“Yes,” you giggled, a glimmer flashing into your eyes like diamonds in the sun as you climbed onto your knees.

Before Wonwoo knew what was happening, you had clutched a hand into his shirt and jerked him toward the covers. He landed beside you, and his heart thrust with electricity.

“You could have just asked me to sit,” he chuckled, wiping some wrinkles off his shirt and adjusting his glasses.

“Nope.”

“Bed’s comfy.”

“Duh,” you sunk backward, smirking at him, “it’s a bed.”

“Hey, you should have seen the bed I had growing up in Changwon. My older brother and I, we hated it. Shit was like sleeping on a piece of cardboard. It didn’t get better for years.”

Propping your head onto a pillow, you continued to smile prettily at him with those entrancing eyes, and for a second, this piercing fear struck in the core of Wonwoo’s chest that he had just spoke about himself—actually spoke about himself—in a manner that screamed of vulnerability. He felt terror. Why did he do that?

“Hm. I guess I’m just spoiled, with my memory foam and all.”

At least you didn’t push into the topic. You were getting better at that, almost like you could interpret the subtle tweaks in his face or the stiffening of his bones. Wonwoo rested his elbows on his knees.

“Your room’s nice. It smells like you.”

He heard you giggle, “what? Like strawberries?”

Wonwoo pursed his lip, looked down at his fingers. “Yeah…”

For a moment, his eyes lingered unfaithfully on your exposed midriff, down to the fluffy hem of those pink lounge shorts. He squeezed his wrist tight, practically stopping his own blood flow, willing himself not to think anything unhinged that would simmer up to fuel his self-hatred later. The longer your head spent sinking into that plump pillow, the more your lids fluttered with sleep. As he continued to gaze about the room, he spotted the pink stuffed bear that he’d won you at the Spring Street Fair, sitting atop your bedside table.

“You’ve still got that?”

“Hm?” You pushed up onto your elbows, yawning. “Oh, yeah! ‘Course I still have her. It’s a perfect little memento from that night.”

“Well, I did go through a lot of effort to win it.”

“Oh, I’m aware... wanna know what I named her?”

“What?”

“Miss Priss.”

Honestly, Wonwoo was surprised you hadn’t stuffed it into your closet or abandoned the toy in some innocuous corner of your apartment. Instead the bear’s vibrant pink face and slightly lopsided eyes were staring him down, making him rerun Vernon’s words in his head: ‘you stir the pot every time you hang out with his girl to go write romantic poetry and run around, gigglin’ at Spring Street.’

Wonwoo immediately shoved the memory aside, letting the implications sizzle up and burn on the hot coals of his brain.

“Hm. Funny.”

You rolled your eyes.

Wonwoo tapped his wrist, thinking.

“So, uh, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but why don’t you live with Mingyu? I know he stays over some nights.”

Lifting yourself up with one arm, you shrugged, opting to stroke a hand along the blanket to smooth out some crinkles. “I don’t want to move in with anyone unless I’m engaged.”

“Actually?”

“Yeah. I mean, that's what I told my parents, at least. They used to really push for us to have an apartment together. Which makes sense. They freaking love him. I swear, more than me," you laughed, picking at your shirt. "I get it, too. Mingyu and I have pretty much been tied at the hip all these years. But we agreed that we wouldn't live together until things went to the next level. He does keep a lot of his stuff here for when he does stay over, and vice versa. He’s got an extra key and everything, his own nightstand, bathroom stuff.”

“And that’s for certain?”

You tilted your head. “What’s for certain?”

“The engagement thing. Or was it just to shake off your parents?”

“Well… I guess I mean it. Is that weird to you?”

“No,” Wonwoo said. “I personally haven't heard it plenty.”

“Yeah, most people are surprised to learn we don’t live together. I guess we really give off the impression that we're together in most things, if not everything. It's good to get a little space, though."

“Well, I understand it—wanting to have your own space. I mean, I think everyone should try living alone, just once if they have to. You learn more about yourself, I suppose.”

You cracked a smile at him. “What have you learned?”

Wonwoo chuckled, knowing all the things he could never say were tingling right on the tip of his tongue. “Well, I meant in a general sense. I wasn't exactly talking about myself.”

“Ha—you learned how to be a hermit.”

“I'm pretty sure I was always like that.”

“Yeah, but probably not that bad.”

“That bad?” He furrowed his dark brows at you, staring straight into your eyes that twinkled with challenge. “Meaning what?”

“Please, you would not leave that apartment if it wasn’t for your commitment to the book. Maybe for work, some groceries every now and then. Otherwise, your ass is not leaving.”

“Damn. Just call me a loser.”

“Fine,” you huffed, pushing up onto your knees, “loser.”

Wonwoo managed to hold the penetrating, spirited strength of your gaze, and he was proud of himself for doing so, even if his heart felt like it was going to leap into his throat. It was still difficult for him to be routinely engaged in eye contact, but he knew how much you appreciated it—the feeling of being listened to and experiencing someone’s dedication to presenting their full attention.

Since it was getting close to lunch time, Wonwoo figured you might want to start thinking of where to eat. He was getting notably hungry, and having to function off some toast coated thinly in raspberry jam wouldn’t be enough to power him throughout his proofreading. He pulled out his phone, wanting to check the time, and began sliding off your comfortable, warm bed.

“Did you want to—”

“Hey, wait, wait, wait—” Wonwoo felt your hand curl around his bicep in a firm grip and begin to pull him back down, “—before we get up and everything, I want to talk to you about something.”

Oh no.

His stomach writhed.

Wonwoo started praying it wasn’t about his and Vernon’s encounter with Mingyu at Solar Pop—not that anything particularly terrible or concerning had happened—but maybe Mingyu had mentioned something to you. Maybe he didn’t like Wonwoo and thought it was best you stop writing together, stop seeing each other.

His mind started quivering with a steadfast hurricane of awful thought and Wonwoo knew the flushed colour had most likely drained from his face as quickly as a popped balloon.

Your hand remained on his bicep, squeezing it.

“Why do you look so worried, already?” You chuckled in a quiet voice, rubbing his arm until Wonwoo visibly relaxed. “I haven’t even said anything yet. Unless, you think I should be worried, too.”

“No.” Wonwoo shook his head. “Just—never mind.”

“Hm, well, that’s kind of what I want to talk about.”

As your hand drifted off his arm, Wonwoo sat crossed-legged, narrowing his eyes at you in question. “What do you mean?”

The conversation began with a clunk of silence, to which you glanced down at the bed for a moment, clearly biting on your inner cheek in contemplation. Wonwoo desperately wanted you to spit it out. He hated when empty words hung so burdensomely in the air.

“Well… there’s no easy way to bring it up. And I’m not sure you’ll even want to talk about it with me, but I keep noticing it, again and again. I think it’s at least worth it to put it on the table. And, if it’s not my business, you can freely tell me to screw off.”

“Oh… okay.”

And then you were looking at him, not with any sort of accusation or anger or even disappointment. Somehow, Wonwoo knew what you were going to say, and he braced himself for it.

“Do you… do you have anxiety?”

Wonwoo said nothing. He wasn’t sure if it was an issue of not wanting to speak or being unable to.

You breathed out heavily in response.

“Okay, silence, I definitely saw that coming—but, um, I’m not stupid, you know? Your face just gets so pale, and I feel like I can see the heartbeat in your chest… and you always do that thing with your fist. Clenching it. It always looks so painful but you never seem to care and—anyway—I just… I can tell when it happens and it kind of bothers me that you try to like, shrug it off or call it ‘spacing out’ when it’s really clearly not. And, maybe that’s my fault.”

His gaze had shifted to lock with yours.

Again, you weren’t staring at him with any malice or dejection—he’d come to learn that your eyes were actually quite soft most of the time, soft but always glittering, like a handful of silk. Still, Wonwoo couldn’t yet find his words, which must have come across as remarkably shocking for someone who spent their whole life grabbing all the shiny bits of possible vernacular.

You sat up straighter, touching his knee.

“Is it my fault you don’t want to talk about it? Can I at least know that much?” There was an imploring desperation in your face.

Wonwoo at last cleared his throat.

“I don’t talk about it with anyone.”

“Okay, I get that. But, did I make you feel like you couldn’t bring it up? At all?” Your fingers dug a little harder into his knee, though Wonwoo knew you probably hadn’t realized it. “I just—I do want to know, actually. Because sometimes I let myself get in the way of being present for other people. But I care. I honestly do.”

He nodded, cracking his knuckles.

“I mean… I definitely wouldn’t have thought to bring it up with you. I guess I felt like, if I did, what would it accomplish? You might think I’m incapable or… I don’t know.” He shoved his hands underneath his glasses, rubbing at the indents on his nose. “As you can see, I’m not the best at talking about it. I don’t talk about it.��

You folded your legs in similar fashion to Wonwoo.

“Well… um… do you… is there anyone that could, like… I don’t know what I’m saying. I guess, are you coping alright, is what I’m asking. I really don’t mean to overstep. I swear.”

At that, he chuckled quite loudly. Your face twitched in surprise at his reaction, and the hand slipped off his knee.

“It really doesn’t matter. I just deal with it.”

No. He took nothing. He did nothing. Wonwoo just sat and suffered and felt no initiative to help himself. At that point, he really didn’t want to dissect the topic any further. He could sense the slithering under his skin, the way his body physically bristled like a perturbed cat at the thought of having to be any more open than what he'd already shared. The choices he made in his life weren’t important if he was going to end up back in the same slippery trench.

“Oh. Well, I hope you take care of yourself,” you said with a smile, giving his bicep another gentle squeeze. “That’s all.”

—JUNE 2ND.

About two weeks had passed since Wonwoo visited your apartment. Afterward, you had met up four times to continue writing and making small ventures to places that you deemed vital for developing your story. Wonwoo found himself enjoying most trips.

He remembered the ice cream shop. Apparently, it was the date where Mingyu had officially asked you to be his girlfriend. You had gotten their most popular strawberry cheesecake flavour while Wonwoo ordered mint chocolate chip, which was a rather boring but favourite classic of his. No doubt, you sat across from him on their outside patio the entire time, pitting remarks about how awful his choice was in lieu of writing anything down in your document. With every spoonful he ate, Wonwoo had to keep reminding you to stay focused, and eventually, his repetitious ordering worked.

"Did you actually come here to get any writing done or did you just want the ice cream? We're not palate-cleansing are we?"

"Why can't two things be true at once?"

“Can I see your laptop?”

“No—hey! Don’t try to grab it!”

“Why? Because you’ve written fuck all?”

"For your information, I have a bullet-point list going."

"Oh, yeah. A bullet-point list, hm?"

"Yes. It has all my major writing points. Point number one: Mingyu seats me down at the table. He's clearly nervous. We've only been in the shop for a minute or two and he won't stop brushing his hair behind his ears. Point number two: Mingyu grabs our ice cream from the counter. He gives me his flavour, rocky road, by accident, and then we awkwardly laugh and switch. Point number three: I remember thinking his nerves were endearing, and—"

"Okay, okay. I get it."

"Exactly. Let this be a lesson in poor assumption. Don't try to assume anything about me, Wonwoo. It's probably wrong."

And then there had been the journey to Mooney’s Bay, one of the most well-known beaches outside the city—probably because the lake actually looked a clean, salty blue and the soft sand wasn’t littered with drifting pieces of plastic. It had been the first place Wonwoo took his brother when he came to visit from his office in Korea, and the picture they had taken together with their pant legs cuffed up, standing knee deep in the water, was still pinned to the corkboard in Wonwoo’s bedroom. However, Wonwoo hadn’t been back to the beach since, until you dragged him there in an hour-long car ride. He had mostly looked out the window, thinking, as always.

You said that Mooney’s Bay reminded you of a cove from your hometown, a more clandestine one, where you and Mingyu used to splash around in the isolated, iridescent waters at night, laughing into the chilled breeze and coughing up all the liquid splatted into the other’s face. Wonwoo had used the video camera to record some footage of the beach per your request. By evening, most people had packed up their coolers and umbrellas and sun towels, granting him more freedom to film wider, panned shots. He remembered standing at the foam shoreline, feeling the sand squelch wetly under his bare feet, recording you wading further and deeper into the water that reflected like a bleeding, scarlet portrait of stained glass.

“It feels amazing! You should come in!”

“I can’t. It’ll ruin the camcorder.”

“So put it down! In the bag! There’s enough footage.”

“But the sun is setting behind you. It makes for a good shot.”

"So just hurry up! The water is the perfect temperature."

"But—"

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

"Well, I don't know... I, uh—I can't swim."

"This isn't swimming, this is wading. Just go up to your knees. It's been a hot, long day. I think this will help get the scowl off your face."

“… Fine. At least give me a second to fix my pants.”

The third location, while not his favourite, had been an open bar that was conveniently placed a few streets over from his job at the pharmacy. Wonwoo had went there a number of times with Vernon in the past, usually after he finished a midterm or handed in some grating assignment, though Vernon tended to drink more than his body could sufficiently handle. By the end of the night, Wonwoo would most often find himself being a mediator between his tattooed, foul-mouthed friend and whatever blundering, equally drunk idiot he happened to be arguing with.

It was too much for his anxiety.

Nonetheless, he’d met you there after work despite the churning cauldron of memories that he harboured, unsurprised to find you seated at a small table swarmed with dewy drinks and shots that interested observers had sent over. Wonwoo felt each digging, plying stare that sculpted against his back as he sat beside you—he even choked down one of your retched tequila shots (while not the best idea), hoping it would mellow him out.

You never really explained why the bar was pertinent to your history with Mingyu—or, maybe you had, and Wonwoo was simply one flaming shot past coherent of properly digesting your words. He did, however, remember your entire, almost scientific explanation of why you liked wearing low-cut or heavily revealing tops at the bar, and Wonwoo had listened along as best he could manage, even when that floating sensation started hazing through his mind. At one point, this girl who Wonwoo had never encountered once in his life came up to him with a polite tap on his shoulder and an inquiring smile.

“Hey—sorry to intrude—and this may be a super dumb question, but you are guys together?”

“No, no. Not at all. I’ve got a boyfriend. He’s single.”

“Oh, perfect. I was just—I was sitting over there, in the corner with my friends, if you can see. Anyways—I said something dumb about how you were really good looking, and now I’ve been dared to come up and ask for your number. So, um, yeah…”

“No, I’m good. Thank you.”

“O-Oh. Wait… are you… being serious?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Sorry. This is really fucking embarrassing… uh, I guess I won’t linger then. Bye.”

“… Jeez… had a bit much to drink or something?”

“No—just don’t like giving out my number to strangers.”

“She was cute, though. Probably a fun one-night stand.”

“Then you have sex with her, yeah?”

“Ha! You’re so funny. When’s the last time you even had sex? I mean, you obviously pull. At least, I think you do…”

“I don’t remember. Months and months ago, I guess.”

“Wow! Zero play. I kind of respect it. I could never, though. So… actually, let me guess: you’re the type of person that can’t have sex without attachment? You need to be in love?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m just asking.”

“I don’t know.”

“God. You’re so fucking boring, Wonwoo.”

“Because I don’t go out of my way to find some pretty girl to have sex with every week, I’m boring? How does that make sense?”

“No, not that. I mean the fact you never really want to discuss anything about yourself. Honestly, sometimes talking to you is like pulling teeth, y’know? Anyway, move back a little. Backwards cap with the earrings has been staring on and off for the last ten minutes and I want one more free shot before I call it a night.”

The most recent place you had been together was the popular drive-in at Richmond’s Farm. Wonwoo knew that in the autumn months leading up to Halloween, the venue was turned into a haunted carnival with all the typical attractions: pumpkin patches, horror movie screenings, corn mazes, and masked, fake blood-spattered psychopaths chasing people around with a roaring chainsaw.

Seokmin, despite being quite weak-stomached and completely disastrous when it came to anything horror-related, had actually implored Wonwoo to go the year before after hearing the raves about their newest House of Nightmares, although Wonwoo declined in order to study for a test.

Really, there was no test.

Wonwoo just hadn’t been in the mood for losing all his hair and being crammed into pitch black, narrow corridors with a murderer promptly waiting around the corner. He hoped Seokmin wouldn’t ask him again this year—then his excuse would be obvious.

In the spring and summer, however, the farm mostly broadcast screenings at their drive-in theatre behind the maize field, and you had leaped at the opportunity to go because it was the perfect chance to relive one of your favourite dates with Mingyu. By your explanation, he’d taken you to see Crazy, Stupid, Love before you two had departed your hometown for university. But the drive-in obviously wasn’t playing that movie, and so you two had to settle for watching their only available screening, 500 Days of Summer.

Wonwoo hated that movie.

Of course, he hadn’t told you that.

Before the movie had started, Wonwoo helped you throw down a blanket into your trunk alongside some couch pillows that you grabbed from your apartment, creating a makeshift lounge in the rear of the car. Since the screening was late at night—and way past your typical good girl bedtime—you were worried about falling asleep halfway into the movie, though Wonwoo promised he would keep an eye on you to ensure you wouldn’t miss anything important.

Since it was too dark to film anything of quality on the camcorder, Wonwoo left you alone in the blanket-pillow trunk to scribble down any nostalgic, limerent sentiments while he grabbed some snacks. You had told him to get gummy bears, because you hated the way broken pieces of popcorn kernel shells would sliver between your teeth and dig into your gums, neither did you want a soft drink since it would be an abundance of sugar before bed, and it always resulted in a breakout the next morning. He was able to make it back to the car just before the screening started.

He remembered how strange it all seemed, sitting so close to you underneath the blanket, occasionally feeling your elbow dig into his arm or your knee bump his thigh, and the sharp blip it would cause in his pulse. Wonwoo remembered how often you complained about the temperature throughout the movie—first, it’s too hot, now, it’s too cold, you’re too close to me, you’re too far away and I’m cold again, I need the blanket, I don’t want the blanket—Wonwoo hadn’t realized a person’s body temperature could fluctuate that drastically. 

However, the worst part of that night happened about half an hour before the movie ended, just when Wonwoo was beginning to feel relieved about going home. You were getting sleepier by the minute, and Wonwoo could tell from the yawning every now and then, wanting desperately to rub at your eyes but refusing because it would smother the mascara into somewhat concerning, black whorls.

You had nudged his arm, and when he glanced over at your face, exhausted and half-illuminated under the watery, bright cast of light from the screen, you asked him in a quiet, dulcet voice: “is it okay if I rest my head on your shoulder for a few minutes?”

Wonwoo had wanted to say no—of course you can’t, because if you do, I will sit here stiff, and hardly breathing, and listening only to my own heartbeat. It will be the sole thing I’ll think about for the next three days no matter what I do to mask the memory. I’ll keep thinking about it until you burn out in my mind like a star.

But then Wonwoo had agreed instead.

He proceeded to clench his fist upon feeling the weight of your head sink softly to his shoulder. Your legs had been curled up underneath you, and your knees were then pressing flush against his leg. Every breath he inhaled was faintly tainted with the scent of your sweet, fragrant shampoo and it was fucking killing him.

“You’re so tense,” you had whispered in a giggle, “if it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t have to. It’s just because I’m tired.”

“No—” it had come out somewhat like a blurt, and Wonwoo just knew the tips of his ears were tingling red, “—it’s okay. I promise.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure… what?”

“Just wanted to look in your eyes when you said it.”

“Fuck, not that again.”

“I have to know!”

“Okay, that’s fine. Movie’s almost over, anyway. Just don’t fall asleep because then I really won’t know what to do.”

That had been four days ago.

Now, it was almost midnight. Wonwoo was sitting on the roof of his apartment with a messily rolled up blunt in his fingers—the second one he prepared, mostly out of impatience—drawing in a slow and deep breath that ghosted from his lips like wispy fog flowing down a shallow hill. He then coughed twice by his elbow, attempting to clear the stinging prickle that caught against his throat.

“You’re so fucking full of it,” Wonwoo laughed.

“No! I’m not.”

“You did not write thirty pages in a day.”

“Uh—actually, I did! And the fact you don’t believe me is a testament to your own wilted motivation. I am very motivated.”

He smiled at the sound of your voice crackling through his phone, which he’d been holding with the latter hand. Breathing in another hit, Wonwoo pulled at the sides of his black beanie, grinning through the thin cloud that was exhaled in a quick, neat puff.

“Okay, you wrote thirty pages. Didn’t have to fucking drag my career through the mud in doing so. I mean, I guess it’s a hobby.”

“For all I know, you’re the biggest poser that ever posed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I still don’t know what you write about.”

“I told you.”

“No—you fucking didn’t. You said something vague and ambiguous that could have meant literally anything. All I had to go off were some sing-songy praises from Seokmin.”

“I give you pretty good notes, though.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“So I must be decent.”

“I don’t even know why I bothered calling you. I was supposed to be in bed, like, an hour ago. You’re such a distraction.”

“Fuck,” Wonwoo laughed, tapping the warm blunt to knock off a clump of papery ash, “it’s been an hour already?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t know why you called either.”

“To complain about that lady whose makeup I had to do today! She was horrible. God, were you not listening?!”

“No, no, I was. She told you the makeup she wanted, you said it wouldn’t suit her too well, and then she got all pissed off when it looked exactly how you said it would. That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh. Well… I just thought you should know about it.”

“Mmhm.”

Silence followed his velvet, almost teasing hum, but Wonwoo didn’t mind it, and he assumed you didn’t either. Your phone call had been completely out of the blue, only a few minutes after he’d climbed onto the roof and started sparking his lighter. An hour had already passed—Wonwoo couldn’t believe it. Time had never seemed so blurred and insignificant before, like tomorrow didn’t exist at all.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Wonwoo repositioned the phone in his hand.

“From time to time, yeah.”

“What strain?”

“Northern Lights.”

“I’ve never had that one. I mean, I’m not much of a stoner, and neither is Mingyu. I don’t like the way it feels in my throat—that dry, burning feeling. And I hate the cotton mouth afterward.”

“Shouldn’t be that bad if you’re inhaling it right.”

“Well, maybe you can teach me one day.”

He let the blunt hang from the corner of his mouth for a moment, a very fluttery-feeling smile taking shape. Not wanting you to hear that slight bit of giddiness in his tone, Wonwoo took another hit, holding the smoke in for longer than usual before exhaling.

“Do you, uh… do you still want to go to that museum?”

“Oh—the nature museum?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have to do some poking around in my schedule. I have this stupid leadership council meeting for SSA that I have to go to.”

“That’s fine. Text me when you figure it out.”

“Okay… gosh, it’s really fucking late.”

“Yeah, you should get some sleep.”

“Are you pushing me off the phone? If anything, I should be the one pushing. You’re not doing anything to fix your terrible sleep schedule. And I certainly don’t want you to ruin mine.”

“That’s what I’m saying—you need to get some sleep.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“How did I say it?”

“Like you were pushing me off the phone!”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. How ‘bout this: I know how important structure is to you, and I am deeply concerned that this late night conversation we’re having may somewhat affect your sleep. And while I’ve thoroughly enjoyed talking to you and hearing your pretty voice through my shitty phone speaker, I think we should both go to bed.”

“That seems fair.”

“Great. So, goodnight then.”

“No! I want to be the first one to say goodnight.”

“Why?”

“Because, I say goodnight, then you say goodnight back, and then I get to be the one who hangs up first. It’s a courtesy thing.”

“Uh, okay then... I’m listening.”

“Goodnight!”

Wonwoo smiled. He smiled so fucking widely and brightly that he could feel the muscles in his face aching.

“Goodnight.”

—JUNE 7TH.

Since the quickest route to the nature museum was about half an hour from Wonwoo’s apartment, he suggested that you stop by around lunch time so that you two could make the walk together. It wasn’t too warm outside—the large smattering of clouds dotted in the sky and the typical city breeze helped to keep the temperature down.

“We’re not allowed to film in the museum,” you said from your seat at his small dinner table, “so don’t bother taking the camcorder, I guess. I’ll just try to soak up everything as best I can.”

Wonwoo was sat across from you, waiting for you to finish the heated-up carton box of creamy mushroom pasta that you’d raided out his freezer. He’d tried his best to eat beforehand as well, but the most he could stomach was some milk and cereal in addition a handful of blueberries. It was still better than his usual routine, which involved skipping any sort of meal post lunchtime.

“If you really needed to, I’m sure you could take a couple pictures,” Wonwoo answered, brushing a hand through his styled, pristine black hair that you had earlier littered with a flustering spiel of compliments. “I doubt the exhibits will be exactly the same, but if it's more so to capture the feeling, then it won’t matter much.”

You patted the corner of your mouth upon finishing the last few noodles left in the box, nodding your head in agreement.

“My journal’s in my bag. It should be fine.”

Wonwoo flipped over his phone to check the time.

“How was the SSA meeting yesterday?”

“Oh—I didn’t go.”

“Really?” Wonwoo asked while settling back in his chair, watching you toss the fork into the carton. “How come?”

“Because, it’s mostly pointless. We always sit there, in front of all those old, crusty men, trying to explain to them how we can improve the campus, the student experience, blah blah. And they act like they’re legitimately consuming our input, using phrases like: ‘oh, we hear you, we understand, we’re gonna try our hardest’—just for them to put, what? Another fucking seating area in the dining hall that no one asked for or cares about? It’s totally ridiculous.”

“Hm, yeah.”

“Anyways, I hate being on it. I hate going. I understand it looks good and whatnot, but it’s a huge waste of my time.”

Wonwoo picked up the pasta box, continuing to hum his agreement while taking it into the kitchen. He dropped the fork into the sink and folded up the cardboard to stuff into his recycling.

“It’s one meeting. A skip won’t kill you, or them.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Mingyu thinks I went, though. So, if you run into him or something and the topic fucking miraculously pops up—just don’t give anything away. It’s a little white lie.”

Coming back to the dining table, Wonwoo snatched up his wallet and shoved it into his back pocket, raising an eyebrow.

“Why wouldn’t you tell him?”

You pushed back in the chair, sighing heavily.

“He really thinks I should stick with it.”

Wonwoo didn’t say anything in response. He simply nodded, not wanting to hover on Mingyu as a conversation piece for too long, and waited for you to shoulder on your purse.

“Okay,” you then smiled, “let’s go look at some nature.”

Despite their boring, lacklustre reputation, Wonwoo had always enjoyed going to museums—art, history, science—he’d even been to a museum that delved into ancient coin minting and the development of currency. He supposed it was his appreciation for learning new information of his own free will, unlike the fast-paced, passion-draining, wringer system that was university. Furthermore, he was surprised that you would share his interest in the matter.

“Why wouldn’t I like museums?” You had stopped just before the acclaimed beetle species wall, aglow behind a glass sheet. “I wrote in my draft that Mingyu and I went to a nature museum, remember?”

“I know. I’m just surprised you have that much of an interest in them. Your life seems so upbeat. I didn’t think you would be into something that most people find fairly dry and anticlimactic.”

“Right.” Twirling back around, you continued walking down the corridor, your eyes tracing the organized arrangement of lustre-shelled beetles. “Because everyone else is too stupid and you’re the true upper echelon who actually possesses the mental capability required to appreciate something as seemingly trivial but totally enriching as…” you then paused at the glass, squinting to read the embossed label below an oblong-shaped beetle with an iridescent green shell, “… as the Chrysochroa Fulgidissima? I don’t know, something like that—also known as the Jewel Beetle. Its species is native to Japan and Korea. It’s a… woodboring beetle?”

“Why would I know?” Wonwoo laughed, coming to stand beside you and look at the plaque settled to the white background behind the display glass. “You’re the one reading it.”

“Ugh—doesn’t matter. I was going somewhere with my speech and now I forget… oh, yeah! So, you think you’re smarter than me?”

Placing a gentle hand on your lower back, Wonwoo urged you to keep walking forward in order to let the people faintly mumbling behind you examine the wall, who seemed much more interested.

“I never said that,” he answered softly.

“Okay—but, do you think you’re smarter?”

“In what sense?”

“Did you take the Frontiers evaluation for calculus?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you score?”

“9.8.”

“Shut the fuck up! No you didn’t.”

Wonwoo merely tapped the black-framed glasses further up his nose, smirking slightly, and began shaking his head while continuing down the exhibit. You hurried after him, remembering to lower your voice to match the collective quietness.

“Prove it,” you whispered.

“Go to prof Bradbrook’s office. My name’s on her wall.”

“I hate you.”

“Why? What did you score?”

“I’m obviously not going to say it now.”

Wonwoo still remembered the day his test score came back—he’d opened the envelope in Miss Bradbrook’s office, and while she sat across from him, practically squirming and jittering with anticipation, Wonwoo had glossed over the paper slip with the smallest, most low effort smile. He knew he was supposed to feel relieved in that moment—overjoyed probably—to realize his notable success and the upstanding conformation he was legitimately good at something. But in truth, he hadn’t really felt anything at all. He sort of just smiled. That was it. That was all he could muster.

And his life had mirrored that moment ever since. In the past, it would come and go. Yet, that day, it just stuck. The only time he ever experienced any glint or sparkle of happiness, it had come from his girlfriend—but even she couldn’t imbue much from him that day.

“Well, that’s not what I expected you to ask.”

You glanced over at him, adjusting the bag on your arm.

“Meaning?”

“There are different types of intelligence. I thought you meant, in a more general sense, am I smarter, or more knowledgeable. To be honest, I can’t say. I mean, I feel like I’ve experienced and seen a whole lot, but that’s just life’s illusion.”

“You won’t really know ‘til you’re on your death bed.”

Wonwoo returned your glance, squinching his brown eyes in a judgemental but innocuous way that gave bloom to his smile.

“Thanks.”

“I can’t help it. Museums make me think of death. I think it’s the really cold, still air. Especially in nature museums where they need to preserve things. Like, look at that fox. It’s a bit ominous.”

On the exhibit to his right, Wonwoo observed another display protected by glass. There was a fox, with a rusty, auburn coloured coat, poised atop a fake precipice of grass. Wonwoo knew what you meant—it was the eyes, like two leaf green beads, so immensely detailed but lifeless to an almost uncomfortable degree.

“I want to see the aquarium exhibit next,” you said, tugging twice at Wonwoo’s sleeve. “I heard it’s really dark in there.”

“Well, we can go take a look.”

“And we can eat afterward? There’s an atrium.”

“Sure.”

Wonwoo let your arm link with his, following the natural flow of museum-goers into the next exhibit, leaving behind the shiny, colourful wall of beetles and the auburn fox in its lonesome enclosure.

The aquarium exhibit was one of the most spacious in the entire museum, placed in a large, dome-topped room, with shadows creeping at every corner. There were some lights—deep, blue lights that rippled and wriggled across the floor, like waves patterned against ocean sand by the sun rays. He didn't know from where, but he could hear water sloshing, a very soft sound that led him to imagine the wet sand squelching under his toes.

You approached another display wall, filled with a school of lemon-yellow and azure coloured fish placed around vibrant, unique corals.

While you busied yourself with reading the informative plaque, Wonwoo spent his time taking a more in-depth inspection around the mystifying exhibit. He noted the stingrays and luminous jellyfish flocking above his head, held on near-invisible little wires that would occasionally glimmer if they twisted the perfect angle.

After a generously long venture throughout the room, reading all the plaques and pointing to different fish behind the glass just to comment, “I think that was in Finding Nemo,” you had wanted to sit down, spotting a bench positioned before an aquarium.

Wonwoo agreed, and you collapsed on the bench together.

There was a period of comfortable silence where you both watched the aquarium, meanwhile the dappling, blue pattern cast to the floor danced and flickered around at your still feet. The atmosphere seemed so vivid that Wonwoo was surprised the next breath he took wasn’t a mouthful of liquid and sea salt, or that his body wasn’t miraculously suspended and floating about in the echoey shadows.

And that’s when Wonwoo decided he liked the aquatic exhibit very much—more than all the others.

He looked down at the hands folded in his lap, specifically at the scarred, ruined cuticle belonging to his right thumb and how it had withstood years of his anxious scratching. Wonwoo then breathed out softly, feeling his heartbeat begin to pick up.

“Want to know something?” He asked.

You stared back at Wonwoo with an intrigued pique of your brow.

“Like what?”

“Well, first of all, we both took creative writing, you know.”

"Uh, okay," you sniffed, "sure."

"No, like, we took the course together. In the fall. Prof T?"

"Really?" You pinned him down in a non-believing stare. "Wait, you're talking about that basement auditorium, right? In Gildan Hall? It always smelt like old computers and dust bunnies?"

"That's the one."

Scoffing out some dry air, you leaned back.

"Woah. I don't think I ever saw you... did you go to each class?"

He nodded a few times. "Almost all. To be fair, I sat more in the back, off to the corner. I wasn't exactly thrusting myself into the limelight."

Folding one leg over your knee, you chuckled. "Sounds like you."

“I have this really specific memory from that class, when that random guy, whoever he was, sat in the seat you always took. Your so called unofficially-assigned-assigned-seat. And I remember that really tense feeling right before you walked in, because we all knew you were gonna chew him out for it. The way you marched straight up to him was already violating enough, and then you basically ruined his whole day.” Looking down at his hands again, Wonwoo smiled at recalling the memory. “You absolutely terrified me. I don’t even think you understand how much I wanted to avoid you.”

He caught your eyes, shimmering like the water-stained floor, with an emotion he couldn’t place.

“Actually?” Was all you said, hardly sounding surprised.

“Yeah.”

Your face began searching around the shadowed, sloshing exhibit for something unseen. He decided to let the silence settle like a thin sheet, instead listening to the tidal pushing and pulling. The soft sounds reminded him of being a child, wandering beaches into the late evening with his older brother during summer vacations, and picking up shells just to hear the ocean speaking inside them.

Aloud, you breathed in, shaking your foot.

“I can’t really remember what was going through my head that day. I know I’d had a fight with Mingyu before going to class, so I was feeling pretty amped up and short-fused. I knew I was going straight to another SSA meeting that I hardly cared about immediately after, and then I would work until the evening. I knew I would have to make dinner when I got home, even though I’d be downright exhausted, and the next morning, I’d have to wake up early to attend some bullshit press, social, interview breakfast thing for my mom’s new lifestyle magazine. Having that idiot sit in my favourite seat was probably just the straw that broke the camel’s back, I guess.”

“Hm,” Wonwoo hummed, suddenly experiencing a profound sympathy for you that he never imagined he would feel. “When you give it a bit more perspective, it doesn’t sound so…”

“Completely and utterly bitchy?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to use that word, but, sure.”

You grinned at him through the dusky rippling of auroras that flitted across the exhibit, seeming like you were under the sea—and he was, too, sitting side by side in the somehow peaceful depths of the chaotic whirlpool that had pulled you two together.

“I have a memory.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo returned your grin, “I want to hear it.”

“So, remember earlier how we were talking about the Frontiers evaluation for Bradbrook’s calculus class?”

“Mmhm.”

"So, after all the Frontiers scores came out, I'm not gonna lie—I really thought I had one of the better marks. It's not like I specifically trotted around, throwing out my grade to anyone passing by, but I was parading a little bit to my friends. And then, like, Clara or something, told me that there was this guy who almost got a ten. I asked her who, and she said she didn't know—just that she overheard some of the basketball guys talking about it.

I thought she was lying. I didn't say that, though. But I remember it was on my mind every night. Like, it was itching me so bad. I wanted to know who the fuck was smart enough to get a damn near perfect ten on Frontiers. Some of those problems are ridiculously hard. I started writing nonsense around A-block. They straight up give students problems that serious, esteemed mathematicians can't fucking solve. So, honestly... I was quite jealous of you... despite not even knowing who you were. I can't believe that was you, asshole."

Wonwoo cracked his knuckles, beginning to laugh at that intense but lighthearted glare you were sending his way. Of course, you mellowed everything out with a big smile he felt his heart skip a beat over. You had actually went to bed thinking about him.

Holy fuck.

Maybe not him in physicality. But in spirit.

That was close enough.

"I just did the study guide." He shrugged.

Your knee pushed into his. "Oh, yeah, the study guide. Jeez, why didn't I think of doing that? Let me go kill myself right now."

"Keep tabs on it for next time."

With a roll of the eyes, you laughed almost to scorn him.

“I hate people like you.”

And Wonwoo laughed back. “Meaning?”

“Things come to you so naturally. You don’t have to try.”

“Sure,” Wonwoo agreed, scratching his nose and proceeding to nudge up his glasses, “things like mathematics, numbers, problem solving, taking something whole apart and then looking at its pieces. I guess it does come to me naturally. I can’t complain. But there are also plenty of things that don’t. And… if I could, I’d probably trade all my stupid math and logic and puzzling for what I’m missing.”

You tilted your head, staring intently at Wonwoo through the blue sea between you, almost into his brain, it felt like.

“What are you missing?”

At first, Wonwoo didn’t respond. To answer your question meant an intimate exhumation of the flaws that he’d been willfully ignoring for the past year, if not his entire damn life. It meant at last turning over the round, flat rock that had been sitting at the foot of his wooden porch since childhood, and realizing the bottom was sculpted with the grittiest texture and wet with the thickest dirt. The rock was hiding long-legged spiders and ugly, skittering bugs and it would have probably been better to let the rock sit there, untouched, only facing the warm and comfortable glow of the sun.

Wonwoo didn’t want to turn the rock.

Not at all.

“A plethora of things, I’m sure.”

Squeezing onto your wrist, you smiled at him.

“I think I’m the opposite.”

“How so?”

He watched you inhale a long, slow breath, and then huff it all out through your nose. Wonwoo bumped his knee against yours.

“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

“No, no. It’s not like that…”

Looking up to the glowing aquarium, the dull light reflected back unto your face, and Wonwoo again saw the glisten in your eyes.

“I just feel…” for a moment, your chest stilled, “… I feel like I’m so much of everything that I just blend into nothing. You know, like when a child takes a whole bunch of paints and squirts them all together thinking it’s going to create this beautiful, never-before-seen new colour? But, instead, it’s just greyish-brownish, nothing.”

Your face turned back to him. Wonwoo watched you chew down on your bottom lip, meanwhile your eyes glazed aloof, off to the side, as though you were rummaging through so many different thoughts and experiences that it required your utmost mental focus.

“And—” you swallowed tightly, and it sounded so painfully dry with stinging emotion, “—I just don’t want people to see that I’m so much of nothing. I just find myself covering it all up.”

Were you going to cry? Wonwoo felt himself jolt inwardly with panic. He had never seen you cry and he had therefore never developed the best protocol to tackle such a situation. Some people preferred immediate comfort, others—a reassuring stroke on the back, maybe some uplifting monologue. Or, maybe, they didn’t want to be touched at all. They just desired the simple, thinking silence and all its clarity. He remembered you saying something about it—that you did like to be comforted, but only in very certain circumstances.

First, Wonwoo subtly wiped off his hand against his thigh, and then he took in the softest breath. Through the flickering, midnight blue mirage, Wonwoo reached for your hand. He settled his cold fingers inch by inch under yours, and, with a timid but gentle thumb, Wonwoo caressed in a slow path along your knuckles.

You glanced to him appreciatively, saying nothing, but squeezing his hand in return. He figured he’d done right.

Maybe more things came to him naturally than he thought.

Before leaving the nature museum, you and Wonwoo had stopped at their atrium as promised to get in a quick meal. While you poked a fork into your sad-looking salad, making small scribbles every now and then to the journal at your elbow, Wonwoo ate a grill-pressed sandwich and flicked through his phone. He was surprised to check the time and realize you had spent about three hours there—it felt so much shorter. Wonwoo hated how quickly each moment flew past when he was with you. It was always so bittersweet.

He had wanted to know what exactly you were penciling in the journal, though he never asked, knowing he would probably be proofreading it from your document later. Obviously, you were thinking about that particular date with Mingyu from years back in your life—that was the principal point in going to the museum. However, Wonwoo had chosen to regard it more as hanging out, not caring if that was a particularly delusional or untruthful choice.

After finishing your meals and tossing the plastic remnants into the recycling bins, Wonwoo looked outside the atrium’s towering glass wall to note how cloudy the sky had become. From the bright, eggshell turquoise in the afternoon, to an especially muted grey that seemed brewing and heavy with a downpour. You adjusted the bag over your shoulder and suddenly grimaced at the sight.

“Jeez, is it going to rain?”

“It could,” Wonwoo sighed. “It very possibly could.”

“I swear. I obsessively check the forecast in order to plan all my outfits around it. It never said it would rain!” You then threw the bottle of iced tea you’d been drinking into the garbage with an aggressive slam. “This shirt is a horrible choice. It will be stupidly see-through."

Wonwoo glanced around the atrium.

“There’s lots of empty tables. If we want to sit and wait it out, then I don’t think anyone would get mad. But, I mean, it’s up to you.”

“Why’s it up to me?”

“I don’t know. Just—if you don’t want to get your outfit all soaked. I’m sure if we left now, we could make good distance before it really started raining. I’m not opposed to getting a little wet. But I have no issue with staying here and letting the clouds go over.”

You folded your arms, and your head fell to the side. He’d seen that look before. It was your own patented prelude to disaster.

“I never said I was opposed to getting wet.”

He laughed. “Well, you certainly insinuated it.”

“Do you think I'm some sort of whiny little priss?”

"I think you named your bear Miss Priss."

"I think you're a smart ass. Take that smirk off your face. Now."

Wonwoo wanted to sigh, but he didn’t. He then thought about trying to tenderly explain his way out of it with his smooth words. As much as he would think he’d figured you out, there was still a part of him that was very confused by you and how to adjust to your behaviour.

This time, he decided he would do nothing.

“Okay. Let’s go, then.”

He reached out his hand for you to grab.

“As if,” you scoffed, walking around him toward the exit doorway, into the museum garden, “not after you just insulted me.”

Wonwoo could do nothing but laugh in response, because he had caught that faint smile on your face as you passed him, and the sweet beading in your eyes. He simply followed you out the doors.

During the walk back to his apartment, it had yet to rain at all, not even a typical, humid summer drizzle or the smallest bit of spitting. Maybe it was just way more cloudy than usual, or it was a concerning spread of city smog tainting the sky. It’s not like he wanted it to rain, anyway, though more so for your sake than his.

About a little more than halfway through the walk, however, you came to an abrupt stop outside a flower shop, and Wonwoo watched you lift a doubtful hand to your cheek and wipe something off it. Before you could say anything, Wonwoo felt a big, cold, wet drop smack just above his eyebrow and begin leaking down. He used the sleeve of his shirt to clean it up, only to experience another fat droplet strike a second later, right onto his glasses.

“You can’t be serious…” he heard you mumble.

Making the mistake of looking up, more and more droplets fell swiftly from the daunting, dark grey blanket strewn across the entire skylight. They began painting all over the sidewalk, the roadway, shaking down into the brilliant purple and white petunia pots outside the florist shop. And Wonwoo froze for a moment, because he honestly hadn’t expected to be caught in the rain, let alone the downpour it was unfortunately shaping up to be.

“Ow!” You winced sharply. “One just fucking hit my eyeball!”

“Shit—let’s hurry.” Wonwoo hid his phone. “My apartment’s only like, ten minutes away, less if we run really fast.”

“Run?!” You gawked at him. “I don’t run!”

“No, you fucking sashay, I get it.” In a matter of seconds, those intermittent raindrops had evolved into an unrelenting, bathing barrage. Wonwoo could feel his clothes beginning to dampen, and his glasses were streaming with water. He slapped his hand onto yours, jerking you forward despite your stiltedness. “And I’m so sorry but you’re going to have to sacrifice one part of your pretty fucking princess routine for just five minutes so we can get back to my place.”

“My pretty fucking wha—!”

Once Wonwoo’s fingers were clasped tight with yours, he started to run, and whether it was voluntary or not, you ran along with him, shouting something that he couldn’t quite hear over the rain that bounced in loud splatters against the sidewalk and the adrenaline echoing in his own ears. He could hardly see through the downpour, but he’d walked that path so many times that it almost wasn’t necessary. At one point, he’d stepped onto the street prematurely, and he heard the loud, startled honk from a car.

“Jesus Christ, Wonwoo!” You half-laughed, half-coughed, clutching onto his slippery hand even tighter, “I’d ideally like to live!”

“We’re almost there!” He chuckled back.

“I think I’m going to lose my fucking shoe!”

“I’ll buy you a new pair!”

Wonwoo didn’t stop, and you didn’t either. He was soaked to his bones, with thick, drizzling fronds of hair plastered to his forehead and the glasses nearly slipping from his nose—the scent of earthy but ashen rain all around him—and still Wonwoo kept running, a very blithe smile permanent to his mouth despite all his discomfort.

Upon reaching the entryway to the pottery shop, Wonwoo almost skidded completely past it since the sidewalk was so slick and pouring like an angry river. You slammed into his back, and it was then that your hands unintentionally separated. Instead, he felt your fingers flesh into the sopping cloth covering his shoulders.

“Be careful on the steps!” He shouted overtop a reverberating crack of thunder that shook from behind the grey sleet sky.

“If I slip, I’m pulling you down with me!”

Wonwoo was pleased to hear the equally bright smile that bled into your words, meanwhile your fingertips dug even deeper into his muscle. Once inside the shop, a gust of wind proceeded to blow the door shut, and all Wonwoo heard was hard rain against the glass.

—END OF PART TWO.

[littlemissmiller]

His Good Girl 🎀

Pairing: dark!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

Summary: you’re famous in the capitol, everyone wants you or to be you, but only coriolanus get to have you. the night you and him take your relationship public, his jealousy and possessive nature overcomes him. he decides to make it clear who you belong to.

Warning: 18+ smut, praise kink, dom!snow, sub!reader, fingering, p in v, oral (f receiving), cum play, hickeys, possessiveness, jealously, porn with a plot

Word count: 5.1k

A/N: hello again :D! wow back to back posts look at me go. so i was struggling to figure out what i was going write next and didn’t expect to post again so soon until like next week, but i stumbled across this in my notes app last night after i published my billy the kid fic and here we are. so enjoy! im not sure what to write about next still. may drop a pedro fic next who knows ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ so anyways here is another dark!coryo for ya ❣︎

Artwork

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

Snow found you sitting by the window in his bedroom, gazing out upon the pedestrians as they walk by.

You hadn’t heard him come in and aren’t alerted to his presence until the door closes behind him. You startle and whip your head around. He stands still behind you, his head cocked to the side slightly as he examines you, with a devilish grin on his face. His eyes trail up and down your body. You weren’t expecting him to be home yet, so he had found you in your silk, pink robe embroidered with small white roses. You were clearly fresh out of the shower and about to change into something suitable for the evening and dinner later that night.

“You’re home!” You exclaim

“Is that ok?” Coriolanus asked knowing that the question was completely rhetorical. As if he could only come to his own home whenever you felt it was suitable.

“I just wasn’t expecting you home so early. At least not for two more hours. I was hoping to be all ready for you.” You explain

All ready for him. Coriolanus liked how submissive that sounded. He likes when you were obedient and perfect for him. Especially the last few months as you and him took your relationship further. By now, he has expected you to be at his apartment by the time Coriolanus had gotten home from the University. Given your schedule, he knew he wasn’t keeping you from anything or taking you away from anything either. So where else would you have to go except come to his apartment. And you did.

“I can see. What are you wearing tonight?” Coriolanus asks

Excitedly, you bounce up and rush over to the wardrobe where your dress is hanging up. In your hurry, your robe reveals a part of your bare thighs which Coriolanus takes note of and enjoys the subtle view of your body. You open one of the doors and reveal a pink dress hanging on the back of the door. It’s silk like your robe and Coriolanus already knows that the moment you have it on, he’ll want to tear it off you.

“It’s the one you said you liked the other day at the shop so I sent in an order and had it sent here today.”

Coriolanus thought to himself as he takes a few strides towards you. Good. You are sending things to his apartment. As it should be.

“Just as beautiful as the girl wearing it.” He smiles and walks over behind you.

He grabs your shoulders and his lips give your neck a firm kiss, directly on your pulse. You take the dress from the inside of the door and reveal the mirror attached to the inside of the wardrobe. You hold it up to you, imagining what it will look like on you tonight. You catch Coriolanus’s gaze in the mirror. His blue eyes are piercing through your soul as usual, but there was now a cloud of lust swirling in them. His hands snake towards your waist. He slithers them under your robe and rests them just above your hips. You pretend to not care or notice his actions, but the growing heat in between your legs wants you to give in to him. You tame your labored breathing as you smooth the dress out in front of your body.

“And what will you be wearing, my love?” You ask

“I picked out an all black suit this week. I’ll make sure to adorn a white rose now that I’ve seen this.” He states taking a piece of the pink fabric in between his thumb and fore finger “and you’ll put one in your hair, just in case people forget who you belong to.”

“Well I was already planning on wearing the black diamond necklace you gave me. The one with your initials carved on the back.” You respond touching the center of your chest where the necklace would lay. “Or perhaps I should wear the black lace choker…the once with the gem?”

One of Coriolanus’s hands travels up to your neck. As beautiful as the choker was, the thought of you wearing the black necklace with his initials around your neck seems perfect for tonight. It would tell everyone at that dinner that you were undoubtedly his. Yes, it was perfect.

“The necklace will look nice on you tonight. Wear it.” He whispers in your ear, tugging at it slightly with his teeth. You gasp, finally breaking and giving in slightly. The hand, not wrapped around your throat, travels up and down your thigh.

“Whatever you want.” You whisper back trying to hold back a moan as Coriolanus places a light kiss to your jawline. His hand holds your face up to look at him as he does. It’s hypnotic to watch and he knows it.

“If you behave tonight, you’ll be sure to be rewarded.” He reminds you

You hang the dress back up and he spins you around. He dips in and gives you a proper kiss on the lips. He pulls back soon and mumbles against your lips

“Understand?”You nod your head. He tuts at you and squeezes your hips.

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

The two of you finish getting ready. Coriolanus takes his own shower while you attend to your hair and makeup. Thankfully, being around Tigris meant she was always helping to style you. She had taught you what makeup and hairstyle looks best with certain outfits or styles of dress. So for tonight a soft, baby doll look. And your hair, Tigris decides to put half of it up, tying it in place, then setting it with a white rose, just as Coriolanus asked. You take a look at yourself in the mirror. You’re stunning. Sexy and yet elegant. Your makeup was perfect too. You had a faint tint of red blush on your cheeks and nose, your lips were glossy and plump like a ripe plum. You batted your eyes, now long and defined with mascara and smile at yourself.

When Coriolanus finally sees you as you exit his vanity closet, he’s stuck in place. Temptation washing over him. Tigris spun you around, showing you off to him. She left the room, leaving the two of you alone to finish getting ready. You attach your earrings and finally adorn the necklace. You put on a pair of strappy pink heels and find your purse.

“Ready?” You ask admiring how handsome Coriolanus looks in his suit.

Coriolanus steps towards you, closely examining you as he does. His mouth curves into a half grin. As if he is pleased by the sight in front of him. The dress hugs your body beautifully and the half slit up your thigh is tempting. He grips his hands around your waist.

“I am. You look incredible my dove.” He remarks placing a kiss on your forehead

“As do you. Almost perfect.”

“Almost?” he inquires

You nod your head and walk over to the side table next to his bed. Coriolanus takes note and how the dress falls on your hips and how they sway gracefully, yet subtly from side to side. You pick a rose from the vase on the table. You open the drawer and pull out a safety pin and walk back to him. You stand in front of him and look up at him as you pin the white rose to his lapel. You show off the back of your hair. He touched the rose in your hair and smiled. You turn back to him, wrap your arms around his neck, and whisper into his ear.

“Now you are ready.”

You and Coriolanus leave the house, enter the car, and give the driver the directions. Tonight was to be a “private dinner”, however it was truly anything but. The guest list was to be consisted mostly of Panem’s up and coming young politicians from the senior class at the University. Around thirty students, each permitted to bring a guest. It wasn’t anything too special, but rumors of Coriolanus Snow seeing someone had become rather out of hand. So what made tonight special for the pair of them was the public nature in which they were officially announcing their relationship.

Up until now you and him have tried to keep things a secret to avoid attention from the news, given you are a prominent member in The Capitol. Especially your family. Your father had helped create a new weapon manufacturing business after the war and had been regularly contracted by The Capitol to create weapons in the last few years. He had become good friends and business associates with Strabo Plinth. It gave your family status and you some newfound fame. In turn it would help give Coriolanus some as well. But Coriolanus had you in his life for much more than just that. Having you as his own. His girl. It felt thrilling.

Thrilling to know that only he got to have you. It was no secret that your looks were talked about often. Simply because you were so beautiful with a beloved last name. A name almost impossible to escape given your father’s philanthropy as well as service to The Capitol. So the fact that Snow got to have you. Out of all the other wealthy and famous girls, you were the most desirable. The most popular and loved.

Coriolanus rubs your semi-exposed thigh and watches you watch the city pass by.

“Are you nervous my dove?” he asks

You look over at him and smile. You shake your head.

“Not at all.”

Despite this being a private dinner, he was sure that, by the time they left, word of their romantic relationship would get out and the press will try and snap a picture of them. A type of attention Coriolanus hadn’t received in a while and wasn’t sure how he would react this time around. Your attitude towards this evening however, put him a little more at ease.

“Are you?” You follow up

“Slightly. Not ready for all the attention that we will probably get after tonight.”

You look at him sympathetically and squeeze the hand that is rubbing your thigh.

“It will be fine” You reassure him

He looks at you with a new found sense of confidence. He squeezes her thigh as she continues to grip his hand.

The driver arrives to the mansion where the dinner is held. The house of the Dean of Political Science. Coriolanus steps out, rushes to your side and opens the door. He extends his hand and you take it. Both your arrivals change the dynamic of the party. You move through the crowd towards a group of Coriolanus’s classmates. The polite nods, chatter, and occasional laughs turn into head turns, double takes and whispers as you walk past people. Coriolanus looks at you as you walk. You seem unbothered by the attention and loop your arm around his elbow. Once you make it to your table, his classmates greet him.

“Ah Coriolanus! Good to see you!” Festus Creed exclaims

“You as well Festus.”

“And might I say it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Festus follows up extending his hand to you. You take it and greet him.

“Nice to meet you”

Coriolanus officially introduces you and Festus to each other. You then turn to smile at a few of Coriolanus’s classmates hanging around, but they stay back as to not intrude on your boyfriend’s conversation. They whisper to one another. You couldn’t tell if they were talking about you though. What you couldn’t tell was if it was good or bad. Coriolanus knew however. The sneering looks and childish giggles of Livia Cardew and Clemensia Dovecote were looks that he was all too familiar with. Coriolanus looks at you. You seem to have slipped into a polite conversation with Festus, who by the sound of it seems to be a fan. You indulge his enthusiasm. Coriolanus nods at you and walks over to investigate the conversation between Clemensia and Livia’s conversation. As he approaches they seem too caught up to notice him.

“I mean the matching roses. So cheesy.” Clemensia snickers

“And the matching colors. Like give me a break.” Livia follows up

“Also what is that. A night gown? She looks like a whor-“ Clemensia starts

“Clemensia. Livia. How are you two this evening?” Coriolanus asks firmly, cutting her off

“Oh Coriolanus!” Clemenisa startles “Good to see you.” She says, suspicious of if he had overheard their conversation.

“Anything the matter?” He asks

“No. Why would something be wrong?” Livia asks

“I hope there wouldn’t be.” He states in a somewhat threatening manner

“So your date. What a surprise.” Clemensia sneers not at all intimidated by Coriolanus’s stern manner

Coriolanus starts to feel a strong wave of protection over you, with a slight tinge of possession. He looks at Clemensia with a threatening look masked in curiosity.

“How so? I thought there was rumors of us floating around am I wrong?” He asks

“There were, just interesting to see them be confirmed. Happy for you.” She smiles “Seems like you’re not the only one who is infatuated by her.” She snickers

Coriolanus whips his head around to see that a crowd has gathered around you. A few more of the male students in addition to Festus. They ogle you and subtly fight for your attention. Coriolanus finds himself slowly filling up with rage. He forces a smile to Livia and Clemensia, excuses himself, and walks over to you. You watch him as he walks over. He moves to stand behind you, placing both his hands on your shoulders. He dips down to kiss your cheek and you smile.

“Making friends” he jokes trying to hide his anger

“Apparently” you whisper back

As you and Festus continue the conversation and Coriolanus tries to contain himself. He rubs your shoulders. He’s fuming with anger at Clemensia and Livia. And at the other men trying to steal your attention. Part of that is his fault for walking away from you. Letting them have access to your attention. Still, how dare they. And how dare anybody try to insult you. He wouldn’t stand for it. The evening continues and Coriolanus keeps you close to him for the remainder of the dinner. He watches the people around you. The group of boys from before seem to keep their distance now that Coriolanus refuses to leave your side. He also keeps a close eye on Clemensia and Livia. He wants to teach them a lesson for their gossip and wants to gouge that group of boys eyes’ out.

He tries to temper his anger, but his paranoia seems to continually get the best of him. Maybe you’ll leave him for one of them. Get bored, think taking the relationship public like this is too much. Maybe you do think the matching roses are cheesy and think he’s silly for suggesting it. He glances around at the numerous eyes looking at you. He tries to convince himself that every man looking in your general direction isn’t looking at you but he can’t help but notice how their eyes seem to linger. They way they gawk at you disgusts him.

You and him leave, making sure not to linger after dinner is served. Coriolanus is anxious to leave, practically rushing you out of the mansion and into the car. There is an awkward silence on the way back to his apartment and you try to talk to him, but he just shakes his head and whispers firmly “I’ll explain when we get back.”

His mood seems to escalate as the car approaches the apartment. When it arrives he rushes out in a hurry and you thank the driver before trailing behind him.

“Coryo? What’s wrong.” You ask

“Just get inside” he huffs

You walk past him into his apartment and he follows you. He shuts the door and lets out deep breath in frustration.

“What’s wrong?” You ask again

“I can’t stand how people treat you?” He huffs

“What do you mean?”

“The way they talk, the way they look at you.” He explains. He walk over to a chair in the kitchen and flops himself down. His chest rises rapidly as he looks down at the floor. He tries to control his breathing, but the thought of how that group of boys looked at you, plays in his mind. And he can still hear the obnoxious giggles of Clemensia and Livia.

“And you think that I care? That’s how it always is for me.” You sigh with a laugh

Coriolanus still feels upset however and his body language doesn’t change. He’s still fuming.

“What about the attention from all the boys tonight. Do you care about them?” He perks up

“Is that what’s truly bothering you?” You ask stepping closer behind his chair.

“Partly.”

“And what else?” You ask standing behind, placing your hands on his shoulders.

“A few of my other classmates. I caught them gossiping about us.” He confesses

“Hmm. They are probably just jealous.”

He doesn’t respond as he tries to calm himself down.

“I just want to put them all in their place. Show them they shouldn’t mess with us.”

You start to massage his shoulders and he begins to lean back into the chair and relax. You move your hands up towards his neck and continue to massage him. “And tell me what would you do to them?” You ask.

“I want to sew those girls mouth shut. And tear those boys eyes out.”

“Mmm. Maybe you can find something special for them in Dr. Gaul’s lab” you whisper as you feel Coriolanus sink further into your touch. You run your hands up and down his chest. “Or turn them into avoxes. So they never speak again.”

“And those boys?” Coriolanus asks

“Well if you’re upset at them then you’ll have to put a price on everyone’s head who looks at me like that.”

“I just don’t want them getting ideas” he replies

You giggle and continue rubbing his chest.

“Well they’ll think what they want. Not much I can do there. But it doesn’t matter because they’ll never have me. It’s a game to them. And they’ll never win. They will always lose.” You pause to kiss his cheek “And Snow always lands on top right?” You whisper kissing his earlobe and the side of his jaw. He groans and leans his head back in response. You cup the side of his face and rub his cheek. He turns his head and kisses the inside of your palm.

“You’re the only one who gets to touch me. To have me. Only you. No one else gets that right except you.” You whisper

“Am I?” He asks

“Mhmm” you nod

“Show me”

Coriolanus grips your wrist. He pulls your hand off his face and tugs at it, signaling that he want you to come in front of him. You walk around and stand in front of him briefly. He looks at you lustfully and spreads his legs. You stand in between them and grin at him. He rubs your hand as you slide onto his lap. As you sit, you guide his hand to your thigh and under your dress, slowly guiding him.

“See. Only you.”

He inches up and down your thigh. His fingertips graze the inside, making the heat that has begun to bubble up in between your legs more apparent. You move your hips against his crotch and feel his semi-hard cock aching to be free from the confines of his pants. You lean in and kiss him. He kisses you back and snakes his hand further up your thigh. He brushes his fingertips across your core and feels how wet and hot you have become. He lets out a breathy moan, breaking the kiss.

“Is this only for me too?” He mutters. You nod your head and he snakes two fingers under your panties. He starts to lightly rub at your clit. “You look beautiful tonight.”

“So then I can’t be blamed for wondering eyes now can I?” You whisper back

“No, but they will pay. All of them.” He mouths at your jawline and down to your neck. You tilt your head back, giving him better access. He sinks into your neck, with the goal of marking you up. To show everyone that you belong to him. He sucks and bites on your skin, turing the flesh into fresh black and blue bruises. You whimper at the sensation as you melt into his chest.

“Coryo” you whisper

His free hand begins to grope your breasts over the dress and he moves his hand back down your thigh. He swings your legs over his lap and shifts on his seat. He picks you up unexpectedly and you gasp in surprise. You cling to him. He takes you to his bedroom and tosses you on the bed. You gather yourself and scoot back, as he strips himself of his sports coat. He unbuttons his shirt halfway down, then eagerly, he pulls at your ankles. You yelp and he slides you towards him. He smirks at the look of awe on your face. He could tell you were hungry for him. Not just that, but you seem mesmerized by him. Coriolanus couldn’t tell if it was because of the way your eyes were filled with need or that his clear possessiveness over you had you wondering about what was in store for you. He ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your dress up past your hips. He kneels down and his fingers trace the lining of your panties. You jerk your hips slightly and he takes the opportunity to slide them off your legs. You bite your lower lip in an attempt to hold back your moans, but they stifle out as little whimpers that go straight to Coriolanus’s cock.

“So needy for me.” He smirks

He kisses the inside of your thigh and grazes his teeth over the spot he kissed. He begins to leave the same marks he put on your neck. You can’t help but love how much he’s marking you. You know it’s only because he’s frustrated and wants everyone to know not to mess with you. You whine in frustration, needing Coriolanus to touch you.

“Please Coryo. I want you so bad”

He gives you a devilish grin and squeezes your thighs. “Mmm keep begging pretty girl.”

“I need you. Please just touch me.” You whine

He begins kissing your thigh again, all the way up until he reaches your core. You shutter at the feeling as his lips press against your clit. He moves you closer to him and you rest your legs on his shoulders. You reach for his blonde hair, running your fingers through it. He restrains his actions, only pressing light kisses on and around your clit.

“Coryo please…please.” You beg again

“Mmm that’s it.” He moans

He dives in His mouth fully devouring your pussy. He mouths at your clit and you instinctively squeeze your thighs around his face. He presses your legs apart and devours you even more. He sucks and nibbles at your sensitive bud, taking in the pleasure that is spread across your face. Coriolanus likes having this control over you. He likes hearing the small, soft whines that escape your lips and he loves how you beg for him. How you need him. It makes his ego swell in his chest. He knows you’re addicted to him. He knows that he makes you feel so good. He laps up your wetness and runs his tongue along your folds. It makes your hips buck, causing him to put a stern hand on your stomach.

“Take it baby girl. Try to stay still.” He murmurs against you

You nod your head as he gives kitten licks to your clit before sucking it into his mouth. Without warning, he removes his mouth and replaces the sensation with his fingers. He watches you carefully as your face contorts. He doesn’t hold back as he pumps his fingers into you. You look even more beautiful for him like this. Willing and submissive to his touch. You’re perfect, pretty face scrunched up in pleasure. He drinks you in as he runs his tongue up your thigh. You jerk your hips and he pushes your body back down on the bed. You’re throbbing at this point, so hypnotized under him. He crawls back up to you. His tongue licks a long stripe up your neck, just as he did to your thigh.

“So desperate. Are you gonna be good for me?”

You nod your head, which lands you a firm slap to the meat of your thigh.

“Speak up princess.” He warns

“Yes Coriolanus, I’ll be good for you.”

He strokes the side of your face, his knuckles brush up against your cheek. His hand moves to grip your chin and under your jaw. He forces you to look into his sinful gaze. He leans in and clashes his mouth with yours. He fights to dominate the kiss and you let him. He sits you up as you continue to kiss him. He unzips the back of your dress and it slides down your shoulders. In the same motion, Coriolanus unhooks your bra. He brushes your straps from your shoulders and pulls the rest of the dress from your body. You lay there, completely bare for him. You feel vulnerable, especially given his clothes are still on. You feel like his prey.

“So beautiful like this.” He states rubbing your thighs. He sits up on his knees, towering over you. He begins to explore your body with his hands. He moves them up to kneed and cup your breasts. His fingers gently massage your nipples as he pulls at them. You wince at his actions, squirming under his touch.

“Coryo please I need more…” you beg, your tone sounding desperate and whiny

He smirks. He leans down close to you and gives you a few chase kisses to your neck and up to your ear.

“I like how you sound when you beg. So pretty.”

He tugs at your earlobe with is teeth, causing you to shutter. The action of it going straight to your throbbing core. He rubs his fingers through your slit, humming to himself. He removes them, causing you to whine. He unbuttons the rest of his shirt, revealing his perfectly toned chest. He then unzips his pants and steps out of them. At this point his cock is hard and ready under his briefs. He rubs himself through his underwear as he gazes down at you.

“Touch yourself.” He commands and you obey

Your fingers dragging through your folds slowly as you look back up at him, mouth agape.

“There you go. Good girl.”

“Coryo” you whisper. He smirks at you and pulls his briefs down and his cock springs forward. This isn’t your first time with Coriolanus. Still, every time you got nervous and he could tell. Your fingers slow down and you think about having to take him in you.

“What’s wrong my pet?”

“Just you’re so big Coryo.”

He gives you another smirk “Yeah, but you can take it right? You always take me so well.” He growls, slithering his hand around your neck.

He kisses you as he lines himself up with your entrance. He slides in slowly. At first it’s painful and he keeps his eyes focused on your face to get a read on how you feel. You temper your breathing and try to fixate on how handsome the face staring back at you is. He pushes into more until he reaches the hilt and his hips meet yours. You sigh in relief as the pain replaces with pleasure. You moan and he captures your lips. He dominates you. His lips move fast with yours. He’s clearly just as hungry for you as you are needy for him. His tongue swirls around with yours and he starts to move his hips. You moan again and he breaks the kiss. He looks down at the spot where you both connect and shutters. His gaze returns to yours.

“See. Look how well you take me. Just like you always do. So good for me.”

You nod your head in agreement and wince. He picks up his pace, thrusting deeper and deeper each time. His cock drags in and out of your pussy with ease now, the pain totally subsided. You nod in agreement, but that doesn’t satisfy Coriolanus. He needs to hear you say how much you like it. How much you crave this feeling he gives you. A feeling only he can give you.

“Talk to me. Use that pretty mouth of yours.”

“You feel so good.” You start hesitantly

“More.” He demands

“Mmhm Coryo you fill me up so well. Better than anyone else.” You moan

“The best you’ve ever had?”

“Mhmm.” You moan

In response he grabs your chin and forces you to look into his eyes.

“Use. Your. Words” he demands,, pumping into you harder with each word.

“Yes Coryo, you’re the best I ever had. And you’re the only one I want ooh…” you whine

“Good girl.” He grits through his teeth, giving you more of himself. He hit deeper and deeper, his lust fully overtaking him. He kisses you harshly, pinching and massaging your cheeks. “Only I get to have you like this. You understand?”

“Yes Coryo. I understand.” You mewl

He nods against your mouth. You feel your buildup coming, tense in your stomach, waiting to release. With a few final thrusts, you come around his cock. Your hips buck up, legs shaking, cunt throbbing as he fucks you through your euphoria. Soon enough he’s finishing inside you, stuffing warm ropes of white cum down your hole. You float down from the feeling that he gave you and temper your breathing. He pulls out, admiring as his cum drips out of you. He gets greedy, taking his index finger and pushing it back into you. You moan as he fingers you

“My sweet girl. I hope you know who is here for you. I’ll always watch over you. I’ll never let anyone disrespect you again.”

He pulls his hand away and traces his fingers over your neck, where he had previously sucked and marked you up. He smirked to himself. He puts his finger in your mouth. You suck yours and his collective cum off it and he coos at you.

“I get you all to myself. How fortunate for us both then hmm.

“Mhmm.” You nod, too fucked out to properly respond. As much as Coriolanus wanted you to speak, but he could see how spent you are. He kisses her cheek and settled into the bed next to her.

“Good girl.” He said letting his word be the last.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆

Artwork

[reallyromealone]

Omega kaeya and alpha reader where they get married? Idk.

Title: honey honey

Fandom: genshin impact

Characters: Kaeya

Fic type: fluff

Pairings: Kaeya x male reader

Warnings: male reader, reader insert, omegaverse, fluff, cute, kaeya is a strong independent omega

Notes:

Summary: from wedding to domestic bliss, the two love each other deeply

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Kaeya wasn't an easy man to earn the love of, the Omega was fiercely independent and strong willed... Most alphas gave up when they couldn't turn him into what they wanted.

(Name) Looked ready to cry when he saw his mate walk down the Ilse in a white ornate suit and flowers in his long hair that was braided over his shoulder, (name)s black suit having the same flowers embroidered on it. (Name) Couldn't help but grin like an idiot when he took the others hands and kissed his knuckles "you look beautiful" (name) whispered to his beloved who looked at him with a calm yet loving expression "so do you, my star" the Omega always had a way with words and knew how to make his alpha swoon.

It was something that kaeya was great at, taking charge and making the effort to make sure (name) knew he was valued.

It broke his heart when he learned the Alpha had never gotten flowers in his life.

"Do you take Kaeya as your mate, to love and cherish... To protect and give your soul through sickness and health?" Barbara said to (name) who looked at Kaeya like he was his everything "I do" his words so sincere and loving 'and do you take (name) as your mate, to live and cherish- to protect and give your soul through sickness and health"

Kaeya gently wiped a tear from (name)s eyes, looking him dead in the eye before speaking calmly and clearly "I do"

"Then I pronounce you mates, you may now kiss!" Barbara cheered happily while the crowd cheered them on.

Kaeya watched his mate of two years fix a wobbly chair in their home, kaeya was the scary dog privileges to (name)s handy alpha, the Omega sipping wine casually. "I knew I should have just built it myself" (name) grumbled at the dining set and Kaeya nodded "we need something sturdier" the Omega chimed in while (name) got up and accepted a sip of wine when Kaeya offered.

"But first, you need food" Kaeya was so doting to his alpha, letting his guard down only for him and (name) was always so giddy.

Kaeya wasn't the best food but he knew a few things, especially (name)s favorite food his grandmother would make as a child "babe you're so great at this!" (Name) Devoured the food with absolute joy "babe you ever think of expanding the family?" (Name) Asked suddenly and Kaeya raised an eyebrow.

They never really spoke about kids.

"Why?"

"Well that dog Diluc found had puppies and I was wondering if you wanted to adopt one?"

Oh thank god.

"Fine but you're walking him"

(Name) Nodded excitedly and ran to the other room to pull out a sleepy puppy "thank god! Because I got him while you were getting dinner supplies!"

[crepesuzette2023]

For John's Birthday: some of my favorite John POV fics

Drop Chute (bookofapril). "The last stall on the end had an “out of service” sign on it: he darted in, locked the door, and sat down on the lid of the toilet. Thank god it was clean. He put his glasses in his pocket. Then he drew up his legs and rested his head on his knees, the cool embroidered satin of his trousers a balm on his forehead, safely hidden from sight." (1967, John vs. Robert F.)

I Think of Things We Did (J_Deandra_j). "He sucked Paul’s dumb, lovely fat lips, licked his teeth, tasted the drumbeat of Paul’s heart in the stubble threatening to erupt beneath his jaw, and his soul awoke like a sad bitch at the shudder of Paul’s skin under his tongue." (Obertauern)

at midnight (anonymous). "The first time John lets another man press against him, it feels like dying." (Long brilliant character study)

Sunday Driver (@boshemians). "Tara Browne is the kind of pretty boy who wouldn’t bat an eye at being called one. Proud of it, even, and not shy of an excuse to do just that—bat his eyes, or eyelashes really, at anyone. Men, women, dogs. It annoys John when Paul does it but it annoys him even more in Tara because of the money thing, the always having had it, so that he is not so much coy as simpering." (65/66, John v. Tara B.)

February in New Orleans (@eveepe). “Kiss it,” said May, from where she was tucked in beside Linda. “Go on, he likes that.”—“Do what she says, baby.” Linda leaned over to slide her hand into Paul’s hair and guide his head gently towards John. (John and May visit Paul and Linda in 1975)

deeper than oceans you run (@orphanbeat). "Rich kisses him slowly, purposefully, as he does them all. John thinks he probably likes Rich’s kisses the best, then realizes that they all must do." (Beatles OT4, Greek Island AU)

Our Version of Events (@javelinbk). "There are also some stories that have just tilted the world’s axis slightly, asking questions like if Brian hadn’t found them, would they still be famous? The answer, according to that writer, was no, which John felt gave Brian far too much credit and Paul’s bullheadedness too little." (John discovers fan fiction in 1971)

non nobis solum (downtothelastdrop). “I think it’s cute,” Helen says again. “The way he looks at you. He likes to push back, doesn’t he, but I bet when you get down to it he’d do anything you asked.” (John's fascination with Paul in school uniform)

Bermuda (@scurator). "Today he felt that life really might begin at forty, if a bloke could just admit certain predilections to himself." (1980 as it should have been)

The McCartney Issue (@pauls1967moustache). "It’s only because it’s Perfect Beatle Paul with a dildo up his ass that anyone cares at all." (John Lennon's purely artistic appreciation of Linda McCartney's Playboy spread of her husband)

dreaming of the past (@revollver). "Meanwhile, the real Paul, sweet boyish features and Beatle-cut grown a touch too long, can be seen on the coffee table, inspecting the cupcake wrappers on George’s plate. All John gets is a brief look: soft curve of a furred thigh as Paul darts behind the paper cups. Graceful calf and perfect, miniature foot. Tantalising glimpse of one arse cheek." (1969 John imagines Tiny Paul to distract himelf from the present–with delightful consequences)

ageless children, animal sweat (eyeball2eyeball): "Looks like Pete’s got his night lined up, eh?” He looks back to John and rests his chin on his palm and smiles, this small secretive thing, and John can’t help but be convinced that Paul knows what he’s thinking somehow — dangerous, that. “What about you?” (Hamburg)

[oleander-nin]

For the sentient bot au (rottmnt)

How would they react if their darling was able to crochet? Like every time they we’re watching the show, they’d be a little distracted with making a plushie or a piece of clothing. Would they be jealous that they aren’t paying attention, or if they bring them to their universe would they ask them to make something for them?

A/N, not important: This was super cool to write because I do a *lot* of needle work lol. I knit, crochet, sew, embroider, etc. I did headcannons for this, mostly because I didn't know how to write this as a proper fic and it's easier to get back into the groove. Apologies for my absence(and the fact this was requested back in September of 2023). Any criticism is welcome, constructive or not. This is supposed to be a gender neutral reader, so if I screwed up somewhere, please tell me. - Ollie

CW: Stalking, being watched without your knowledge, sentient show characters, obsession, yandere themes, dark themes

Words: 849

Summary: You crochet, oblivious to the constant eyes on you.

Mikey:

He thinks what you do is absolutely charming. Whenever the screen flickers and they can gaze back, he loves to watch you work. He admires the deftness of your craft, even going so far as to see if he could pick it up too. He sees it as a great way to bond. Whether he succeeds or not in picking up the needle work as well doesn’t matter much to him. He’s just delighted you’re a fellow artist in your own right.

He loves to design patterns for blankets or create his own unique stuffies for you to bring to life. He wants to bring his own touch into your work, to try and intertwine the both of you as much as possible. What better way than to combine your hobbies?

Obsesses over what you make to see if he can figure out what you like. He’ll take note of the colors you use, of whether you kept what you’ve been working on or gave it to a friend, or even sold it. He’ll see if you make more stuffies or sweaters, whether you prefer blankets or hats. He’s internalized every choice you’ve made, from the yarn fiber you prefer to where you most often work on your hobby.

Donnie:

Watches you in interest. He finds your hobby interesting and calming. He loves seeing your fingers curl around the yarn and how your hook moves so smoothly. It’s almost soothing to him, so much so he’ll do anything to keep watch. Home security system? Donnie can find a way to weasel his access from just your streaming devices to every electronic in your vicinity. He wants to keep an eye on you, and see what else you create.

Keeps a lot of knitted and crochet works for you to try and match what you have in your home. He’ll collect sweaters, blankets, stuffies, pillows, and anything in between that happens to be made via needle craft. He wants to make the lair seem more at home to you, and what better way then to find every sensory pleasing work he can?

Glad you have a hobby so you’re distracted while they work on bringing you ‘home’. Having you so focused on your work, while at times hurtful, makes their plans to cross the interdimensional barrier a lot easier. The less you pay attention to them, the more they can plan. Of course, once you’re actually in his arms that’ll change. He’s not fond of being ignored.

Raph:

He’s ecstatic about it. He thinks it’s incredibly cute and uses it to solidify his image of you being some soft, fragile soul. He’ll internally coo and croon over you whenever they’re able to look back at you, eyeing your newest project with interest.

Raph has a lot of respect for your craft, especially since he’s tried to knit before. He hopes you’ll be able to teach him and let him work with you. He can hardly wait to snuggle next to you while you explain the steps to him.

He can’t help but hope for you to make him something when you’re finally able to come ‘home’. He wants to add your personal handiwork to his collection of stuffed animals. He’ll put it on his top shelf where no one can mess with it, only taking it down to cuddle on special occasions. It’ll be his pride and joy, something for him to treasure immensely.

Wanting to make it easier on you, he’ll start looking for patterns to give to you, some for when you’re finally with them and some for Donnie to nudge in your direction online. He’ll find yarn and hooks, creating a giant collection just for you. He wants to show you his love, show you that he can give you everything you need and more.

Leo:

Thinks it’s sweet. He can’t help but view it in a cutesy way, no matter what you make. He sees it as part of your charm, knowing you at least have a hobby to keep you busy when he’s away. He just can’t help but wish you wouldn’t do it when you’re supposed to be watching him.

Leo wants you to pay more attention to him. As much as he adores your hobby, he despises how you only seem to do it when you’re watching them. You never give him your full attention, never have your eyes on the screen for the entire time he is. It makes him seethe inside. He’ll make sure to fix that habit once he has you in his arms though.

He always feels a bit bitter when you give something away in front of them, knowing he’d never be able to hold that piece himself. He wants nothing more than to hoard what you make. He can’t help but assume whoever you gifted something to is taking advantage of you. You shouldn’t give away your handiwork, especially when you could save it for him! He plans on finding everything you’ve made when they’re finally able to break the barrier between worlds to take you.

Tag list: @f1oricide @itsyagurlchip @lordfreg @acutiewithagun @rottmnttmnt2012 @lixnininotnay @lexiechr @ssak-i @rottmntsimp

[sweetsweetjellybean]

A night out with friends turns into a surprise welcome home party for the man who broke your heart, Eddie Munson.

Masterlist Listen to Scar Tissue Here

What to expect: Second Chance Romance set in 2012 Chicago, with flashbacks at the beginning of each chapter.  Eddie and Steve are in their 30s. Fem!Reader is given a pet name from each of the guys. No other name mentioned. No use of Y/N. No physical description. Reader does have a bit of personality, as I find it nearly impossible to keep her blank for such a long fic. You may find yourself at times making choices that you wouldn't normally make, but I hope you can put that aside and enjoy the ride. Sensitive Content. 18+ Guaranteed happy ending. This is my love letter to Eddie Munson.

WC:5162. Beta'd by @superblysubpar

“Have a good day,” your mother calls out as you shut the front door to the gray clapboard-sided home that your parents had fallen in love with the moment they laid eyes on it. You hadn’t even gotten past the front steps before she appears in the doorway, pulling her purple terry-cloth robe tighter around her shoulders as she calls you back. “You don’t have to come right home after school,” she tells you, pressing a few folded bills into your hand, “Go out with your friends. Have some fun.”

“Thanks, Mom.” You muster up a smile, shoving the bills into the front pocket of your Levi's, certain they will end up in the ceramic pink elephant bank that sits atop your dresser, just like the money she gave you last week. She watches you walk down the steps, giving you a wave before she turns away, shutting the door behind her. 

She tries her best, but she doesn't understand that friendships in the seventh grade aren't made as easily as they were in kindergarten, and you can't tell her that in the six weeks you've been enrolled at Hawkins Middle School, not a soul has spoken to you unless asked to by a teacher. 

This was the life that your parents had chosen, a career that demanded constant relocation and upheaval. "It's an adventure," they'd tell you as your things were being packed into boxes. But the older you got, it felt less like an adventure and more like a test. A test to prove yourself over and over. There’s a phrase your mom has uttered so often over the years, that it's surprising it's not embroidered on the throw pillows. Bloom where you're planted. But here, in this town, you're only a weed in the garden.

Hawkins isn't any worse or better than any of the other ten places you've lived in the last seven years, but these kids have been together since birth and aren't eager to welcome newcomers into the flock. Pouring your efforts into being confident and friendly, projecting a cool and unbothered facade, the constant exposure has left you empty. The mask is too heavy, and you’ve been wearing it far too long. If this were one of the comics you kept in the box under your bed, you'd be discovering your superpower–Invisibility. They don't see you here, and maybe they never would. 

The edges of folded bills in your pocket press into the meat of your thigh. Adding them to your total should give you enough for the new Elastica CD.  With a bit of luck, you might be able to talk your dad into driving you to Tower Records in Indianapolis this weekend. A few houses away, the battered front door of a small yellow cape opens with a click and thud, drawing your attention. The house was more run-down than the others on this street. The grass was left to grow a little longer before being mowed, and a few nights a week, you could hear the yelling coming from inside before seeing the slow flash of lights of a cruiser parked in front. 

A boy with curly shoulder-length hair bounds out from inside the house, slinging on his worn backpack as he hits the sidewalk.

Right on time this morning. 

The scuff of your white Doc Martens falls in step with the crunch of his black Converse hitting the pavement. The chain running from his back pocket to his hip sways with his movements. It’s more of a determined bounce than a walk. Your eyes stay trained on the frayed holes of his Jansport, corners of textbooks and papers pushing through. You keep waiting for physics to kick in and the thing to give way entirely.

“Quit following me.” 

His voice floats over his shoulder, shattering the quiet of the morning. Your head swivels from side to side, looking for whoever he is speaking to. His body turns until he’s walking backward, both hands gripping the straps of his backpack, casting his expectant brown eyes on you. 

“Me?” You ask, touching your chipped painted fingernails to your chest.

“You’ve been following me for weeks, and it’s creepy.”

“I’m not following you,” you say incredulously, “We’re just going to the same place.”

“Well, walk on the other side of the street or something,” he says, turning back around, continuing on his way like he assumes you’ll comply.

“No.” 

Your defiance comes out flat and solid, drawing a line, sick of him and this whole town.

“Yes,” the word comes back without a glance, utterly unbothered by your show of determination.

“No,” you repeat louder, your eyebrows pulling together in a scowl, “If you don’t like it, you walk over there.”

“I was here first.”

“Seriously?” The anger in your chest turns to heat, rising up your neck and settling in your face. Your mouth opens, ready to unleash the venom sitting on the tip of your tongue when he stops walking.

“Might as well walk beside me then.”

Surprise melts the words in your mouth as your feet carry you forward until you’re close enough to see the freckles covering his nose. His eyes stay forward as his stride lines up with yours, moving forward at a more relaxed pace. A light breeze rustles the leaves of the Maples lining the street. The sound of your footsteps is interrupted by the occasional passing car. 

“You’re in seventh, right? You got Schnider?” He asks, his eyes darting to your face.

“Yeah.” You nod, looking down at your boots.

"Bad luck. She's a real bitch. I had her last year."

Answering with a shrug, you risk a look back at him. Long eyelashes framing big doe eyes, a sweet face he tries to hide with a hard shell. He wears a mask, too. 

Your brain’s on overload for the rest of the day—thoughts of the boy coloring away the hours like a secret, overanalyzing every bit of your interaction. When the shrill sound of the final bell rings, you join the current of students, gathering your belongings and exiting the building in a wave.

The fresh air is a welcome escape from the stuffy classroom as you cross behind the school past the football field, heading toward the path through the woods where the boy is lingering just beyond the gate, digging through his pack but coming up with nothing like maybe he had been waiting. Without a word, he falls into step beside you. When you look at him, this time, he meets your eyes. The sunlight flickers through the swaying leaves as your footsteps resonate through the trees as you continue together.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow," his voice cuts the quiet air when you reach the front steps of his house, his tone revealing a hint of uncertainty. 

"I'll be headed the same way," you answer.

He turns away from you, pausing with his foot on the top step, looking up at his house before looking back at you. 

"I'm Eddie, by the way," he offers, his cheeks pinking at the vulnerability his words carry.

"I know," you respond, a small smile gracing your lips as you continue home.

"Shit. Shit. Shit," you mutter, tucking your phone into your clutch and bolting up the marble steps to the second floor of the Kimpton Grey Hotel. Composing yourself as you pass through the lobby and open the double doors into Vol.39. The bar exudes timeless elegance with its dim, warm light shining on the dark-wood accents. Vintage jazz playing through hidden speakers, sounding like smoke and liquor. Everything here is steeped in leather, old money, and sophistication. It's no surprise that Nancy chose it. 

"You're late," Nancy says flatly, no amusement in the blue eyes framed by the blunt cut of her black, sleek hair as she glances at her watch with disapproval.

"Sorry." You slide into the open seat on the tufted couch across from her, adjusting the material of your dark emerald midi skirt so the slit wouldn't be showing off too much thigh, "There was traffic." It definitely wasn’t the extra half hour you spent with your feet up on your desk at Stax listening to the new release from Band of Horses.

"This is Chicago. There's always traffic," she counters, keeping her voice low enough that it doesn't travel past the lit bookshelves lined with leather-bound encyclopedias framing the seating area that your friends are currently occupying. "That's why I gave you a time a week ago. So you could plan ahead."

"She’s in a mood," Argyle says from the corner of his mouth, his hair falling around him like a curtain as he leans closer from the velvet upholstered club chair beside you. 

"Where's Steve?" Nancy demands, setting down her crystal tumbler on the gray marble table in the center of the space.

"He's not here?" you ask, scanning the bar. "It was Robin’s turn to watch him."

"Me?" Robin exhales from the other end of the couch she shares with Nancy.

"You're his best friend," you point out with a quirk of your brow.

"Yeah, but you're his–"

"I don't know why I bother to organize nights out for all of us if no one is going to be on time," Nancy cuts off Robin, huffing as she crosses her slender arms over her chest.

"It will be fine, Nance," Johnathan reassures, coming back from the bar carrying a flight of martinis he sets down in the center of the table. "Just relax. Everyone's going to be here in plenty of time." He takes the seat beside her, comforting her with his arm around her shoulder. 

Nancy and Johnathan have been on again-off again since she left Hawkins for school in Boston. Rekindling their relationship when she moved to Chicago and accepted a position at Spectrum Media, where she still works as their vice-president of content strategy. 

"Plenty of time for what?" You ask, leaning forward to choose a martini, picking the Astoria with a knot of lemon. 

"There's a mystery guest," Robin says, wriggling her brows and hooking her thumb towards Nancy. “Full of surprises, isn't she?”

"Where's Flora tonight?" You ask Robin, noticing she is without an escort. 

"Flora?" She asks, picking up a drink for herself, "That was over a week ago." She dismisses her with a wave of the hand before running it through her wavy blonde streaked locks, "Sadly, she left for a goat herding commune in Sacramento. I've been seeing someone new, a painter named Taylor. She's on exhibit at Magnolia. Her florals are really dreamy." She bites an olive off the end of her toothpick, sighing. 

Smiling around the lip of your glass, you shake your head. Robin works as an exhibit coordinator for Magnolia Gallery in Wicker Park, falling in and out of love with artists as quickly as she sells their pieces. You give her credit, she's having fun. 

"Did you text him?" Nancy asks, her lips twisting with impatience. The tense clench of her jaw has you setting down your drink and reaching for your clutch with no arguments. "Do you know how hard it was to get this reservation?"

"Then why are we here?" Argyle complains, gesturing around the room while he slumps back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with the other. "You know I own like six bars, right? No reservations required."

"But then you'd be working," Nancy explains, as Argyle smoothes out his handlebar mustache.

"I'm always working, babe," Argyle says with a smirk, looking the part of a restaurateur and music promoter in his shiny flat-front trousers and short-sleeved silk shirt. 

Argyle is a new friend - meaning not from Hawkins. The California transplant, whose family owns a chain of successful pizza restaurants, has breathed new life into the Chicago music scene. Booking up-and-coming acts as well as big names into his bars and venues all across the city. He's a good friend to have, especially in your line of work–a music journalist for Stax the city's premiere music, arts, and culture magazine.

“He’s on his way,” you inform them, setting your phone face down on the table before settling back on the couch.

“On his way or leaving now?” Nancy shakes her head, knowing with Steve it’s probably the latter. “Why didn’t you ride with him?” She asks, turning toward Jonathan.

“I wasn’t in the office today. I was on a shoot,” he says, pulling his arm away from her and setting his drink down harder than necessary, his patience with her at an end. 

Jonathan, like you and Steve, works for the conglomerate Second City Media. Nancy likes to think that she permits the three of you to work for her competitor, but Steve had already gotten his foot in the door, securing himself an entry-level position at Metro Sports division before she was even out of grad school. Jonathan had been doing alright freelancing as a photographer, but when Nancy started at Spectrum, Second City recognized their competitor would wind up with an edge and hired him on as full-time staff. Everyone knows it's better for their relationship not to be working in the same place, especially with Nancy as his boss.

“Give us some clues about this mystery guest,” Robin interjects to lower the temperature between the couple, which is ready to boil over.

"Okay, I'm here." Steve comes from behind you, his voice alerting you to his arrival before you see him. His tie is already missing, the first three buttons of his starched shirt undone beneath his midnight blue suit, and his hair tousled from a day of running his hands through.

"Really, Steve? You couldn't be on time just this once?" Nancy scolds him, rolling her eyes.

"Meeting ran late. You know how it is," he leans down to kiss her cheek,"Or maybe you don't. I heard things are a bit slow over there at Spectrum," he teases, earning a smirk from Johnathan. 

Steve worked his way up from the sports division to chief content officer for Second City Media. The position puts him just shy of the power Nancy holds at Spectrum, fueling the pair's competitive and ambitious nature until their bickering often drives everyone else crazy.

"Steve," Robin draws his attention before Nancy gets the chance to respond, "About tomorrow–"

"Just a minute, Robin. I haven't gotten to kiss my beautiful wife hello." He steps over Argyle's legs and gives the man a quick handshake in greeting before sitting next to you on the sofa.

"I'm not your wife yet, handsome," you tell him as his strong hands cup your cheeks, tipping your head up toward him. 

"But it sounds good, doesn't it?" He asks before soft lips close over yours, his thumb pressing on your chin, asking for access to deepen the kiss beyond the line that's appropriate in front of company. 

"Niiiice," Argyle hums as the others snicker. Steve takes a hand off your cheek, holding it in front of you to block some of their views as his mouth moves hotly over yours. 

"God, you two are sickening," Nancy's remark is probably accompanied by an eye roll, but you're too occupied to notice as you tighten your grip on the front of Steve's shirt, drawing him nearer.

Four of his fingers curl down, giving Nance a one-fingered message as he continues to kiss you until he's had his fill. Breaking away with a gentle peck. "How was your day today, Ace? Did you write me a Pulitzer?" 

"You ask me that every day."

Despite teasing you, he wouldn't be surprised if you had what it takes. That's how much he believes in you. He takes your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips to place a kiss next to the glittering diamond he put on your hand a little over two years ago. 

"Excuse you." Robin climbs over Argyle's legs that are still stretched out in front of him, taking up all the space between the chairs and the table, and walks over to the couch, squeezing her way onto the sofa between you and Steve, "Best friend privileges." She winks before launching into a conversation about the next exhibit she's putting together.

"You two crazy kids set a date yet?" Argyle asks at a volume higher than you'd prefer. Raising your index finger to your lips, eyebrows drawing together as your eyes flick over to Steve.

"I'm just making sure my invite didn't get lost in the mail," he says, sipping his drink. "I love weddings, man—all those tiny little versions of regular-sized food. Maybe I should open a restaurant like that, where everything is tiny. Tiny little kebabs and tiki drinks with tiny little umbrellas. I don't know what's taking you so long. You need to make an honest man out of him." His voice grows louder at the end of his sentence, earning him another look from you, a distraction that diverts Steve's attention from his conversation.

The waitress chooses that moment to appear, saving you from another conversation about setting a wedding date. It's not that you don't want to marry him–you do. Someday. Decisiveness has never been your strong suit, along with dressing up in big puffy dresses that look like frosting and being on display for everyone you have ever known and their plus ones. 

While Steve squints down at the drink menu, fondness warms you like the opening notes of your favorite song. Reaching across Robin, you tap his chest. He looks over at you as he pulls a pair of glasses from his breast pocket and slides them on his nose.

Your lips move without sound–I love you.

You too, he mouths back. His mossy eyes softening as he smiles just for you. 

You're happy. Why change a thing?

“I’ll have an old-fashioned. Top shelf. Please,” Steve tells the waitress after she had gone around taking orders for small plates to share and more cocktails from the others. “Another Martini?” He raises his eyebrows at you.

“Yes, please. An Astoria,” you tell her as she finishes scribbling everything down on her pad and heads off toward the bar to put in your orders. 

“The ladies?” You tip your head at Robin, who nods, getting up to follow you. Steve squeezes your hand as you walk by as he continues his conversation with Nancy about the effectiveness of paywalls on digital content.

“God, she’s in rare form,” Robin comments as you enter the empty ladies' room, each of you closing yourself into a stall.

“Are she and Jonathan fighting again?” You ask once you’ve finished up and moved to the sink to wash your hands. The echo of your voices bouncing off the black and white hexagon tiles.

“When aren’t they fighting?” She pulls a few paper towels from the machine bolted to the wall and drys her hands. “It’s like foreplay for them at this point.”

You laugh, checking under your eyes for make-up smears. “Any ideas about this mystery guest?”

“No idea.” She tugs the brass handle of the door open, and you follow her back into the bar. “Maybe her brother?” 

“That would be nice,” you say, your boot heels tapping on the dark chevron floors, “He just got married, right?”

“So young, practically still a baby,” she tuts, her head shaking from side to side.

“Robin, he’s not that-”

Robin's hand clamps onto your forearm, a squeal escaping her mouth as excitement radiates through her. She bounces on her toes, leaving you in her wake. Whoever elicited such a reaction is being blocked by Steve and Jonathan. When she gracefully maneuvers past them, you catch a fleeting glimpse of dark curls before the two men shift back into place, obscuring your view once more. The clinking of glasses and chatter from the other patrons swells in your ears. Your feet carry you forward, curiosity resonating like the reverb of a guitar. Steve feels you coming up behind him and shifts to the side. Without warning, rich chocolate eyes are locked onto yours. Eyes you haven’t seen in eleven years when he left you a mixtape instead of a goodbye. The eyes of the man that shattered your heart into so many pieces, all the edges are still sharp. 

“Hey, doll.”

The breath trapped in your lungs forms a suffocating bubble, its dull, aching pressure stifling any movement in or out, causing your body to lock in protest. You're tugged forward, unable to fight it, until your body collides with his. The faint but familiar scent of him embraces you, lingering beneath the spicy notes of expensive cologne. Triggering a flood of a hundred painful memories, like songs you’ve overplayed and can’t bear to hear again. They jar your instincts into overriding the shock, compelling you to push him away. Eddie's solid frame absorbs the force. To your relief, the others haven't noticed as you retreat to your seat. Your trembling hand raises your martini to your lips, taking larger swallows than you normally would, but nothing with this situation is normal. 

"Desperate times," you mutter under your breath, tipping back your glass. By the time everyone has settled back into their seats, your martini glass stands drained, the lingering taste of its contents  bittersweet on your tongue.

Steve directs the waitress to bring another drink for you and a double Mescal for Eddie. The others' voices are a distant buzz in your ears, but their words don't breach the barrier of your thoughts. The chords playing in your mind are more discernible now. Their lyrics printed onto the faded photographs of a boy that you struggle to reconcile as the man before you. He's older, but you are too. His long hair is much shorter, the dark curls a richer brown pushed away from his face. A few lines grace the corners of his eyes and forehead–a reminder of the life he's lived without you. 

Steve's comforting hand wraps around your shoulders while the other finds a home sliding between the soft skin where your legs are crossed, exposed by the high slit of your skirt. Eddie's eyes are on you, his stare focused on Steve's big hand covering half your thigh. Your left hand moves on top of Steve's, adjusting to make sure the sparkling rock on your finger gleams with brilliance in the soft, ambient light.

"Well, this is a blast from the past," Robin notes, her voice full of whimsy as she dangles her cocktail glass between two fingers, swaying it gently like a pendulum.

"Aren't you all glad I forced you to come out?" Nancy quips, much more relaxed now that her plan has come to fruition.

"You did good, love," Johnathan murmurs. His fingers tangling with hers before giving her a quick peck. 

"Absolutely. I wouldn't have wanted to miss this," Steve agrees, "How long has it been, dude? Three, four years?"

"Yeah, I think that was the last time you were in L.A." Eddie scratches at his chin, covered with just enough scruff to almost be a beard. 

Steve keeps in touch with Eddie? Had he told you when you hadn't been paying attention to him, your mind wandering with the words you would write for other people's songs?

"Now, I know that I told you only old friends," Nancy says, angling herself towards the plaid upholstered chair that Eddie occupies. "But Argyle knows all the local talent, and I thought he'd be a good connection to have since you're moving here."

"What?" You ask, as if a sudden vacuum has just sucked the air from the room.

"You're moving here?" Robin's eyes light up with excitement at the prospect of all her friends in the same city. She was the original connection that brought you together all those years ago. 

"When you say here. You mean Hawkins, right? You're moving back to Hawkins," you clarify.

"No. I mean here. I'm moving to Chicago," Eddie says, leaning back into his chair, his long legs spread in his tailored black suit, the black v-neck underneath giving off a laid-back California vibe. "I told those corporate studio fucks I was done. I'm opening my own place to record music that's actually good, not just the kind that will sell. I'm surprised you don't know all this, doll. Isn't it supposed to be your job or something?"

“Fu–”

"Why Chicago?" Jonathan asks, cutting you off before you let loose a very appropriate response to his question, "Why not stay in L.A. or New York. Aren't there music scenes bigger than here?"

Eddie tips his head to the side, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "You know, L.A.'s lost its charm for me. Too many fake people made out of plastic. And, well, Wayne's not getting any younger. Thought it's about time to be closer, you know?"

“You'd be much closer in Hawkins. Bet you could find a place downtown real cheap. You should go look there.” You cross your arms over your chest, drawing a line in the sand. 

“Hawkins doesn’t really scream rock ‘n’ roll, and I already got a place, but thanks,” he says, unconcerned as ever by your tone.

“Look at you two,” Robin says, clapping her hands, “Just like old times, back to your usual banter." Her mischievous grin widens, "Remember when she had that massive crush on you, Eddie? You’d stroll into Musicland during our shift, and she’d follow you around with those big heart eyes.”

Your ears ring as heat rushes up to your neck to your cheeks,the whole world spinning. Eddie looks down, swirling the remnants of gold liquid in his crystal-cut glass.

“You’re exaggerating, Robin,” you sputter, reaching for your drink, hiding behind the lip of the glass, “We were just friends. And it couldn’t have been too major. I don’t even remember it.”

“Oh, come on,” she protests, “Everybody knew.”

"I didn't," Steve's voice cuts through her teasing, leaving an awkward stillness in its wake. The distant sounds of high-pitched laughter and the faint scrape of utensils against plates fill the void. Your friends exchange uncomfortable glances, even though there was no malice in his tone.

“Hey, it’s no big deal, though,” his smile puts everyone at ease. “Right, Ace?” His head dips, brushing your lips in confirmation. You nod as he continues, “Robin, remember when we both went on dates with the same girl. What was her name? Brenda.” His fingers snap with the recollection.

“That’s right, Brenda! Brenda Mackenzie!” Robin laughs and begins to regale the group with the story.

When you lift your eyes, Eddie’s stare remains fixed on you, amusement replaced with an intensity you can’t read. An unfinished sentence or lyric. Words hanging between you like a question that you can't answer—one that you don’t want to.

“I’m going for another drink,” you say to Steve, picking up your empty glass. 

“Do you want me to come with you?” He asks, brows drawing together.

“No, I’m okay,” you tell him with a plastered-on smile, “You want anything?”

He shakes his head no. “I let my car service go early. I’ll drive us home in your car.”

With gentle fingers, you sweep aside a stray lock of hair that's draped across his forehead, planting a tender kiss on his lips before making your way to the bar. 

There is a soft creak of the leather as you seat yourself on a high stool in front of the polished wood bar. A bartender with an easy smile takes your order and leaves, giving you a much needed moment alone. Your lungs expand and contract without releasing any tension. You study your reflection in the mirror behind the rows of brightly lit bottles. If you could rewind the tape to a few hours ago, you'd have happily stayed in your office. Calling Nancy tomorrow to grovel for forgiveness for messing up her plans. But you can’t and the song plays on. It’s always the music that hurts the worst.

You release an audible sigh, your breath escaping through parted lips, as he settles onto the stool beside you. With a casual tap of his rings against the bar, he signals for the bartender, raising a single finger, his tongue peeks out, grazing his bottom lip as he gestures toward his empty glass.

"What’s the matter, doll? You really that unhappy to see me?" Eddie drawls, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"It’s been eleven years, Eddie. Sorry I’m not organizing a parade." You settle back into your seat, glancing around as if you're bored.

The bartender lowers his eyes as they deliver your drinks and wisely retreats to the far end of the establishment.

"I didn’t come here to fight," Eddie replies, his tone softening. He shifts his weight slightly on the stool, one arm resting casually on the counter, the glint of a gold chain around his neck catching the dim light.

"Then why are you here?" Your eyes narrow as your fingers trace the condensation on the side of the full glass.

"A fresh start. To build something of my own." He looks at you with determination, his dark eyes reflecting the soft glow of the bar lights.

"Then build it somewhere else," you respond curtly, your words laced with frustration. You pick up your drink and down half of it in one go, the chilled liquid leaving a slight burn as it slides down your throat. Setting the glass back down, you turn to leave.

He stops you with a gentle hand wrapping around your wrist, his touch causing your pulse to quicken beneath his fingertips. "There are some things I want to say to you. Let me take you to lunch unless Harrington has got you on too short of a leash."

You pull your wrist back, the feel of his touch lingering like smoke in the air. "Whatever you have to say has waited this long, try again in another decade. Unless you're dying."

"Would it make a difference if I was?" He meets your gaze with amusement playing on his lips.

"Let me think about it… nope." Your reply is quick and sharp, meant to cut.

"I know you're mad–" 

"No. Mad would imply some kind of emotional attachment. What I feel is indifference. In case you don't know the definition, that means nothing at all." Your voice stays cool and detached as you hop off the stool. "It's a big city, Eddie. There's no reason we have to see each other again." 

"We'll have to see about that," he smirks. 

"Have a nice life," you say a final goodbye to your past and turn away, walking in the direction of Steve when he stops you with one more question.

"Did you listen to it? The tape, did you ever listen?" 

The lie comes without hesitation. 

“No.”

Follow @tornupdates & turn on notifications

Read Song 2. here

AN: I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. If you have a song that you think Eddie would have recorded on the mixtape send it to me in an ask and it might be included. Anything before 2001. I'd love to hear from you. Comments and Reblogs are always appreciated.

[mandoalorian]

delicate

Pairing: High honour Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

Summary: When Arthur and the gang are out in Valentine, you can’t help but notice that he left his journal by his bedside, unattended. You’re aware that Arthur is never careless enough to leave something so valuable to him in camp and see you see it as an opportunity. Upon reading his journal, you discover something that changes everything…

Word count: 2,000

Author’s note: My first Arthur fic! It’s been a long time coming. This is also cross-posted on my AO3. I do not consent to my fics being posted anywhere else, or translated without permission. If you enjoyed this fic please reblog as it helps increase support!<3

Masterlist 

You saw it as an opportunity.

Arthur, John, Micah, Javier and Sadie were out in Valentine, following Dutch’s well-convoluted plan to rob the local bank. They’d been gone for three hours already and with Micah part of the team, you dreaded to think how they were getting on. Dutch and Hosea had gone to scout out a manor northwest of Lemoyne, in Scarlet Meadows. Hosea was following a lead he’d heard from a guy at Emerald Ranch – that apparently, a well-off family were residing over there. An excellent opportunity for a cash grab, Dutch was also sure. Lately, any possibility of getting money, Dutch got excited over. You didn’t understand why because the ledger appeared more filled out than ever. Perhaps it was merely nothing more than a sin of greed, although you were in no position to question it. 

Mary-Beth, Tilly and Karen were doing laundry as Miss Grimshaw supervised, and Miss Molly O’Shea was napping in Dutch’s cot. She’d been sleeping a lot recently, you’d noticed. Uncle was nowhere in sight, probably sleeping or drunk or getting himself killed by Raiders. And Abigail was with Jack, nursing him back to health as influenza he’d developed after your time in Colter hadn’t yet subsided. The camp was empty. Not a soul in sight.

There was a small crate in the corner of his tent and organised neatly atop was a framed photo of his mother Beatrice, a small vase of flowers that were native to New Hanover, and a beat-up leather journal that he kept close to his bedside. Arthur was so protective of his journal, you’d often tease him for it. Sometimes, you’d admire him from afar. After a hard day, he’d often sit by the lake, slumped against a tree, jotting down his thoughts or filling the pages with doodles of his ventures. 

And this time it was calling out to you.

You wondered why he hadn’t taken it with him. Had he really just ‘left’ it at camp? Forgot to put it in his satchel before he left this morning? You were hyper-aware that you’d more than likely never get this chance again. The curiosity was begging to be explored and you took one final glance around camp before slowly inching towards the crate by his bedside. Arthur’s tent was really just a canopy and once you were under you felt a pang of guilt in his heart. You shouldn’t be snooping around his business like this. He had done nothing to warrant you doing that.

It wasn’t malicious. It was harmless. Just a little peek…

You sat on the edge of Arthur’s cot and picked up the journal, feeling the worn leather between your fingers. Undoing the clasp, you pulled it open midway and were greeted with an illustration of a girl. It was the back of her, so there was no way of making out her face, but as you took a closer look at the pattern on her ranch boots, you couldn’t help but recognise the embroidered swirls and shapes. They were your ranch boots, and Arthur’s illustration was a depiction of you. It was dated noon, 5th July 1899, just a few weeks ago. It appeared to be a drawing from observation, and you were pictured helping Pearson put away an assortment of canned goods. 

It took a moment for it to dawn on you. He’d drawn you.

Now you were invested. You turned to the next page to see a verse of words:

‘Sometimes I wonder when she sleeps

Is she ever dreaming of me?

Sometimes when I look into her eyes

I pretend she’s mine all the damn time’

To the left of the words was another illustration of you but this one had a lot more detail. A delicate flower was placed in your hair and this time, you could see your face. You could see the shape of your nose and the creases in the corner of your eyes when you smiled. It had never been so clear. Your gaze flicked back towards the words as you reread them over and over again. Could they have really been about you?

Surely not. Arthur had never done anything to suggest that he’d had these feelings for you. As far as you were aware, he was still hung up on Miss Mary Linton. You’d never met her before. You’d only heard tales from Hosea, how Arthur was sweet on her and she broke his heart to the point he didn’t want to leave camp for days. You couldn’t imagine Arthur that way. You supposed that since then, he had changed, and maybe since meeting you, he’d changed again.

On the outside, Arthur was rough. His skin was sun kissed and his clothes were old, his boots were muddy and he could go months without shaving. You’d heard stories of his questionable temperance but with you, he was patient and soft and gentle. You’d seen him be kind around little Jack too, and that relationship spoke volumes since John was mostly absent from his son’s life. Arthur was a good influence on Jack. Hell, you could argue he was the best influence around camp in general. Although he was often gloomy and he would, on occasion, pick fights with Micah or Bill, you saw through that. He had a good heart, wether he believed it, that didn’t matter.

A loud cough interrupted your thoughts. You froze, and it was like you could feel time moving. Arthur’s journal was still in your hands and you could feel the eyes of a cowboy bore into your back. You hoped and prayed it was anyone but Arthur. At least then you’d be able to potentially mangle yourself out of the fact you went behind your friend’s back. You wanted to put the journal down, hell, you needed to, but it was like your feet were glued to the ground and your hands were locked in place.

“What you doing snooping through my stuff, girl?” 

Oh, it was Arthur. You winced under his question and took a deep breath. You carefully placed the journal back on his bedside, just as it was before you took it. Perfect. Like it hadn’t moved an inch. Not that it mattered anymore…

“Well?”

Fuck. You cursed under your breath. Say something. Anything.

“Arthur-I’m-so-sorry-I-don’t-know-what-I-was-thinking-I-just-saw-it-there-and-you-always-got-your-head-down-in-it-and-never-show-anyone-and-I-was-just-curious-and-I-know-it-was-wrong-but-I-just-“

“Now, why you talkin’ like that? Like I’m holdin’ you up at gunpoint? Turn around and look at me.” He cut you off, his question was rhetorical and his voice stern.

You immediately obliged and spun around on your heel. Your stomach was in knots. You wish you had never looked. Never betrayed him like this. Arthur’s eyes were a piercing blue like you’d never noticed, and his lips were curled into a frown. But still, he remained stoic. It’s like he was trying to appear unbothered, but you could see right through him.

“You know now why I let nobody look in here?” Arthur muttered, leaning over you and snatching the journal from his bedside.

You nodded apologetically and watched as he stuffed the journal into his satchel.

“I’ll be on my way now.” Arthur tipped his hat to you before turning around. He paused and when he was looking away he muttered, “’Am sorry if… you thought it was weird, miss…” 

Your mouth felt dry as you watched him walk away.

Weird? He was worried that you thought it was weird.

You chased after him and caught up pretty quickly, placing the palm of your hand flat against the broadness of his back. “Arthur, what you wrote in there was the sweetest thing… not weird at all, I promise.”

Arthur stopped and looked down at you, still frowning. 

“I just had no idea you felt that way,” You continued, shaking your head. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I overstepped your boundaries and we can just forget about it if that’s what you want…”

To clarify, forgetting about it was the last thing you wanted to do, but alas, this wasn’t about you anymore. You would do anything for Arthur’s forgiveness and if that meant pretending like today never happened, then so be it.

“Forget?” Arthur whispered. “You really expect me to forget about this?”

You pursed your lips together, holding back a sigh. “I don’t think you should. I know I’d struggle to forget what I saw in there… but also, I don’t want to forget. I… I’ve been sweet on you since the moment I met you, Arthur. Tilly and Mary-Beth would always tease me for it. Abigail knew too, but she said you’d never be interested in pursuing someone in camp. Hosea made it seem like you were still hung up on Miss Linton, and so I never said anything. Oh Arthur, you’ve always been so kind to me. So gentle and soft, you’re different to the others…” You placed a hand on his bicep and Arthur practically softened into your touch.

“I’m a bad man,” Arthur shook his head gruffly. “I’ve done bad things.”

“Haven’t we all?” you snapped back, exasperated. “I may just do the chores around camp but you forget my history, Mr Morgan. All of us are Van Der Linde’s and we are not good people. Hell, I struggle to even tell the difference between good and bad anymore. But when I’m with you, I feel good. Really good. I feel safe and protected and God, Arthur. When I saw you felt the same way… that you think about me in the same way…”

Arthur cut you off with a kiss. His lips were soft and plump and contrasted with the roughness of his stubble and quick-growing moustache. You let out a small gasp when his lips crashed atop yours but quickly melted into it, bringing your hands up to his head and running your fingers through his dark blonde hair. His tongue tasted like fresh mint and other herbs you couldn’t quite recognise, and you had never been closer to his musky familiar scent. Arthur’s big arms wrapped around your body and he held you tight against him. When he finally pulled away, he nudged his nose against yours and lingered for a moment, staring into your eyes.

“Forgive me for saying miss, but if it wasn’t already clear, I think I’m in love with you.”

The revelation made you giddy, your heart racing in your chest with the thrill of it all. You couldn’t believe it. Abigail…. Hosea…. They were all wrong. Arthur actually felt the same as you.

“I’m in love with you too,” you squeaked, tears filling your eyes as Arthur enveloped you in a hug.

When you finally pulled away from him, it was only to ask him another important question.

“Do you forgive me for what I did, Arthur?” you asked him sadly. Arthur could see the guilt; it was written all over your face.

“If you didn’t do that, none of this would have ever happened,” Arthur smiled, pressing his index finger to your chin and picking your face up so you were looking at him in the eyes. He was smiling. He was okay…

“I s’pose that’s true,” you shrugged. “I’m still sorry, and it won’t happen again.”

“I believe you,” Arthur said, lacing his fingers with yours. “Now let’s go grab some of Pearson’s broth and we can take it to the lake. I think we have a lot to talk about…”

You smiled, feeling your cheeks heat up. You and Arthur walked side by side to the campfire and the entire way you felt yourself bubbling with anticipation over what was to come next.

[perseabeth]

The Promise of the Wild Sea

< this is not an official fic yet, i had this AU in my mind for a while, and now i got the time to write few parts of it. if the story was to your liking, i might get encouraged to make it an official fic. i’d like to remind you that i do not own any of the characters, as they all belong to the original myths and Rick Riordan. except for the oc Callista. however, i made some alternation in the myths that could benefit my story. i hope you like these changes. also this is a fem!percy version. enjoy reading >

- 1184 BCE, The fallen city of Troy -

Apollo stood in front of Callista’s pyre, the flames not yet lit, his gaze fixed on her lifeless face. Her once radiant beauty now drained, her cheeks no longer flushed with the color of life. Her hair, dark as the starless night, framed a visage that seemed at peace, a peace she had found only in death. Yet, she had stolen his peace with her departure, leaving him hollow and bereft.

With painstaking care, he had smoothed away every bruise, every mark of the cruelty she had endured, wishing to present her to the underworld in the full splendor of her glory. His Callista, his heart. He clutched the two drachmas in his hand, the coins a symbol of her final journey, but to him, they were a cruel reminder of his eternal separation from her. How could he consign her to the underworld, knowing he would be condemned to an eternity without her by his side?

His soul ached with a grief that seemed too vast to contain. With a trembling breath, he placed the drachmas on her closed eyes, sealing her fate, preparing her for her voyage to the underworld. She deserved a realm free from the sorrows of war and the sting of death, a place of peace and light. He swore on his immortal soul that she would find solace in Elysium.

Apollo leaned down, his tears falling like rain upon her serene face, pressing a final kiss to her cold, unresponsive forehead.

“Farewell, my Callista... until we meet again, my angel.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun god cradled her cheeks in his trembling hands, his soy blue eyes filled with the agony of days spent pleading with his uncle, the merciless lord of death, for this moment. She was there in his embrace, radiant as the true princess she was, her beauty untouched by the shadows of the underworld. Her black hair cascaded down her back like the soft night sky, a dark tapestry embroidered with stars in silken threads. Her eyes, those mesmerizing sea-green eyes, gazed up at him—the very eyes he had yearned to kiss open one last time before cruel fate tore her away.

But nothing unfolded as he had hoped.

"My lord," Callista whispered, her eyes shining with boundless love for the man before her. She wore a white, elegant chiton that clung to her form with an ethereal grace, adorned with a delicate laurel crown—a vision of Trojan royalty. Apollo shook his head, refusing to accept the words forming on her lips. "No, you are coming with me," he implored, tears welling up in his sky-blue eyes, each drop a testament to his anguish. He was begging, pleading for her to return with him to the world of the living.

The princess before him shook her head gently, her gaze unwavering. "No, my lord, I am dead. I am happy here," she said softly. She took his palm, still cradling her cheek, and pressed a tender kiss upon it, as if sealing their fates with that simple, heartbreaking act. "You must respect the rules of death, my love. You must go on and find happiness in the lands of the living."

Her words stabbed his heart, despite the delicateness of her voice, despite the sweetness of her words, and despite the loveliness of her eyes. She was pushing him away, each word like a dagger twisting deeper.

Callista looked at him again, her gaze filled with a sorrowful resolve. "I'm with my family, and you should be with yours. Lord Zeus will not be tolerable when he hears that you brought me back from death."

Apollo tried to reason with her, desperation lacing his voice. "But Uncle Hades has already accepted," he argued, only to be met with another tender kiss on his palm from Callista.

"I'm not letting you get into an argument with your father," she replied softly. She lifted her hand and gently caressed the strand of his hair falling on his forehead. Her melodic voice continued, soothing yet heartbreaking. "You will live on. You will find happiness again, I'm sure."

"My happiness is with you only," he insisted, his voice breaking.

But Callista only shook her head with a sad smile. "That's what you're saying now, because the pain is so new. But trust me, my love... time will go on, life will go on." She looked into his eyes, her determination unyielding. He knew there was no way to change her heart. She gave him a beautiful smile that could have brightened his days if not for their situation. "You did all you could. You made sure I found my final rest in a beautiful place. Now it's your turn to let go... to move on."

Apollo's tears threatened to fall, threatening to drown his eyes. He did the only thing he could do in that moment; he planted a soft, small kiss on her lips, a goodbye kiss filled with all the sorrow of a love that could never be. It was a kiss that spoke of unending longing and the crushing weight of farewell.

He would never force her to do anything. If she was happy, he would be happy, even if it meant an immortal lifetime of his heart shattering every day he remembered that she wasn't waking up next to him.

His time in the underworld was ticking away, leaving him with precious few moments to spare in the arms of his beloved. How cruel fate is, he thought, that even time refuses to grant him a longer respite to find peace in her embrace one last time.

He kissed her forehead once more, a goodbye kiss—the same kiss he had planted on her brow the day of her pyre, the day they consigned her body to the flames in a solemn ritual of farewell. He looked into those beautiful eyes one last time. "I swear to you, I’ll always find you in the stars, in the calm oceans, in the beautiful sunlight, in the warm flames, and in the serene mountains. You will always haunt me, forever haunt my life, Callista."

This earned him a sad smile from her beloved face, and he realized he loved all her smiles except this one. "Who knows, maybe someday you will find me again, amidst the moors or maybe in the wild sea."

He nodded, a silent nod, as a single tear traced a path down his cheek. He kissed her hands one last time and turned his back, leaving his beloved, leaving his heart, leaving the bane of his soul in Elysium, where she belonged. Before he stepped away, he turned to her one last time. "Someday, I’ll find you in the wild sea."

With that, Apollo left the underworld, each step a testament to the immortal lifetime of sorrow that awaited him, a sorrow he would bear for the love he could never truly hold again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

- December, 2007. New York City-

"And now, sis. Transportation for the Hunters, you say? Good timing. I was just about ready to roll.

"These demigods will also need a ride," Artemis said, pointing to us. "Some of Chiron's campers."

"No problem!" Apollo checked us out. "Let's see... Thalia, right? I've heard all about you."

Thalia blushed. "Hi, Lord Apollo."

"Zeus's girl, yes? Makes you my half sister. Used to be a tree, didn't you? Glad you're back. I hate it when pretty girls turn into trees. Man, I remember one time—"

"Brother," Artemis said. "You should get going."

"Oh, right." Then his gaze landed on me, and his eyes widened with a mixture of shock and recognition, as if he had glimpsed a long-lost memory. The once vibrant blue of his eyes now bore golden freckles, a haunting reminder of his divine nature. "Callista?"

I met his gaze, my heart pounding with confusion and uncertainty. Was he mistaking me for someone else, someone from his past? “No. I mean... no, sir."

Calling a teenager "sir" felt awkward, but I knew better than to offend an immortal. They were known to have volatile tempers, and tended to get offended easily. Then they blew stuff up. and now Apollo seems to be on verge of blowing things up, or me perhaps.

His silence stretched on, his eyes still fixed on me, probing and searching. It was as if he was peering into my soul, unraveling the layers of my being with each passing moment.

Eventually, his gaze shifted to his sister, Artemis, who offered him a subtle shake of her head. Their silent exchange felt like a wordless, deep conversation, conveying a depth of understanding that transcended spoken words. Apollo cleared his throat, breaking the tension that hung in the air, before turning his attention back to me.

His gaze shifted abruptly from sheer confusion to a myriad of emotions I couldn't quite pinpoint. It reminded me of the way my mom once described my reaction to blue cookies or a serene beach—a mix of wonder and longing. Yet, as he looked at me, I saw something more. His eyes, now a crystal-clear sky blue, brimmed with an affection that seemed to encompass the entire world. It was a strange sensation, one that left me feeling oddly nervous, knowing that he was a god who could unleash his power at any moment. If it were anyone else, I might have blushed under their gaze. But facing a god for the first time, unsure if he was friend or foe, left me feeling unsettled rather than flustered.

"Percy Jackson," Apollo's voice cut through the tense silence like a blade. For a moment, it felt as though time itself had frozen, as if I were caught in a web of his penetrating gaze. I nodded silently. Then, without a word, he turned away, his attention shifting back to the group. The weight of his gaze that seemed to convey the burden of centuries, left me unsettled.

"Well!" he exclaimed in a cheerful voice again, as if the past few moments were nothing, breaking the silence. "We'd better load up, huh? The ride only goes one way—west. And if you miss it, you miss it."

—

i’d love to hear your opinion about this.

[thesimcalledclem]

FIRE AND BLOOD Chapter Four ────── ☾ ──────

Warnings: Eventual Smut. Targcest. S!sterw!fe. Dubious consent (You know all the drills atp if you've gotten this far into the tag.) OC FIC, if that isn't what you are into, then kindly don't read. 18+ MDNI

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO UPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO ANY OTHER SITES.

────── ☾ ──────

In the aftermath of the chaotic coronation, my world shifted irrevocably. My childhood chambers, once a sanctuary of familiarity and comfort, were exchanged for the opulent yet alien Queen's apartments, adjoined to Aegon's by a narrow passageway. The grandeur of the new rooms, with their soaring ceilings and ornate tapestries, felt suffocating, a gilded cage that mocked my newfound status. I longed for the simplicity of my old rooms, for the worn books that lined my shelves, their pages filled with tales of adventure and escape. 

My brief forays into the sky atop Solayre, once a source of exhilaration and freedom, were now met with more disapproval and admonishment. Aegon and Alicent, ever mindful of the precarious political climate, deemed it too dangerous for the Queen to be seen on dragonback while tensions with our half-sister rose. My wings were clipped, my spirit confined to the stifling confines of the Red Keep. 

Nightly, Aegon would visit my chambers, his presence a grim reminder of my duty. Spurred on by my mother's relentless whispers of the need for an heir, our encounters were devoid of any warmth or intimacy. He would arrive late, his movements efficient and detached, his touch cold and impersonal. I would lie beneath him, my body a vessel for his seed, my mind a million miles away. 

Afterwards, he would disappear without a word, leaving me alone in the vastness of the Queen's bed. The next morning, his haggard appearance and bloodshot eyes told a familiar story. He sought solace in the bottom of a bottle, drowning his guilt and self-loathing in a sea of Arbor Red. 

The days blurred into an endless cycle of monotony and despair. I spent my mornings embroidering with Helaena, our conversations stilted and filled with unspoken anxieties. Meals were a tense affair, the forced smiles and polite chatter a thin veneer over the simmering resentments that threatened to boil over. And then, each night, the dreaded ritual would repeat itself, Aegon's presence a dark cloud that cast a pall over my every waking moment. 

Months passed in this agonizing limbo, each day a carbon copy of the last. I felt like a ghost, drifting through the halls of the Red Keep, my spirit tethered to a man I despised, my body a vessel for a future I didn't choose. The weight of the crown, a heavy burden on my brow, was a constant reminder of the sacrifices I had made, the freedoms I had lost. And as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, a deep bitterness took root in my heart, its tendrils slowly poisoning my soul.  ────── ☾ ──────

One night that seemed like all the others, a monotonous repetition in the grim symphony of my new life. The aftermath of his climax hung heavy in the air, a palpable tension that permeated the room. He didn't rise from the bed immediately, as was his custom. Instead, he lay beside me, an arm thrown over his face, his breath ragged and uneven. I was accustomed to his swift departures, his cold and aloof manner a familiar sting. This unexpected lingering left me disoriented, a knot of unease tightening in my chest. 

"Aegon?" I ventured, my voice a tentative whisper, afraid to shatter the fragile silence. 

He lowered his arm, revealing eyes clouded with exhaustion. He didn't answer, merely raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry. 

"I—uh," I stammered, my words stumbling over themselves. Did I even want to say anything? I cleared my throat, pulling the linen sheet higher, seeking a semblance of protection. "Are you well?" 

A humorless laugh escaped his lips, a bitter sound that echoed the hollowness in my own heart. "Am I well?" he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Such piety, wife." His gaze returned to the ceiling, his disinterest palpable. 

I felt a familiar sting of chastisement, my eyes dropping to my chest. Silence descended once more, broken only by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. I inhaled deeply and immediately regretted it, the cloying scent of the fermented grapes inside his goblet filled the air, a nauseating reminder of the forced intimacy we'd just shared. 

Minutes or perhaps hours passed, time losing its meaning in the oppressive stillness. Finally, Aegon spoke, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the mattress. "I grow tired of my rest being interrupted," he said, his tone laced with bitterness. "Mother or Otto come barging in whenever they please." 

His words hung in the air, a flimsy excuse for his prolonged presence in my chambers. I turned my head to look at him, my brow furrowed in confusion. "You are the King," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Deny them entry." 

His gaze snapped to mine, his lilac eyes piercing through the dim light. "You are Queen," he countered, his voice sharp. "How does barring their entry work for you?" 

I swallowed the retort that threatened to spill from my lips. He was right, of course. My title held no real power, no authority to shield us from the relentless machinations of my mother and her allies. "You make a fine point," I conceded, a bitter taste coating my tongue. 

He reached for the wine goblet, the pungent aroma of the alcohol making my empty stomach churn. I turned away, unable to bear the sight. 

I saw the narrowing of his eyes in my peripheral vision, but he said nothing. Instead, he set the goblet back down with a soft clink. 

"I will leave in the morning," he announced, his voice flat and final. He turned his back to me, the linen sheet a stark barrier between us. 

I stared at his broad back, a mixture of shock and disdain warring within me. Even my own chambers were no longer a sanctuary from him, from the suffocating reality of our union. A wave of despair washed over me, leaving me feeling cold and empty. The night stretched before me, an endless expanse of loneliness and fear. 

Dawn painted the sky with streaks of pale gold and crimson, casting a somber glow over the opulent chamber. Contrary to his promise, Aegon remained in my bed, his slumber deep and undisturbed. His leg, thrown carelessly over mine during the night, pinned me to the mattress, his body radiating a heat that was both discomforting and unsettling. The mingled scent of his sweat and the lingering aroma of wine clung to him, a potent cocktail that churned my stomach. I fought back a wave of nausea, my hand instinctively covering my mouth. 

With a surge of defiance, I nudged his shin with my foot, the pressure insistent but not unkind. He stirred, a low groan escaping his lips. A hand reached up to rub his face, his fingers tracing the light stubble that had grown overnight. His lilac eyes fluttered open, blinking blearily at me. 

For a moment, we simply stared at each other, the silence heavy with unspoken truths. The remnants of the previous night's forced intimacy lingered in the air, a palpable tension that crackled between us. 

"Release me," I whispered, my voice hoarse from disuse. I squirmed beneath his leg, my discomfort growing with each passing second. 

He didn't respond immediately, his mind still clouded by sleep. Then, with a grunt of annoyance, he rolled off me, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. 

I wasted no time in escaping the confines of the bed, rushing to the adjoining chamber to relieve myself. The pressure in my bladder, a result of hours spent trapped beneath his slumbering form, was almost unbearable. I emerged moments later, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. 

Aegon, now fully awake, watched me from the bed, his eyes narrowed in silent scrutiny. I stood by the dressing screen, my gaze fixed on him as he gathered his discarded clothing with one extended hand and began to dress. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, his silence more unnerving than any accusation. 

He said nothing, merely stared at me with those hazy, bloodshot eyes. I felt exposed under his gaze, my body aching with the memory of his touch. A wave of shame washed over me, a bitter reminder of my powerlessness. 

Finally, he turned away, his movements slow and deliberate as he finished dressing and rose from the bed. Without a word, he strode towards the door, leaving me alone in the silent aftermath. 

I watched him go, my heart heavy with a mixture of relief and despair. He had violated my body, my sanctuary, and then simply walked away, as if it were nothing more than a routine chore. The weight of my new reality pressed down on me, a crushing burden that threatened to suffocate my spirit. 

────── ☾ ──────

For days following that strange morning, Aegon avoided me entirely. It was a welcome reprieve, a respite from the forced intimacy and simmering resentment that had become the hallmark of our marriage. Yet, a strange unease settled over me, a disquiet I couldn't quite place. The rising tensions with Rhaenyra, who, after her departure from the keep and the death of our father, had crowned herself Queen, cast a long shadow over King's Landing. My own place as Queen felt like an empty placeholder, a hollow title devoid of any real power. Nobles were choosing sides, the familiar few declaring for Aegon while others clung to Rhaenyra, their loyalty unwavering. I couldn't blame them. I didn't want this title, this gilded cage of responsibility. In fact, it exhausted me. 

A pervasive fatigue clung to me like a shroud, draining my energy and leaving me perpetually exhausted. The simplest tasks felt like monumental efforts, and I found myself retreating to the solitude of my chambers more often than not. I spent countless hours lost in the rhythmic motions of embroidery, the intricate patterns a welcome distraction from the turmoil within. Helaena's children, with their innocent laughter and boundless energy, offered a brief escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the Red Keep. I would lose myself in their games, their carefree joy a stark contrast to the darkness that clouded my own existence. 

I was forbidden to ride Solayre, the disquiet in the realm deemed too dangerous for the Queen to be seen on dragonback, or so my mother claimed. But I didn't argue. The truth was, the smell of the dragonpit, the sulfur that clung to my clothes, had been unsettling me lately. It turned my stomach, settled deep in my head, and sparked headaches that lasted for hours, even after a brief visit to the great maroon beast. 

This morning was like all the others, awoken with stomach pains and a pounding headache. I needed to eat, I assured myself, or maybe a bit of fresh air.  

The morning light, filtered through the stained glass windows of the Red Keep, cast long, ethereal shadows across the stone floors. I had been dressed in another stifling gown, this one a deep emerald green that mirrored the resentment simmering within me. My hair, braided tightly off my neck in a futile attempt to combat the oppressive heat, felt like a crown of thorns. As was my custom, I made my way to break my fast with Helaena in her chambers, a sanctuary of normalcy in the chaotic world we inhabited. 

A pang of envy always struck me as I traversed the west wing towards her rooms. Helaena and Aemond, despite their eccentricities, shared a bond of effortless affection, a stark contrast to the cold and sterile union I endured with Aegon. Theirs was a love story whispered in secret smiles and shared glances, a refuge from the harsh realities of courtly life. 

My head throbbed with a familiar ache as I reached her door. The Kingsguard stationed outside opened it with a silent nod, and I stepped inside, my gaze downcast as I passed through the empty antechamber and into the solar beyond. The sounds of children's laughter, a symphony of innocent joy, filled the air, momentarily lifting my spirits. 

But the smile that touched my lips faltered as I entered the solar. Aemond and Aegon stood near the large windows, their voices low and conspiratorial. The sight of them, their presence an unwelcome intrusion into my peaceful routine, sparked a flicker of annoyance. 

The children, oblivious to the undercurrents of tension, rushed towards me with excited squeals. Maelor, the youngest, reached me first, his chubby arms outstretched, his small voice demanding to be lifted. 

"Alright, alright, my darling," I cooed, scooping him into my arms. I forced a smile, trying to mask my irritation at the disruption. Aegon and Aemond fell silent, their gazes fixed on me, but I ignored them, my attention focused on the children. 

"Mother says that Dreamfyre lay three new eggs, just yesterday!" Jaehaera exclaimed, her violet eyes wide with excitement, her white-gold curls bouncing with each word. 

"A hatchling for each of you then, my girl," I replied, gently stroking her hair. Maelor, sensing a rival for my attention, tugged at my sleeve, his babbling demands bringing a genuine smile to my lips. 

Helaena appeared then, her presence calming the children's excitement. She ushered the twins towards their governess, but I held onto Maelor, his small form a comforting weight in my arms. 

With Helaena's arrival, the pretense of ignoring my brothers was no longer possible. I turned towards them, a sigh escaping my lips. "Hello, brother," I said to Aemond, garnering his attention for a fleeting moment before his gaze returned to Helaena, his eyes filled with warmth. I shifted my focus to Aegon, who was already staring at me, his face an impassive mask, his eyes fixated on the babe in my arms. "Husband," I acknowledged, my voice flat and emotionless. 

He met my gaze with a curt nod, but remained silent. I turned back to Maelor, his presence a welcome distraction from the tension that crackled in the room. He babbled on, his small hands reaching for my face, his dark amethyst eyes sparkling with innocent curiosity. Servants entered and exited, bearing trays laden with food. The rich aromas, once tempting, now churned my stomach, sending a wave of nausea through me. I swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to gag. 

I ignored the laden table, content with my time with the small child. I bounced him on my hip, humming a soft lullaby until he wiggled out of my arms and followed his siblings' departure with his wet nurse. With a sigh, I turned towards the table of food, my stomach churning at the sight of the rich and varied dishes. I forced myself to pick at a few grapes and nibble on some bread, hoping to quell the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me. 

"So, this is where you slink off to every morning," Aegon's voice sounded far too close to my ear, his sudden presence startling me. I glanced over my shoulder, and there he was, his conversation with Aemond abandoned, his gaze fixed on me. I clenched my jaw, my eyes falling to the platters of food, a desperate attempt to avoid his scrutiny. 

"If I'm lucky enough to be unnoticed," I murmured bitterly, still annoyed by his intrusion. He huffed, a small exhale through his nose that sent a stray strand of hair dancing across my neck. 

"Have I interrupted?" he asked smugly, his tone laced with a hint of mockery. He reached around me, his chest brushing against my back for a fleeting moment as he plucked an orange from the table. The warmth of his body, the subtle scent of his cologne, sent a shiver down my spine. 

The strong citrus smell of the orange filled the air, triggering a wave of nausea. I dry heaved, stumbling away from him, my gaze fixed on the offending fruit. 

He snorted, a cruel amusement in his eyes. "Do you suddenly hate oranges?" 

"They smell rotten," I complained, my hand flying to my mouth. 

He brought the fruit to his nose, inhaling deeply. "They smell fine," he declared with a shrug, popping a slice into his mouth. He leaned in, the juice glistening on his lips, the scent invading my senses. "Want a taste?" 

I recoiled, pushing against his chest, my hand landing on the firm muscles beneath his doublet. "Don't torment me," I hissed, my voice laced with both disgust and a strange, unwelcome flicker of desire. 

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent shivers down my spine. He straightened, a smug grin playing on his lips, and returned to Aemond. They departed shortly after, leaving me alone with the remnants of my uneaten breakfast and the lingering scent of oranges, a cruel reminder of my husband's mocking presence. 

The nausea subsided, but a sense of unease lingered. Aegon's unexpected appearance, his playful torment, and the unsettling sensations within my own body left me feeling off-kilter, adrift in a sea of uncertainty. I pushed the food away, my appetite completely vanished, and retreated to the solitude of my chambers, seeking refuge from the oppressive atmosphere of the Red Keep and the unwelcome attention of my husband. 

My refuge of solace didn’t last long however, the oppressive heat of the room seemed to intensify with every passing moment, the heavy fabric of my gown clinging to my skin like a second, suffocating layer. "Roslin, help me please," I called out, my voice thick with discomfort. My lady's maid rose from her seat by the window, where she had been meticulously sewing lace fringe onto a forgotten kerchief. With practiced ease, she unlaced the back of my gown, each tug of her fingers allowing a welcome breath of cool air to reach my sweat-dampened skin. I sighed in relief, but even with the constricting garment removed, the heat remained oppressive. Sweat beaded on my forehead, the back of my neck, and between my breasts. I panted, my hands gripping the bedpost, knuckles white with exertion. 

"Perhaps, my lady should rest," Roslin offered softly. 

With a begrudging nod, I allowed her to guide me to the bed. The cool sheets offered little respite from the sweltering heat that seemed to emanate from within my own body. Roslin settled on the floor beside the bed, ready to attend to my needs, but I shook my head. 

"You may go, Roslin." 

She looked as if she might argue, but with a small curtsy, she obeyed, the soft click of the closing door marking her departure. 

I lay in the bed, the oppressive heat clinging to me like a second skin. Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and fragmented, plagued by strange dreams and unsettling sensations. I woke with a jolt, my stomach churning with a violent urgency. I scrambled from the sweat-soaked sheets, my legs unsteady, my head swimming. I lurched towards the chamber pot, but it was too late. 

I doubled over, my hands gripping the bedpost for support, my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat. A wave of nausea overwhelmed me, and I retched, the contents of my stomach spilling onto the cold stone floor. The acrid smell filled the air, mingling with the cloying scent of my own perspiration. 

I heard the door creak open, and assuming it was Roslin returning, I groaned, waving a weak hand in her direction. A hesitant hand touched my back, a gesture of comfort that did little to ease my distress. 

"It must've been the wine," I rasped, my voice hoarse and shaky as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. 

"Where is your lady's maid?" a deep, annoyed voice boomed from behind me. It was not Roslin. 

I froze, slowly raising my head to meet Aegon's gaze. He stood above me, his expression a mixture of reluctant concern and barely concealed disgust. I blinked; my mind still clouded by nausea. 

"I dismissed her. I was resting," I managed to explain. 

He scoffed, moving towards me with a purpose that startled me. His hands gripped my shoulders, pulling me towards the bed. He forced me to sit, his touch firm but not unkind. His proximity, however, brought a fresh wave of nausea. The cloying scent of oranges, still clinging to him from his morning meal, assaulted my senses. "You reek," I complained, leaning away from him. 

He made a noise of annoyance, but released me, tossing a linen sheet over the mess I had made on the floor. He was uncharacteristically silent, his jaw clenched, his brow furrowed. 

"Perhaps we should call the Maesters," I groaned, rubbing my face with the back of my hand. 

He scoffed, looking down at me with an expression that bordered on disbelief. "There's no need," he said, his tone dismissive. 

I glared at him; my eyes narrowed to slits. "I'm obviously ill, Aegon." 

He rolled his eyes, his stance mocking. "You can't be that dense, Clemynsia" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You are not ill." 

"I am—" 

"Maybe you are this dense," he interrupted, his voice a low growl. "When did you last bleed?" 

His question, so unexpected, so blunt, caught me off guard. "What?" I stammered, my cheeks flushing with a heat that had nothing to do with the oppressive temperature of the room. 

"For fuck's sake," he sighed, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Your last moon’s blood, when was it?" 

His words pierced through the fog of my nausea, silencing all other thoughts. My mind went blank, the world around me fading into a hazy blur. I felt a strange detachment from my own body, as if I were an observer, watching the scene unfold from a distance. 

Aegon leaned closer, his hand gently brushing the damp hair from my forehead. The touch, surprisingly tender, sent a shiver down my spine. "You are not ill," he said, his voice softer now, but still laced with a hint of mockery. He stood, running a hand over his face in exasperation. "You are with child." 

[hangesdarling]

Request for a oneshot of Hange who gets really horny and flustered from their vampire fem s/o feeding from them. Thanks 🥰!

a crimson kiss — h. zoë

PAIRING. Hange Zoë x female reader SYNOPSIS. You were a vampire lurking in the dark streets when you met Hange. CONTENT. a bit of slow burn to build their relationship, very suggestive, blood, biting, implied sex, light angst, open-ended hehe WORD COUNT. 2.6k A/N. fic request from @malorey-ethster :D this reminds me a lot of the vampire!hange series lingering in my head omggg

Dark shadows loomed over the village, making the darkest shade of black among the streets. People feared the night when criminals and monsters lurked as what rumors in the streets have told tales about. But as you stood perfectly still on a deserted alleyway among the darkness, you saw this strange being walking slowly, book in hand while the other held a small lamp.

People don't walk the streets late this hour but then again, this one is different. The perfect prey, too distracted by a book to think that you're standing still right across from them. Your claws clenched against your skirt, and the taste of blood from your previous meal still lingered, only prompting your hunger to take action.

You were about to pounce in that person's direction, trying to swallow your regret for another life lost in your hands but you felt a blinding light crossing past your eyes, making you retract from your stance.

Your arm shielded your eyes as the yellow glow of the lamp illuminated your face in the darkness.

"Oh, there you are," you heard the person mutter, a smile creeping across their face at the sight of you. But before you could run and disappear in the darkness once more, you felt a pair of arms restraining you.

-

The coach you were riding on had its small curtains drawn as you rode into the early dawn. You silently thanked how the velvet, embroidered fabric was thick enough to cover whatever sliver of sunlight began to creep in the sky. You tightened the thick shoal wrapped around you despite your bound wrists. This person who told you their name right after abducting you helped to fix your shoal so only a portion of your face could be seen. Hange.

"Sorry about tying you up like that," they muttered, almost apologetic as they offered you a smile. "But I won't hurt you, I promise. I was just tasked to investigate, that's all."

When the coach halted, Hange pulled you outside in wary carefulness, not letting the sun damage you. You found yourself in what seemed to be a library with a few laboratory materials, perhaps Hange's room.

Their table was strewn with sketches, and several stacks of reports detailing your nightly appearances and words from witnesses. It was clear that Hange had enough knowledge of all the forms you could take and even your whereabouts even before they crossed that alleyway last night.

In the days that followed, Hange fed and observed you, wondering to themself why you always requested animal blood even when it wasn't well-suited to satisfy your hunger. You tried to scare them off with a cold, obscure persona but nothing seemed to deter them even after your several attempts to bite their nose off.

Hange believed you would eventually soften up, earning your trust by encouraging you to talk without coercion. And even when you're trying hard enough not to yield, you find your mouth running, detailing what went before you became a heinous creature up to this day. Hange succeeded in pulling the words out of your mouth, even ones that you wouldn't want a soul to hear. Their presence felt like a dewy morning, a light breeze eager to get to know you out of pure curiosity.

"Ah, to think that there are more fascinating things than titans," Hange would smile at you, trusting you enough this time to untie your wrists. "Let's be friends, Y/N."

During the following days, Hange lets you lounge on their bed, keeping you comfortable as you lie down under their thick blankets. They don't sleep much themself as you have observed, maybe taking a few hours to sleep at their desk during the night and that was it. After a week of being together, you found them to be a heavy sleeper and took that advantage to carry them back to bed. You stared outside the window for the rest of that night, measuring how easy it would be to try and escape from this floor but decided against it. After all, only danger awaits you outside. If the townsfolk won't burn you at the stake, they would tear you apart bit by bit. Leaving you under the sun would be the least harsh punishment.

Hange was alerted the moment you disappeared from the bed, looking everywhere for you and thinking you might have escaped but they silently chucked to themself when they found you curled under their bed among the darkness. Hange crawled next to you despite the dusty floorboards.

"You seem a lot more comfortable in the darkness, huh?" they asked, tapping the underside of the bed frame and pulling away some webs from it. "We'll get this cleaned up if you like."

"Hm, thank you..." you mumbled.

Hange had gotten to know you better from then on. Physical contact became less strange as you let Hange touch your cold hands or felt the lack of pulse on your neck. A living dead creature. And even then as you lack the properties of a human, Hange never failed to make the space safe for you. They let you hug them at night, even if their warmth cannot meet yours, and let you hold their hand despite your insusceptibility to coldness. Every day, Hange brings a variation of animal blood to know what you like best. All felt like cold and tasteless cream crawling down your throat but you prefer them, knowing that your hunger wasn't hurting people anymore.

One night, Hange handed you a cup of blood, a shade darker than what they always give you. Your keen eye found the bandage poking beneath their shirt.

"Hange, is this your blood?"

"Uh, well, it is. I do think it's better if you drink directly from me but your insistence on drinking animal blood may cause a bit of shock to your system when you drink human blood again so try sipping from it first," Hange responded.

When you tilted the cup to your lips, it was cold but a sudden taste burst in your mouth, a hint of sweetness permeating the usual buttery taste of human blood. It has never been sweet before so what made it different now?

You told Hange how it tasted, quite in detail, and used several comparisons to help their research. However, the subtle smile and blush on their face couldn't escape your eyes. Maybe it was their excitement from the new information, but it's undeniable that there is something else.

-

Whenever night falls, your body does not crave long hours of sleep so you spend the night staring outside, counting people on the streets, or perhaps judging who the weakest prey may be just from their stance. But that night, Hange wanted to sit with you by the window, trading their few hours of sleep to be with you for longer. Your budding relationship came slow and subtle, the way midnight shifts to dawn to let the rosy rays of the sun appear in the sky once more. The hugs, the touch, the comfort within each other. Vampires cannot love humans this way but so are other things people tried to set rules upon. The peculiar cannot love or marry, forced to stay in the shadows and linger in their loneliness.

But even living organisms without consciousness like plants still sought companionship, you know, Hange told you one time, flipping through a book showing symbiotic relationships among living organisms. One has a better chance of survival with the other so it's only right for them to be together, right?

Hange leaned on your shoulder as they read by the moonlight. Your eyes followed the words and illustrations closed, exchanging a smile of two with them before trying to resist the urge to kiss them. Hange's rapid heartbeats near you only amplified that temptation as you turned away slightly. Hange may not have your keen sense, or hear a heartbeat and feel human warmth from you but their sharp intuition cannot deny what you both felt at that moment. Hange dropped their book by the side before turning you to face them in a soft, gentle kiss. Their warm lips linked with your cold ones and yet you found yourself pulling closer, as the companionship you desired all those years ago materialized before you. Hange kept a trail of kisses on your neck, pulling you towards the bed until you both collapsed on the soft mattress.

The curtains fluttered close as the wind outside calmed, little by little the moonlight could only bleed through an inch in that window. The flame on Hange's lamp by the table slowly extinguished but Hange kept kissing you in the darkness. Every touch, every time their fingers gripped yours against the mattress was a proclamation of the affection you've both tried to ignore. Both your worlds felt so distant but even if Hange could taste the blood from your mouth, they never wanted this kiss to end any sooner.

Hange had you spooned in their arms for the rest of the morning as they slept soundly against your neck. You wiped the blood beading on their lower lip from last night when your kisses got too passionate. Hange didn't mind and only laughed off their wounded lip, teasing you that it made them look more appealing in your eyes. You watched a drop of their blood dissipate through your finger, creating an intricate maroon pattern against your skin. You could taste that familiar hint of sweetness even as you brought it to your lips. And when you kissed Hange's lips, you felt their blood grazing your mouth, your tongue gently licking their wound until the bleeding stopped. Their blood tasted like a thin sheen of sweetened butter coating your mouth. However, the sweet taste only brought upon the bitter memories of your past. Of the human blood dripping from your chin as a victim lay lifeless on your lap, the sound of their diminishing heartbeat against your ear, and their last scream of help before becoming the food to satisfy your hunger.

You pulled away from their lips before they could even wake up, situating yourself to their chest so you wouldn't see their bloodied lip. You wrapped your arms tightly against their body, ear pressed to their bare chest where you could hear the rhythmic sound of the heartbeat you came to love.

-

"Y/N, why don't you feed from me this time?"

Hange's question broke the silence sitting between the two of you. Their eyes remained contemplative, bored through the wooden ceiling of their room.

"Why would you want that?" you asked cautiously.

Hange turned to give you a small smile. "I just noticed that you look healthier when you drink human blood. Your cheeks weren't so pale and you seemed a lot energized. It's your natural food after all so you don't have to insist on drinking animal blood."

Your mind wanted to protest, but all the reasons you shouldn't feed from them were stuck in your throat.

"But I don't want to hurt you..." you mumbled.

Hange tilted your chin so you could look at their reassuring face once more. "Come on, dear. You won't hurt me. It takes a few liters before a human could die from blood loss. If we regulate this properly, I won't die."

Their offer sounded tempting, after all, you were in a considerably better state after ingesting their blood. Almost like you have regained twofold of your strength from their blood alone.

Hange was overjoyed when you finally agreed, they pulled you into their lap before pressing a soft kiss on your lips. Hange's face was flushed when you began licking the spot on their neck you wanted to puncture with your teeth. Your mouth gently nibbled on their neck, leaving shallow bite marks that blossomed pink on their neck. Their hands roamed around your body, rubbing your thighs under that skirt until they wandered under your shirt.

You moaned softly against their neck with the way Hange was tugging on your clothes as if in permission to take them off.

"You're enjoying this a lot, Hange," you smiled as you helped them by unbuttoning your shirt. Hange groaned as you gave their neck another playful bite enough to turn them on even more.

"You bet I do," they chuckled, their voice shifting into a sultry tone as they brought both your bodies closer to the headboard. Hange leaned their head back, poising their neck where you could feed from them properly.

Your tongue glided along their reddening bitemarks, grazing your teeth to that particular spot before slowly digging in. Hange winced as they felt the puncture through their skin, their blood pooling on your mouth even before it dripped down their chest. Hange gripped your hips tightly, snaking down your rear to squeeze the flesh as your teeth dug in even more. Curses and praises spilled from their lips, suppressing an occasional moan or two as their hands were filled with the flesh of your bottom. Your tongue lapped desperately against the sweet buttery taste of their blood, the crimson gliding in thick gulps against your throat. Hange only pushed your head further into their angled neck as an encouragement, their every moan telling you how aroused they felt.

When you drank enough, your bloodied lips kissed their wound, patching it up with a cloth to staunch the bleeding. Hange captured your lips on theirs, their slender fingers wrapping gently around your throat. They could taste iron in your mouth, intoxicated and lightheaded from the blood you fed from them. Hange sucked on your plump lip, flipping you over onto your back before sliding their tongue in to lick along yours. As your kisses grew passionate, both your lips turned a crimson shade.

Hange stripped off the rest of your clothing, enraptured by your lips against theirs, and of the healthy color appearing in your cheeks. They wanted a taste of you, to return the bliss you gave them.

Hange's notes lay ignored by the bedside, discarded somewhere else along the pile of your clothes and theirs. Your intimacy was bloodied, full of bites and traces of drying blood after you finished. But you could care less about the thin sheen of blood coating your breasts or thighs as your lips rested on Hange's for the final time before they collapsed in exhaustion in your arms. The warm, bubbly bath you soon had washed away all the crimson and pinkish traces on both of your skins. You washed and nursed their wound, enclosing the fresh bite in a soft and dry bandage.

Hange slept on your chest until evening, perhaps tired from the ordeal. But as you stroked their hair's brown locks into neat strands, you remembered that familiar hunger coming in occasional visits, one that was never satisfied until the prey was lifeless. But Hange was never your prey, and you never wanted to be the monster to end them. You placed a long kiss on their forehead, gaze lingering on their sleeping form for a few seconds before pulling away to sit up on the bed.

The idea of departing from this place tarried your mind ever since you discovered the taste of Hange's blood. I trust you, Hange said multiple times, and yet you could never trust yourself to that extent. After all, you were still a monster of the night, even if you wore a human appearance. No matter how much Hange loved and cherished you like a breathing, living being deserving of good things, you couldn't keep them forever. You never wanted to subject them to this cursed life of aimless wandering and feeding on humans to save yourself.

You held Hange's hand around yours, cold diminishing against their warmth as you began to think and decide before the sun rose once again.

likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated, sweethearts <3

[astralnymphh]

born of flora and fauna | teaser I. ellie williams

knight!ellie x princess!reader

an; thought I would bestow a little excerpt from my prologue for this fic, cause the preluding alone needs its own teaser. plus, a little moodboard for it! this would count for the prologue only, as it's set in the wintertime and then progresses into spring. just a note this series is a bit more fantasy leaning than pinpoint history accurate (mainly in clothing department) but I'll still be including some realism into it. expect some.. complicated n poetic writing.

༻⋆the excerpt;

a vividness to her movements, flowing like a river. for it is water that soothes the most cosmic fires, carves veins into the earth's soil, descends from the heavens above and proves iron soluble. a knight so pinpoint and poised like a painter, yet so daring and baneful like a warrior of evenfall. an artisan of her craft, ellie was. born to thrive in matters regarding protection of her kingdom and its nobility.

you were a daughter of the illustrious king and queen, sister of your highly revered and cherished kin, prudence. subsequent to her fabled rise, was your fall. down-spiraling in neglect and a corroding shame that you couldn't fulfill the duties of a courteous princess. wickedness wasn't necessarily your play of folly. rebuking the role of royalty isn't your entire bastion of vengeance. you purely long for a world of your own color. your self-brewn arcadia of art. in a concise phrase, desire for sovereignty.

' why don't you resemble your sister more? '

upon this midwinter day, steel clashes and clanks with the marching of castle guards en route to their designated patrol sites just beyond the barrier of the throne room. braziers birthing a cordial flame glowing with a saffron ember, balls of warmth to resign a frigid numbing along the stone pillars surrounding the epicenter. the rabble of townsfolk forked into two large columns in the palatial hall afore the platform of the royal family, gossiping amongst themselves at the event taking place.

you are aligned in royal seating adjacent to your mother and fathers throne, crossed legs pleating your tunics' billowing skirt, seemingly stoic poise contrasting your usual gestures of criticism and resentment. a flurry of knights in waiting present themselves individually before the nobility, emanations of each one's virtues and brawns scrutinized in one sweeping glance of the majesty himself, to which the mass of them were not up to par.

on comes a figure, shrouded by a leather fitting of attire compared to the other bodies of steel and chain before them, a smooth cloak of basil green silk embroidered with their respective house symbol in yellow; a moth, and a face hidden by the iron nature of a helmet. as every knight has shown oneself to the king, so do they, forcepping the helm with a gauntleted grip to reveal a face blemished by the trudging of time and battle, freckles mimicking the color of almonds, lips like a coral rose bud and hair painted of the most earthly russet you've ever bore sights to. except, there was one asset that sucked you right into her indirect gaze, circlets of green, like a willow tree's canopy of shrubbery, green, like the vernal springscape of the earlier year, an ethereal green, a hue no soul has ever seen before.

༻⋆the moodboard;

hope yall are excited as I am!!! 💗 this is the first draft of a portion of my prologue so you may see some additions or changes.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Good afternoon! Can I request a fic with Claude Frollo x an albino!Fem!reader who is a very strict and prim aristocrat whom Frollo is madly in love with and is trying to win her over? thank you in advance!

My pale star

warning : kinda fluff, kiss, tiny comfort, implied obsession

Info : OMG I loveeee the concept of your request dear anon and the albino reader I had already an idea on what I want the outfit to look like. I really hope you like it and have fun reading ;)

cover by me

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the bells rang for morning mass, the metal clashed and the rich and poor rushed to the church to cleanse themselves of their sins, she was among the masses.

He had always seen her, his white flower, his star that stood out from the crowd and that he could only see at night when she shone so beautifully.

He himself on his horse, which rode like a shadow through the streets of Paris, made his way to the church, always sending his carriage. Snowball knew he had to gallop quickly to get there before the people arrived and the judge arrived.

He got off his horse in front of the wooden door and got there a minute before she did. In his hand was the mass-produced ring, which he put back into the kelien casket when he saw the carriage arrive from the dark wood.

The horses white as the clouds overhead, white as the moon and the stars, white and pale as his favorite. His darling, his love, she had him completely under her spell.

It had been like a witch ever since he had seen her when she had lifted her veil to wipe away the tears that seemed to be in her eyes like the stars ever since he had looked under the clothes of the fine veil it had been true for him she was the most beautiful thing on this planet, free from sin and taking him with her.

All she had to do was return his love and it would be perfect. Watching as the Kutcher brought the horses to a halt and the diner jumped from the back of the carriage and opened the door, the first thing he saw was her white gloves.

He had only ever seen the light-colored fabric except for one day, but it only added to her extraordinary beauty. The white dress with the reddish ruffles embroidered by hand.

The long sleeves and slippers and on her head the veil under the white hood which only gave a hint of what her hair might look like. ,,Greetings this morning, my lady, may the Lord have mercy on your soul," he greeted her as he dismounted his horse and walked over to her, luiefe saw that she only looked at him with her eyes and held her head high.

She was an aristocrat, her father owned several plantations and textile weavers, her mother died in childbirth and she was the only child who could dispose of her own money as she wished.

,,God bless you judge and this city" she said something for the first time one morning as she went to the statue of St. Mary and left him behind. Frollo knew breaking etiquette would be an insult to her and her family he had to do it differently he had to woo her.

His angel, his lovely star as he went to the rows of wood himself and said the prayer. But his eyes kept looking at her as she lowered her head, the veil covering her. But he had seen her pale reddish eyes under the embroidered fabric that hung over her face.

He wanted to understand what was "wrong" with her, that this sin was a punishment from God, which is why she always prayed. But what was sin to her was everything to him. He wanted her like the forbidden, desirable fruit of the apple tree.

The minutes passed, the sun rose over the city and the stained glass of the windows shone on her and he fell, looking at her in color instead of white.

He lit a candle, folded his hands, and felt the ring's box in the pocket of his robe before he watched her again as she slowly rose from her kneeling position, wiped the dust from her dress and walked to the exit.

Before the people came, the people of the normal lower population. ,,My lady please wait I have heard of the good news of your lord father's factory" he began and was pleased to see her pause and wait for him.

Her hands folded in front of her dress, she watched him as best he could see under the veil. ,,I had taken the liberty of contacting him...and asked for an invitation to hear your playing your harp," he explained, knowing that she played her harp in her family circles and among her closest confidants.

He couldn't quite tell if it was indignation or exasperation that flashed in her eyes as she stood to resume her posture as an aristocrat.

,,My lord father will make a decision in your favor, I presume. Please, if it is convenient for you Judge Frollo, come to my estate and I will play for you," she replied and was about to turn away from him when he brought a ,,Wait please" after her, she paused turning her head slightly and shaking her shoulders as he handed her the casket.

,,A gift as a token of my gratitude for your generosity," he said, smiling gently as her fingers brushed over her gloves, feeling her warmth for a moment before she tucked the small box into her long sleeves.

,,That...that's very kind of you Lord Frollo, thank you" she said quietly not full of conviction more like she was embarrassed as if this fire in him had caught her for a moment.

,,Please, for such a beautiful flower, it's the least you can do," he said as a matter of course and bowed slightly as she curtseyed and stepped out of the church first, the sun flashing as the wood was opened and disappearing again as it closed.

But Frollo stayed behind, knowing that he was one step closer to her heart, she was open, he had seen it, had felt its lovely warmth and fire. There was only one last thing to do that night and she would be his.

The evening couldn't come soon enough for him. The sun was slowly setting, bathing the city in gold, but he knew that once he visited her and listened to the sound of her harp, it was only a matter of time before he would use the ring he had given her.

Her apartment, though a little smaller than his own, was lined with magnificent stone, wood and statues, the entrance lined with pictures and books, and Frollo knew he would find her in the music room.

Knew as he walked through the front door that he would hear the sound of her unnaturally pale hands wiping the pages. Her singing soft and beguiling he felt his heart beat faster. He wanted her.

He wanted her when he saw that she had taken off her veil, her fingers were not covered by gloves and he saw the silver ring with a moonstone on it. ,,You're more beautiful than any star out there in the sky," he had flattered her for a moment, watching her stop crying as she turned her head away, not yet wanting to believe his words.

,,Please my lord enjoy the play...if my appearance disturbed you the Judge I can cover myself too" she said quietly almost whispering as if she was afraid that someone would hear them both. But he only shook his head in confusion as she stopped playing, rose from her seat and came to him.

,,Your look my pretty pale flower quite the opposite it's a pleasure to see you every day" he said and let his fingers run over her ring on her finger saw how she moved back to avoid the contact almost shco was too close.

But only almost, as it was true in the Bible Eve would give in to temptation and Adam would still love her more than anything. ,,Your body is my personal carnal pleasure...you are the most beautiful thing on this earth my love" he purred and his other hand brushed a white loose strand of hair behind her ear of her elaborate hairstyle.

He saw the shame in her reddish eyes at his words, but it was the shame that made her cheeks slightly flushed. ,,You-You don't know what you're saying, Frollo," she murmured, lowering her gaze to her dress, her fingers nervously playing with one of the bows.

But when he told her to look at him again, overcoming the last few moments between them, he felt it. He finally felt her warmth on his lips as he kissed her softly, holding her body gently with his hands.

Knowing that he had committed a sin for the first time but seeing that beautiful look of love in her face as she did not break away from him, her hands remained around his and something like devotion flashed in her eyes, the judge knew that his pale flower finally belonged to him forever until the last stars in the sky would fade away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@ria-coolgirl , @nunezs-stuff , @magmabayvi , @aliensthegreat

[justporo]

A Night of Fake Smiles and Hidden Lies

Hi, uhm - I don't really now how to start. I am currently writing a long fic in which Astarion and Tav get invited to a ball. It's been going for a while and I thought (very selfishly and self-indulgently) how about I promote it a little since so many new people have joined. It's a still ongoing story. I'd say it's a very chaotic mix of sweet, fluffy, spicy even sometimes and some darker tones in between. I really pour my heart and soul into this project and try to challenge myself! But maybe it's better to just give you some sneak peeks (from like every other chapter)? I'd be super happy if you were interested to check it out! Thanks to @megschaef98 for suggesting some of your fave parts, ily!

To the chapterlist!

You looked at the invitation in his slender hands. Two golden lines framed the card and under a decorative print stood in elegant cursive writing: “His Lordship Lord De Grodt requests the pleasure of the Company of Lord Astarion Ancunín & Tav to a Ball at Herrenfordt Castle on October 5th, 1493 DR after dusk.” “They really only just wrote ‘Tav’? Should I be insulted?” “You don’t have a last name?”, Astarion asked while looking up from the card. “No, Astarion, I grew up on the streets, because my parents abandoned me – I’m only Tav, always have been”, you answered, only a tad of bitterness in your voice. “Well, my love, you could always just take mine”, the vampire replied smugly and grinned at you. “Weird way to propose”, you muttered under your breath but then immediately said before Astarion could react: “So what do you make of this?”

(Prologue)

So, you finally strode over and took in the garment: It was a striking deep blue that became lighter and a wonderful shade of purple up to lavender further down the skirt – impressively similar to the colours the sky turned when the sun set. It had a high collar that didn’t fully close around the neck in the front, so it allowed for a deep neckline that almost looked like a four-pointed star and long flowy sleeves that from the elbows down became cascading trains of fabric. The bodice was decorated with embroidered bigger four-point stars and smaller sparkles in silver and a few shiny stones. From the slender belt around the waistline down it became a luscious silken skirt that was carefully draped with few more star decorations that became fewer the more the colours lightened. It was quite frankly stunning. Regal and elegant, but not overly flamboyant which would have been something you would have never felt comfortable to wear. And the most important thing: no corset. You wouldn’t have believed it, but you were actually excited to put this garment on.

(Chapter 2)

All around people were standing as couples or smaller groups: chatting, slandering, laughing, drinking the champagne or eating the food being offered by the many servants passing through the crowd with huge silver trays. Some seemed to be well in their cups already, staggering or sloshing their drinks while talking and gesticulating animatedly. Some couples already seemed very handsy as well – hands wandering deeper from backs to more insolent regions, décolletages emphasised with a carefully placed hand or arched back, spines straightened and shoulders rolled back to look taller and more intimidating. Gold, diamonds and pearls seemed to be everywhere you looked. Everything and everyone was sparkling in their finery and giving off the aura of careless excess and frivolous debauchery. Jewels shone from daunting cleavages, signet rings clanked on chalices, flamboyant headpieces swung around during coquettish laughter, deep red lips left stains on crystal glasses and silk shone like liquid in the dim lighting. An impressive display of languid ignorance and luxurious degeneracy. And it was more than impressive even – it was intimidating.

(Chapter 4)

“So sweet, my dear darling, almost as sweet as you”, he whispered hauntingly while you felt drips from the delicious fruit run over your fingers and hand and waves of arousal ran through your body. Then he leaned in again, taking the rest of the strawberry out of your hand, his soft lips closing around your fingers, sucking for a short moment and his tongue flicking over your fingers. Astarion’s sparkling ruby eyes were still on you, patiently observing your reaction, one eyebrow twitching playfully. Your lips parted slightly and your eyes widened as the vampire then lifted your hand up farther and just licked the remaining strawberry juice off the palm of your hand, his fingers steadily around your wrist.

(Chapter 6)

The demon gave a low and rumbly chuckle. “I see”, he had said and with a snap his admirers had returned to roam his body with their hands. “But if you ever change your mind…” He had left the sentence unfinished, his gaze again boring into you until you felt almost stripped naked in front of him and Astarion had protectively placed his hand on your shoulder and quickly led you out of the room. So now you stood in the back of another dimly lit room and listened to this poet theatrically presenting some of his poems: “The moaning and the groaning, The sighing and the sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing.” He enunciated every word carefully, his tone and conduct underlining the meaning of his words – it was quite a thing to watch and listen to. People sat and stood around the artist in a half circle, the performance area marked by some small cold, bright mage lights that were the only light source in this room. The sharp illumination from below then made the performance of the poet even more ghostly. Astarion and you were both leaning against the wall in the back, observing the show in companiable silence.

(Chapter 7)

CHAPTERLIST | READ ON AO3 | MASTERLIST

[glorified-red]

Christmas Preparations

summary: The Manor was full of bustling activity as everyone helped decorate for the upcoming holiday. Damian invited you over to help, he didn't intend for what happened next.

word count: 2,530~

warnings: pure fluff, a small reference to Jason & Martha/Thomas Wayne's passing.

Merry Christmas! This is for the discord 2022 Secret Santa event as my gift to the wonderful @birdy-bat-writes hope you enjoy, my love :)

Check out the other Secret Santa Gifts!

@birdy-bat-writes

@unmotivatedwrit3r

@quillsareswords

@citrinesparkles

I have to thank @unmotivatedwrit3r for sitting on call with me to get me to actually finish this in time and sitting through me trying to figure out what word I was thinking of. They helped me plan out these head canons! that gave me some fun context to this fic. 10/10 go support them.

Christmas in the Manor was always a beautiful sight to see. Evergreens cascaded down every railing, accentuated with vibrant red ornaments and matching ribbons. Icicle lights were hung from every balcony as if snow itself made its way into the house. Wreaths, carefully adorned with their own lights and ribbons, lined each corridor to fill the hallways with warmth and light. 

Bells chimed under doorways where mistletoe lay hidden. Traditionally decorated trees, with vibrant ornaments and bright lights, stood tall in almost every room. The grandest tree of all was the centerpiece of the great hall, tall enough to be touched from the balconies of the second story. 

It was the iconic Wayne touch to every charity gala this time of year. Christmas could truly begin in Gotham once the star was placed atop that tree at the end of the Thanksgiving Speeches, where hundreds of people gathered to watch as the blindingly bright star was positioned just right. A toast and Christmas began.

But what truly made Christmas feel real, was up the staircases and into the den. A magnificent brick fireplace sparked to life in that room, shadows of red and orange spilled out of the room in the dark of night, welcoming every worn soul who wandered in. Just above the fireplace were seventeen stockings, all traditional red with gold embroidery spelling each name in swirly cursive. From Thomas and Martha all the way down to Alfred the Cat, each stocking was hung with care. 

“It’s a lot more uniform then I thought it’d be,” Damian heard you comment from below him. He hummed in response from atop the ladder, feeling the plush fabric of the stocking under his fingertips as he hung each one. 

“These stockings are purely for publicity’s sake, they aren’t our real ones.” 

“They aren’t?” He reached for another brick hanger from your hand. 

He lodged the metal onto the next brick over. “No, this is to keep nosy reporters happy.” 

You snorted, he caught the edge of your smile when he turned around slightly to grab the next stocking, a smaller one that read “Titus”. He turned around to refocus. “Where are your real ones then?” 

“In the cave,” he said simply, feeling as though it was absolutely normal for a family to have a separate set of stockings hidden underground. All personalized and barely matching, ranging from traditional red to eggplant purple to knitted white, they were home, all seventeen of them. With what started as Bruce and Alfred’s old stockings from Bruce’s childhood, slowly gained more traction as Dick entered the scene. 

They couldn’t find a matching stocking, as the ones from before were old, worn, and used, so Dick found the closest he could: red with simple white embellishments. It couldn’t dream of matching the embroidered names on the older stockings, or the ribbon that tied around them, but it was his, he had a home. Then came Jason’s plaid, hung always, even when it was  empty some years later. 

Then Barbara’s fancy stocking, with plaid sections and embroidered designs. Tim’s knitted white and Steph’s vibrant purple followed soon after. That was the year Tim found the Mr. & Mrs. Wayne stockings that matched Bruce and Alfreds, the same color and swirly cursive. 

Three stockings were empty that year. 

Then Damian’s own velvet green, a dark emerald. That year came the four small stockings, plaid with the pet names written in Damian’s handwriting. Cass chose a midnight black, the stars of Gotham caught in the fabric with glittered thread. Duke who followed shortly after, with his white and filled with gold embellishments. And Selina, who flickered in and out before solidifying her place in the family with her own cozy stocking, cat and all. 

They were clunky at best. Each year a new stocking was hung aside the rest but they all remained in age order on the cave walls. Some, for the members who picked them out at stuck young ages, had childish handwriting on its top. Others had stockings that matched their homes while for others, this was their first stocking ever. 

Barely the same height or size, they looked slightly off, but they were always endearing. 

It was a slice of normal in the chaos of this family, yet even the normal had the same cozy feeling of mayhem. 

Even now, with the manor bustling with activity, it just seemed normal to Damian, the chaos of the holidays was something he’d grown used to. There was so much decorating to be done this week as the Wayne’s prepared for the biggest event of the year. All hands on deck as all of you scrambled around the manor to decorate every inch of the place. 

Poor Alfred couldn’t decorate the entire place alone (as much as he wanted to), instead, he focused his efforts on creating the delicious dishes that would be catered at the event. Jason was more than happy to trade pie recipes while keeping Roy from raiding the pantry and Kori far from the oven. Wrapping paper was strewn across the floor of the Great Hall as the trio of Cass, Barbara, and Steph wrapped empty boxes to place under the tree, for a grand tree would look pitiful without its vibrant gifts underneath. The room was a mess and tape was caught on everyone’s feet, but the laughter filled the air.

Bruce and Selina were off hanging mistletoe and wreaths while Tim and his friends were up on the rooftop hanging lights—you didn’t know why that chaotic bundle of friends was allowed up there but you trusted the indestructibility of the Core Four helped. Dick and Wally were out on the lawn figuring out the tangled mess of lawn displays, and by that, you knew Dick was doing most of the work while Wally kept commenting about how much faster he could make this go. (“No powers outside the cave, KF.”) Somehow Duke ended up helping after that tangled mess got the two stuck together.

So here Damian was, with you, tasked with putting up the numerous fake trees in the main rooms of the manor only to get sidetracked when you found the gorgeous red stockings. 

“Have you put the other stockings up yet?” you asked him. You held the ladder in place as Damian leaned over slightly to reach for the last stocking placement. 

“Not yet,” Damian spoke, “I imagine they’ll be put up later tonight now that everyone is here.” 

With the stocking box now empty, he climbed down from the ladder and collapsed it swiftly. He caught your eye when you picked up the empty box. “It sounds like fun. Do you have a tree down there, too?” 

Damian took note of your smile, watching the fire light dance in your eyes. He blamed the warmth for why his hands felt so fidgety against the metal of the ladder. He turned away to put the ladder off to the side, diverting his attention to the unopened boxes. 

“We do. It's abysmal, I don’t think a single tree should hold so many ornaments, especially when those ornaments are outdated. Father doesn’t admit it, but he is getting nauseatingly sentimental.” He heard you break down the box from behind him as he opened the long one that held the tree for this room. 

“I think you just don’t want to see your old middle school photos printed onto ornaments,” you teased. You remembered the photos Dick showed you the second he found out Damian brought a friend over, far too happy for this kind of information. “You looked very adorable with your ruffled hair and scowl.” 

“It was not supposed to be ruffled,” Damian retorted, “and I was scowling because I spent all morning perfecting my hair only for some imbecile to ruin it.”

Your laugh cut through his defense with ease, his shoulders relaxed slightly from their defensive position. “You say that, but you scowl all the time, Dames, even right now.” You poked his cheek with the butt-end of a box cutter. 

He slapped it away and scowled even harder to spite you. Instead, you laughed, with crinkles around your eyes and vibrant fractals dancing across your pupils—he couldn’t keep the scowl on any longer, though he tried.

You both unpacked the parts of the tree and set to building it one section at a time. Damian paused when he held two branches. 

“You’re building it wrong,” he noted. 

Your head popped out from behind the tree, surrounded by tiny pieces of green plastic. “No I’m not.” 

“Yes you are.” He held up the uneven lengths of green PVC. “This one is longer than the center part you already connected, this,” he lifted the section of tree in his hand for emphasis, “is supposed to go on first, then that one.” 

Your eyebrows scrunched slightly and Damian hated how he noticed the tip of your nose moving in tandem. You cimbled out from inbetween the corner of the room and the tree to look at it from his perspective. 

“Huh,” you said. He could hear the stumped consonants in your voice that made your confusion obvious. “You’re right.” 

“Of course I’m right.” 

You bumped his shoulder hard. “Arrogant ass.”

Damian bit back a snort. 

Four sections of spiky plastic and a million branches to unbend, Damian’s hands felt a million prickles in them. A sharp jab as opposed to the heat that radiated from the crackling fireplace beside him. 

“Should we put tinsel on this tree like the one in the drawing room? Or focus on ornaments like the one we did in the dining hall?” 

Damian turned around to see you holding up a silver garland of tinsel in one hand and a tube filled with colored ornaments in the other. His eyes flickered between them both but couldn't help the apathy he felt towards either option. 

“You choose,” he settled on, the same answer he gave when you asked this question every other time you set up a tree. 

You huffed, “You’re no help.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. He busied his hands with the cord connected to the tree and its matching remote. 

“You would end up choosing the one you preferred either way, it’s much simpler to let you choose from the start.” Plastic poked the sides of his body as he leaned through the branches to plug in the tree. 

“I would not!” you scoffed, “I respect your decisions so long as you make the obviously correct one.”

Damian rolled his eyes, knowing that you could tell by his lack of response. When he leaned back out, he saw you had picked the tinsel. He looked at you with a bored expression. “You chose tinsel?” 

“Yes?” you responded, as if you were offended he doubted you. You matched his judgment with your own easily. “I want to try the falling tinsel look.” 

“Falling tinsel,” Damian repeated back slowly, not quite understanding your artistic vision. 

You hummed, sure of yourself as you made your way to the tree. “Like this.” You plucked a few strands of tinsel from the garland and draped them over a single branch to make it look like the tinsel was similar to that of falling icicles.

The tinsel shifted as you shoved the garland towards him. “You try.” 

“You want me to dismember the tinsel.”

“Don't be so morbid.” He watched you smile despite the roll to your eyes. “It’s not like the tinsel is sentient.” 

“I suppose not.” Damian ripped a few strands off himself, feeling the aluminum coating soothe the earlier pricks on his hands. Together, you draped silver across as many branches as you could see, even the ones at the back of the tree despite Damian’s protests. 

“You can’t even see it.” 

“So?”

He let you work, holding the garland for you to reach as you squeezed behind the tree. Eventually, you stepped out as Damian picked up the tinsel that lined the floor. “I think it needs some ornaments,” you said softly, no doubt speaking to yourself.

Damian peered upwards at the tree and hummed in agreement. Soon enough, every other branch held up a sleek round ornament that shifted in the firelight, reflecting the soft glow of the room. 

“Turn on the lights, Dames. I wanna see how it looks.” 

He clicked the remote on and the tree bursted to life. Small bulbs of color illuminated the entire room with vibrant hues of Christmas. It was no doubt the best tree you’d done today, perfectly timed for it was also your last. 

“It’s beautiful,” your voice was soft and full of wonder. 

Damian’s eyes followed yours around the tree, remembering each tinsel that your hands placed so carefully and each ornament you debated placements for. He could see you in the creation of something so beautiful, purely because you had made it. 

His eyes jumped to the top. “It’s not quite done yet.” 

Your eyebrows scrunched in thought, it was a flicker of a movement before it smoothed out, but Damian saw it just in time before it slipped into obscurity. Slowly, a smile crept onto your lips. “The star! I almost forgot.” 

The giddy and excitement in your voice was enough to rub off on Damian. His heart felt a flutter as his body filled with coziness. He watched from beside the tree as you dug for the topper from the boxes. 

“Here it is,” you said, holding up the gold encrusted decoration, sparkles and diamonds covering the entire surface of the lavish item. “Put it up there,” you handed the star out to him. 

Damian shook his head slightly. “You should do the honors.” 

You gave him a deadpan look. “Do you honestly think I could reach that high? You do it.” 

And ruin the moment between you and your creation? “I’d rather not,” he said. “I’ll lift you.” 

A soft snort escaped you. “There’s a ladder that’ll work just fine.” 

“I already put it away. Just come on, unless you’re a coward?” Damian challenged, his arms stretched towards you that left very little room for you to argue. You shook your head, not surprised in the slightest. You slowly walked towards him with the topper secure in your hands.

Damian felt his heartbeat ring in his ears as his arms wrapped around your upper thighs. It only got louder as you balanced yourself with your hand on his shoulder, a whirlwind of annoying butterflies pattered against his lungs and chest. He looked up, breathless, as you reached for the top of the tree, much easier now that you could reach. 

From here, he saw the stars in your eyes as the vibrant lights reflected onto your skin in small bursts of green, red, and yellow. Your smile was nearly as bright as the room around you both, with its fire and lights, Damian swore he could see the brightest star of all trapped in your happiness. The tree was no longer beautiful simply because you created it, it was a reflection of the beauty he saw in its creator. 

And all at once, the world stopped. 

Oh. 

Oh.

Taglist ♡

@anothertimdrakestan

@cherry-dropp

@missredrobin