#this lil fic has been sitting in my drafts for MONTHS | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chvnnie · 2 years ago

Text

Starlight

han jisung x reader

word count: 5.3k

genre: smut - MINORS DNI

warnings: dom!jisung, sub!reader, public sex, spit (just once), choking, oral (m receiving), nipple play (mutual), unprotected sex (let's not), dirty talk, jisung can be a lil rough? if i missed anything, PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

summary: Jisung will not settle for anything less than perfection.

a/n: thank you to nacific (see reblog for inspo) and phantom of the opera for fueling this. also my first full length fic in months? woooooooooo! she finally found her groove again!

this is a work of fiction. this fic in no way represents han jisung as a person or stray kids as a whole. you are responsible for the media you consume. please read responsibly.

taglist: @lix-ables, @rachalixie, @gibbysupremeacyisreal, @katieraven, @miamormi, @woahfruity, @isilentprincess, @hugs4chan, @stranger-thighs, @beautifulcolorgarden, @scottmcallisdaddy, @whatudowhennooneseesyou, @humayraaaaa, @americanokisses - comment/send ask to be added

It’s hard to believe that this is the best theater in the city. The seats are uncomfortable, creaking with every shift of weight as if they’re on their last limbs. A cool draft hits the back of the playwright’s neck, which he’s given up on avoiding long ago. Dodging it isn’t worth the terrible squeaking noise.

Though it may be preferable to the frankly horrid vocals of the woman center stage.

Where to even begin? On top of her pitchy, broken song, the monologue she’s chosen has gone on far too long. Jisung is surprised he hasn’t fallen asleep yet, head cradled in his left hand as he stares blankly off into space. From the moment she stepped out, he knew she wasn’t fit for the role before even opening her mouth.

“Give her a chance.” The director told him. “Her parents donate to the theater.”

God, he couldn’t give less of a shit.

The woman takes a breath, readying herself to continue, and his limit is reached.

“Thank you!” Jisung projects his voice, cutting her off before she even gets the chance. “Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

Sighing deeply, the director shoots the playwright a sharp look. “She wasn’t finished-”

“It’s an insult to my work to let her continue.” Jisung snaps back. Hours. Hours he has sat in this seat, watching women come and go, none of them even coming close to the image he has in his head. Sure, there have been a handful of phenomenal actresses and vocalists in the group, but not the one. Not his.

It took years for Jisung to write the perfect play. Days spent in tears as he scribbled words and shredded papers, not stopping until everything is exactly how he wanted it to be. There is no compromise; not then, not now. Everything will be as it should be.

Even if it means sitting in this godforsaken chair for several more hours.

“How many more are there?”

The director flips through the resumes, counting under his breath. “Twelve.”

Twelve. Twelve more chances to find his star. “Tell me about the next one.”

She was lovely. Years of experience, pages of recommendations from mentors and directors. A strong, steady voice with an impressive range. When she sang, the theater shook with ghosts of applause she’s sure to hear someday. Carrying herself with grace and elegance, there’s no question that she was born for the stage.

Though it will not be on Jisung’s.

The next few women that follow are nothing too spectacular. Good, but that’s as far as it goes. Wonderful extras, understudies, or even minor roles. There are places for them in the show, but not the place they want to be.

“The next one,” the annoyance is thick in the director’s voice, at his wits end with the picky playwright, “has only ever held minor roles in her community theater. Has some formal training, but really doesn’t have much of a background. Frankly, I’m not sure how she even made the cut-”

“Everyone deserves a chance.” Jisung says, scanning the short resume. “Bring her out.”

From the second you stepped foot on the stage, the playwright was mesmerized. Though there was nothing “spectacular” per se about you, there was something. It gripped onto him, tugged him with a fervor he’s never quite felt before. Without even speaking, you’ve caught all of his attention and claimed it as your own.

Who are you? Why is Jisung just now meeting you?

Though you hold yourself with confidence, when you speak you stumble over words. As hard as you try, it’s impossible to hide the nerves that stage brings. It’s endearing, genuine. More personality than anyone who stood before you.

Your monologue is rushed. There are places that could use improvement; too quiet at some parts, the pause in the middle was too long. But those are minor issues, nothing that can’t be tweaked. What really hooks Jisung is your voice.

When you sing, he feels like he’s floating on the cloud. All the stars in the sky within arms length, waiting for him to reach out and steal them away. There’s no high quite like your voice, the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

The time spent together is too short. Before Jisung has had his fill, you’re bowing. Thanking them for their time. Disappearing before he can call out for you.

“Well.” The director sighs before chuckling. “I think we can agree—“

“She’s it.”

He stares at Jisung, jaw dropped in shock. “You have to be joking.”

“Nope.” He begins to pack his bag, tucking his notepad and stacks of resumes away. His work is done for the day. “She is who I want as the lead.”

“Jisung.” The director stands with the playwright, following him down the aisle. “There were many more qualified than her—“

“Is this your show? I don’t recall you writing it with me.” He keeps walking towards the exit, not slowing down. There’s nothing that will change his mind. “I’ve seen enough today. You can humor the rest, but I have found my star.”

///

You didn’t get a call back.

All day, you’ve sat by the phone. Staring, willing it to ring. They told you they would be in touch by the end of the day if they wanted to see you again. The sun has set long ago, and there hasn’t been a peep from your phone.

Shame. Embarrassment. Rejection. All weigh heavy on your chest, threatening to bury you in the cold dirt under your apartment complex. How silly it was of you to hope, to audition for a show by the Han Jisung. You were mocked; by so called friends, in the waiting room by other hopefuls. A few of them had to have received a call. They were beautiful, talented.

In comparison, you were nothing. So insignificant that they probably tossed your resume the second you stepped foot on the stage.

Sitting on the window sill, you bring your knees to your chest and rest your head upon it. Looking out the glass, watching as the white stars twinkle in the sky. They’re bright tonight, lighting up the city streets more than any streetlight could. What is it like to be one of them? To command the attention of all those around you, to shine brighter than any light ever could?

Suppose you'll never know, will you?

You’ve resisted the urge to cry all day. Holding it in, letting the bottle fill. There was no reason in throwing a fit until you know. But, now that you do, the dam breaks. Salty, warm tears rolling down your cheeks. Sparkling in the starlight.

What’s it like to be a star?

As your back begins to hurt, the familiar ring of your phone fills the teeny living room. Rolling your head over, you stare at the lit up screen. Projecting a number you don’t recognize.

Oh, a rejection call. Your favorite kind.

Wiping your tears on your sweater, you bring the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

Your ears begin ringing, a tingling feeling taking over your body as the director speaks. Telling you that the impossible is possible, even if he sounds disappointed to say so. The tears dry quickly, nails digging into your skin as you pinch yourself over, and over, and over. This must be a dream.

It’s not a call back. It’s not a rejection. It’s the role, if you choose to take it.

“The table reading is tomorrow at noon.” The director tells you, the realness starting to sink in. “Can you make it—“

“Yes!” You exclaim, quickly feeling embarrassed at your eagerness. “Y-yes. Yes, I can make it.”

There’s an exasperated sigh on the other end, but you don’t even care enough to dwell on it. This is all you’ve dreamed of, all you’ve wanted. Now it’s in your hands, glowing brighter than the lights that dance in the sky.

You’re too excited to sleep, waking up every hour to check the time. By 7:00 in the morning, you’re too jittery to stay in bed. There’s far too much to do; you have to make sure you eat a full meal, that you get a little exercise in. That you change your outfit five times because god, why does nothing in your closet fit the occasion? Do you have time to stop by a shop, or should you just make do with what you have—

There’s too much happening in your head, making it nearly impossible to calm down. Maybe that’s why you left your apartment an hour early when the walk is only twenty minutes. The sooner you get to the studio, the better.

Waiting is simply not an option anymore.

Unsurprisingly, the room is empty. Four tables clicked together to make a square, each seat complimented with a name tag and a binder. You find your place near the “head” of the table, between what you assume to be the male lead, and the playwright himself.

This is incredible. This shouldn’t be your life; no professional experience or schooling, barely held a lead role in a community show. You simply took a risk, expecting to be disappointed.

Never did you think this would be the outcome. Sure, you dreamed of it, but not a bit of you believed it to be possible.

You trace the outline of the binder, resisting the temptation to open it. To read the story Jisung has spun; he has such a beautiful way with words. In your opinion, though it doesn’t hold much weight, he’s the best playwright of the century. He’s only written a few shows, each more breathtaking than the last. They have this ability to touch a part of the soul that nobody knew existed, the feeling it brings indescribable.

And you get to be a part of this masterpiece. Oh fuck, you can’t stop smiling. You want to scream, to jump up and down. To revel in the sheer joy this production has already brought you.

Instead, you keep to your seat. Buzzing as you stare at the black binder before you.

Slowly, the room begins to fill. People walk the table in search for their names, chatter spinning in the echoey room. Most of them seem to know each other, greetings of hugs and congratulations exchanged. It’s a nice feeling — this is home for so many people.

Yet, it makes you feel a bit lonely. Everyone has to start somewhere; there’s no way you could have bonds like those of your co stars yet. Someday, you’ll be one of them. But today, you stay the outsider, even if it crushes you just a little.

The door opens, and a silence falls over the crowd. Every head turned in the direction of the playwright. Shorter than you would have expected, yet more striking than any picture you’ve seen of him before. His dark hair is tousled, fluffy like he hardly touched it when he rolled out of bed. Dressed in creams and tans, he gives a sophisticated, yet cozy vibe. Softening his intimidation with a lazy smile and golden, circular glasses.

“Don’t mind me.” Voice smooth like honey, he waves off the stares. “Continue on with your conversations. And congratulations to you all.”

Only when he starts walking to his seats does the chatter begin again. Quieter than before, as if they’re all still stunned by his presence. He dodges the little huddles of people until he reaches the head of the table.

Until he reaches you.

An iced coffee is placed right next to your water bottle, the playwright slowly unpacking his bag. A yellow legal pad, a copy of the script covered in scribbles and coffee stains. A black pen. Once the items are scattered across his crowded workplace, Jisung takes a seat, thumbing through the notepad for a fresh page.

“First time, right?” He speaks without looking in your direction, making you question if it’s meant for you.

“Me?”

His brows raise, yet he still doesn’t look up. “You’re the only one seated by me, aren’t you?”

“Oh.” Your face flushes, the heat of embarrassment making you shrink into yourself. “Y-yeah. It’s my first.”

“Hm. It’s a good fit for you.” Jisung takes a drink of his coffee before setting the notepad to the side.

“Thank you, sir.” You say, shaking from all the nerves squeezing you. It’s impossible to sit still — or to shut up. “I was very worried about this audition.”

This time, he looks at you, and honestly, you’d prefer it if he didn’t. It makes the anxiety all the more consuming, knowing you’re being perceived by him. Are you sweating? You think you’re sweating. God, did you put on deodorant this morning—

“Oh, is that so?” He offers you a warm smile, and it puts you at ease just a bit. “You had no reason to be, you were perfect.”

“I-I fucked up my monologue—“

“That doesn’t matter.” A hand rests on your thigh, the weight of it enough to make you stop shaking. To let your shoulders roll a bit, no longer so tense. “You are the star. I knew it from the second I saw you.”

Maybe you’re imagining it, lost in your delusion that the line of reality is muddied. But there’s something sparking where his body meets yours; a bolt of lightning coursing through your veins. His eyes hold so much warmth, like rivers of melted chocolate. Soft against your skin, leaving you with a taste that you’ll never fight a craving for.

It has to be all in your head. Careful not to lose it.

“Thank you.” Your mouth is suddenly dry, swallowing thickly to shake the heat he’s given you.

With a smile and squeeze of your knee, Jisung turns back to his notepad. Leaving you alone to melt in your seat.

///

You’re no longer rushed.

The delivery on your lines has been nothing short of flawless. It’s like a switch was flipped; the nervousness is still there, but it’s damn near impossible to detect it. All it took were a few rehearsals for you to find comfort in your lines, in the role, and then poof. Everything Jisung knew you would be, you became.

Steady on your feet when it comes to dance. Vocals perfectly in tune. Lines coming from your mouth as if they were yours, not something you merely read off a paper.

Stunning. Show stopping. The best star in the entire universe lives on this wooden stage, even the director is now convinced.

“No, no, stop.” The director’s angry voice ends the scene, sighing dramatically. “This is the sixth time we’ve ran this today alone, and you’re telling me you still can’t get it right?”

Well. Almost convinced.

Jisung hates the way the director speaks to you; immediately, you deflate. Shoulder sinking as you disappear into yourself. “I’m trying—“

“Well, try harder.” He snaps. “It’s just a kiss, I’m not asking you to fuck him.”

A round of hateful snickers come from the company, whispers followed closely behind. It’s easy to tell that all of this is getting to you, you’d have to be blind not to see it.

“Something funny?” Jisung’s sharp voice cuts through the noise, silencing the extras in the background. “Or did the company forget you’re all replaceable back there?”

Maybe it’s cruel of him to enjoy the tears in their eyes, but he truly doesn’t have time for their childish games. Even if the director shoots him a hateful look for it.

“Take fifteen.” The other man snaps, dismissing the cast. You stand frozen for a moment before turning in the direction of your dressing room. Running off to cry, if Jisung had to assume. All thanks to this asshole.

Once the room is empty, the director flares at the playwright.

“You need to be nicer to the company-“

“You need to be nice to the lead.” The director stands a few inches taller than him, but Jisung has no problem making him cower. Taking a few steps closer, he narrows his eyes at the man. “How do you expect her to be comfortable with the scene if that’s how you treat her?”

“I expect her to be an adult.” He rolls his eyes. “If she can’t even kiss a man, how does she expect to keep the role—“

“Sorry, I’m just hearing a lot of talk from another expendable person.” The flash of fear in the man’s eyes is just what he wants. Though he seems to talk down to the playwright, to question his every decision, he seems to forget something.

The director needs Jisung. Jisung doesn’t need him. One name is established, the other is not. Care to venture a guess?

The man sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Jisung, I want this show to be successful just as much as you do. With her as the lead—“

“She has a name.”

“I don’t think it will be.” There’s an exhaustion on his face that pisses the playwright off, eyes rolling so far back he can see his brain. “That kiss is crucial, and if she can’t get comfortable with it, we’re fucked.”

Though begrudgingly, Jisung had to admit that he has a point. It’s a pivotal moment in the show, and as much as he stands by his decision in casting you, there are some adjustments that have to be made. You’ve already made such big improvements, what’s a few more?

He tells himself it’s for the sake of the show. That he’s not more invested in you than the others, that his interest in you is strictly professional. There’s no other driving force behind asking you to stay later for “review”.

None at all.

You fidget with the sleeves of your sweater, sitting on the edge of the stage as you watch your castmates pout out of the theater. Each time the door opens, you get a glimpse of the setting sun. Soon it will be too late for you to walk; hopefully the review is quick.

Jisung sits on a stool by the curtain, using a music stand to hold his notepad. The only sound in the entire building is him chewing on the lid of his pen, focused in on whatever he’s scribbling.

“You’re doing good.” He says, voice muffled a bit from the pen.

Turning in his direction, you offer a soft smile. “Thank you, sir. I’ve been practicing a lot at home.”

“It shows.” Jisung caps his pen before standing up, walking towards center stage. “I knew you were capable of handling this role.”

You hate that every praise that falls from his lips gives you the tingles, a fuzzy feeling growing from your lower belly. Having this big of a crush on your superior is dangerous in so many ways, but every time you leave the plant to die, he comes in with a watering can. Filling you to the brim with feelings that shouldn’t be there.

“You know what we need to talk about,” he pauses in the center of the stage “don’t you?”

“The kiss.”

Jisung’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “I know it can be hard to kiss people we aren’t comfortable with, but this is an important moment in the show.”

You brace yourself for the scolding. At least you trust the playwright to give it to you nicely, rather than belittling you like others.

“How can we make it easier for you?”

Stunned doesn’t begin to cover it. So taken aback you almost slide off the stage, your eyes widen at him. No criticism, no telling you to suck it up and deal with it — only genuine concern for you and your emotions towards this scene.

“I’m not sure.” You answer truthfully, turning so you’re facing Jisung. “Really, I’ve tried to come up with ways to make it easier, but…nothing works.”

He nods his head, lips pressed together as he hums in thought. “Let’s run it together.”

Out of everything you expected to hear from him, this wasn’t even on the list. Brows furrowed, you tilt your head to the side. “W-what?”

“Practice makes perfect, doesn’t it?” He takes a few easy steps towards you, hand extended. There’s a choice to be made; accept the help, or navigate it yourself. Learn, or continue to be mocked by everyone but the playwright.

His hand is warmer than you expect it to be.

“Let’s start at the top of the scene.” He says, moving into position at the top of the stage left. You move to your mark, taking a few deep breaths and letting the character take over.

It’s strange, pretending to be someone else. There’s a thrill in feeling her emotions, in learning how things affect her. The pain caused by the war, the concern for her lover’s safety. The joy she is overwhelmed with when she sees he’s alright, running across the shipyard to greet him with a hug.

Your arms wrap around Jisung’s neck, a teary gasp falling from your lips as you angle yourself towards the audience. His arms coil around your waist, pressing your body firmly against his own. An embrace that was far too long coming.

She tells him how worried she was, how when he never wrote her back—

—he’s quick to reassure her, putting a finger on her lip to silence her. The letter got ruined, muddied and bloodied on the battlefield. Besides, no words could fully encapsulate what he wants to say.

And what is it, she asks, that he so badly wants to say?

Jisung’s hand comes to the nape of your neck, tilting your head back just a bit. Here. This is when she begins to fade, and your nerves take over. Your lips tremble as you attempt to stay in character, resisting the urge to break from his grasp.

“Relax.” He whispers loud enough for only you to hear. “Let me kiss you.”

Before you can blink, his lips are on yours. His lips are soft, molding to yours as if they’re a perfect fit. They move at a pace that freezes time, your body starting to soften in his hold. Hands come to his neck, gently holding either side as he deepens it slightly. Just enough to let you feel more of him. How firm, yet gentle he’s handling you. As if this is all he’s longed for since the moment he met you.

It’s over too soon, soft breaths intertwining in the space between your bodies. You can’t move away from him, hands sliding down to touch the collar of his shirt. Fingers curling around it, ready to pull him back in—

“Good.” Jisung releases his hold on you, taking a step back. “But it could be better. Again.”

Every inch of your body feels like static, mindless as you wander back to your mark. You’ve never felt this way from a simple kiss before; he left you needing more. How you remember your lines is beyond you, only one thing drawing you to stage left.

The second kiss is sweeter. This time, he smiles against your lips, tongue softly teasing the bottom one. But just as you let him in, he’s breaking it off again, playful smile still on his face.

“Again.”

His tongue finds yours the third time around. It isn’t too intense, or overbearing. Steady, making sure he gets a taste of every inch of you without rush. As if all of his day could be spent like this, all of his life. There would be no better way to spend eternity than tied up with you.

Right as you grip onto his dress shirt, Jisung pulls back. “A-“

“No.” You whimper, eyes starting to water with the idea of going back to your mark. Not caring what this risk means, you press your body back into his, chasing his lips. “P-please.”

Before Jisung can speak, you kiss him. There isn’t a second to breathe, a second to let him gain control — your tongue is dancing with his, desperate compared to the way he kissed you before. If he was patient, you’re wild. Unruly. Fearing the separation of bodies like you’ll die without his contact.

Fingers tangle in your hair, and suddenly you’re ripped away from him. You paw at his chest, something feral taking over as you fight to get back to him. To his touch.

Jisung clicks his tongue before laughing. “Greedy thing.” His voice is bone chillingly low, the static of your body freezing. “Has all the power gone to your head, my little star? Have you forgotten who was in charge?”

“P-please.” You’re panting, the tears in your eyes beginning to spill. “I need—“

“Need?” He yanks on your hair harder, tilting your head all the way back. The sting of your scalp pulls a broken cry from you, though it sounds very similar to a moan. “You don’t know what you need.”

Before you can say anything else, he uses the grip on your hair to shove you to your knees. Atop his leather loafers you’re perched, forced to look up at the playwright. The creator. The one who made you this damn desperate.

Oh, what a pretty reminder it is that you’re nothing without him.

“When you caught my eye, I didn't expect you to be so demanding.” His fingers skillfully unbuckle his belt, pulling it from the loops. “My sweet little star, did the stage already ruin you?”

Before you can answer, the belt is looped around your neck. Fit snugly, the playwright pulls, testing it. Just enough pressure to choke you but not to harm you. Exactly how it needs to be.

Your fingers wrap around the leather, tugging lightly as you shake your head. “N-no sir.”

“Then I shouldn’t hear no come from you again.” He says with a twisted smile, free hand undoing the button of his pants. The outline of his cock is heavy, a tiny wet spot near the head that makes your mouth water. In a fluid motion, it’s in his hand, slowly pumped in front of your face.

You’re not sure what is happening with you, the static starting to take over your brain. Without thinking, you blink up at Jisung and let your tongue roll out. Ready for him.

“Good girl.” He praises, bending down to spit in your open mouth before he slides his cock in. Lips parting, a breathy gasp leaves him as you wrap your lips around him. Taking every inch of him.

The head of his cock hits the back of your throat, soft gags fluttering around it. Nothing has ever tasted better on your tongue. Carefully, you begin to bob your head, making sure to keep your eyes on him.

A redness creeps up his neck as sweat lines his hairline. Fuck, he’s so beautiful. Sparkling under the stage lights, every sharp detail of his face looks godlike from this angle. A perfect being to praise so passionately.

He cups your face, softly stroking your cheek as he chokes you with the belt again. Spit is dribbling out of your mouth, rolling off your chin and hitting the hardwood floor. It’s not long before he starts to lose patience, tightening his grip on the belt and fucking your face with vigor.

“That’s it.” He groans, watching with glee as you start to twitch. Clinging to his legs for support. “That’s my good girl.”

One more sharp, deep thrust and Jisung is pulling out. The tip of his cock is angry, brought so close to the edge only to be denied. Lifting his right foot, he brings it to your shoulder, shoving you flat on your back.

His knees land on either side of you with a thud, rushed hands tugging your white sweater up. At the sight of your pink bra, a bright smile covers his face.

“Look at you.” Jisung pulls the cups down, letting your perfect tits bounce out. “I knew you were perfect for me.”

Your fingers dance across his chest, loosening every button you can find until his shirt falls open. His chest is warm compared to your hands, lingers at his nipples. With a mischievous smile, you roll one between your thumb and forefinger, delighted when his skin erupts in goosebumps.

“Fuck.” He curses under his breath before latching on to one of yours, nipping and sucking at the bud until your moans begin to echo. The entire theater getting a taste of the sweet sounds you make.

Your head rolls back, savoring the feeling of his lips all over you. The stage lights twinkle above you, each one lighting the most beautiful scene this stage will ever see. All consumed by the thrill of him, of being the soul of the stage. It all comes back to you.

Jisung’s hands reach under your skirt, tearing at your panties until they’re ripped from your body. Moving to the other nipple, his fingers dip in your folds. Softly stroking your slit, the slick sticking to him as he feels every inch of you.

Whining, you pinch his nipple harder until he begins to bite at yours. “D-don’t tease me.”

He chuckles, biting down hard enough to leave a pretty little mark on your breast. “Fine.” And then his fingers are gone, as if they were never there.

Shock makes your jaw drop, the protests rising in your throat. What a shame they’ll never be heard — Jisung’s cock quickly takes the place of his fingers, plunging into your depths with little resistance.

You moan in unison, eyes rolling back as the playwright begins to fuck you in earnest. His hands slip under your thighs, pushing your legs up until your knees are by your ears. The position allows him to fuck you in a way you’ve never felt before; like it’s setting the static on fire.

Turning his head towards the empty theater, Jisung’s lips brush your calves. “Why did you audition for my show?” He grunts out, slamming into you hard before pausing. “You had no experience, practically no chance, but you took the chance. Why?”

It’s hard to think with the head of his cock pressing against your sweet spot, hands scrambling to find his shoulders. Anchoring onto him. “I-I don’t know—“

“Yes, you do.” The next thrust is more intense, knocking the breath out of you. “What brought you to me?”

Your lips start to wobble, hiccuping softly as you cry. His dark eyes are hard on you, filled with a dark lust completely unfamiliar to you. A feral craving; you thought you needed him?

Oh, little star. But he needed you more.

“Wanted.” You take a slow breath, softly cupping Jisung’s face. “To be c-close to you.”

A silence falls over the theater, long enough to make you begin to regret ever submitting an application. It was silly of you to try out, and then to fuck your idol. God, how dumb—

When Jisung starts fucking you again, it’s intense. The floor quakes beneath you, raptors shaking with the sheer volume of your cries. A large hand cups your face, turning it in the direction of the audience.

“Here you are, my star.” He grunts through his teeth, movements beginning to grow sloppy as he nears his end. “Let me give you my all.”

The heavens are breaking, cracks sending each star down to earth. They begin to rain around you, lighting you in a beautiful white flame. Never have you been so consumed, an orgasm breaking you down into nothing but dust. Body lying limp, you happily welcome Jisung into you. The force enough to rival the sun.

Your legs fall lifelessly, his head hitting your chest in a similar fashion. Wrapping his arms around your body, Jisung lays kisses on your sweaty skin. Carefully bringing you back down to him.

“I don’t think we rehearsed enough.” You say, eyes shutting as your fingers rake through his hair. “Can we run it again?”

©: chvnnie 2023

#skz smut #stray kids smut #han jisung smut #han smut #jisung smut

347 notes · View notes

vimesbootstheory · 4 months ago

Note

L S V (for the fanfic ask game)

thanks for sending this! aw jeez I took my time answering huh?

L: How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

About four? Generally the chapter has been sitting at least a month before proper edits start. First time through is easy fixes + highlighting weaker parts of the chapter, second time through I go through those highlights and make larger-scale edits for things like pacing, replacing boring scenes, adding through lines that started later on in the drafting process, changing the tone of a section, etc. Third time through is a grammar/typo check with an automated tool. And then I read through it one last time the night before posting to catch anything I missed last minute.

S: Any fandom tropes you can’t resist?

I'm a big hurt/comfort girlie, for one. it's what I beeline to in any fandom ever. I love any kind of like... reveal? like in merlin fandom, love a magic reveal. I have a pet fondness for danny phantom fic, love an identity reveal there. or any kind of reveal of some important backstory -- like the gaang finding out how zuko got his scar in atla fic, or to bring it back to ck, the younger generation hearing about what happened after the '84 tournament.

I also love love love the trope where characters are on last name terms and then some vital shift happens in their dynamic and they start using first names, or at least use first names in the heat of the moment. could read a thousand fics about johnny finally switching to calling daniel by his first name.

and temporary character death! I will read through a whole temporary character death tag on ao3 on entering a new fandom.

V: If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

these hypotheticals always trip me up because if I actually wanted to do it, I would just do it. also, a lot of my favourite fics are longfics, and the double-edged sword of longfics is that they often go longer than they really need to already.

Hm. I once read a charming lil Johnny/Lyle fic that I'd love to see have a sequel, whether or not it was by me. can't remember the name. Possibly I just want to read more Johnny/Lyle. Possibly this is connected to how much I'm bumming hard over the state of lawrusso in s6.

Thanks again for asking! <3

#cobra kai spoilers #ask game #ask meme

5 notes · View notes

jackwolfes · 1 year ago

Note

Do you have a schedule for what fic you're going to post next or is it just whatever you finish first?

Also, any idea what your next fic will be? I'm very excited to read anything you come out with.

hello! if I'm honest I'm probably going to take a hefty lil break after acotld because it has been. so intense. And like, i think it'll be healthy for me to sit with the achievement of creating a 100k word project in its entirety instead of rushing off to whatevers next? in early 2022 I did a month hiatus from posting and it did me a world of good, so I'm prob gonna repeat that 💖 after that I reckon:

1) finish the languishing wips I started posting (namely royal kylan/kawesper fic and silly little love notes pt4)

2) hopefully start sharing a few more longer form fics for other fandoms (I have a winters orbit multichap and a two part marvellous light fic, both of which I'd really like to finish soon ish 👀)

3) in terms of wesper fics:

Regency au (Bridgerton) is second drafted and waiting on a beta looking at it, so it's closest to finished but i can't give a very accurate date I'll be ready to share that since it's not in my court atm

Ghezenite Wylan is taking up a good chunk of my focus and may be finished soon??? Idk I'm playing that one by ear!

Sugar baby au is inching closer and closer to a Full Draft 1 TM but the likelihood of that being ready to share before winter at the VERY earliest is slim to nothing lol

In theory I'd also like to do at least one thing for wesper week in July but like, it's summer and I do want to have a life while the weather is nice 😅 which I think encapsulates my answer better than anything

Tldr: my schedule after acotld is Rest, Enjoy the Summer and appreciate how cool it is that I wrote and posted a novel lol 😅

#in general i only have a schedule when theres like. big commitments. ie big bangs or really big projects #asks #anon

6 notes · View notes

lokisgoodgirl · 2 years ago

Note

Alrighty then [cracks knuckles] Let's dig in...

9. Which fic has been the hardest to write?

13. What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever come across?

15. If you could choose one of your fics to be filmed, which would you choose?

21. How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

38. Talk about a review that made your day.

👏👏Thank you friend! Bless you 😂Let's do this.

9. The hardest fic to write would have to be A Happy Ending aka the finale to Clandestine F*cks. There were so many elements I hadn't crossed off or tied up yet (my own fault😂) and I did panic a bit that I'd let the side down. Thankfully I think I pulled it off 😊

13. The best writing advice that stuck with me was 'lean in to your style/refine don't re-define.' - aka. Improve the way you write instead of changing everything about it.

15. Fic made into a movie? I'm guessing it's cheating if I say the whole of Hostile F*cks? Just think of the VISUALS.

One shot wise I'll have to say The Ceremony. The theatrics. The lil ceremonial robe. The comedy value of the ridiculousness. The reverence of the crowd while Lokes has a dramatic wank.

The Legend of Long Dong Laufeyson is a runner up because that would be hot AF and I need it.

21. Oh god. If its a random drabble then not many. Maybe once. If its a post in and of itself, then a few times before I draft it. Then it sits in my drafts for a few days and I carry out my highly technical "screenshot and doodle" editing process 😂 I find it very helpful. End to end, probably 10. If I read it twice all the way through with no changes, it's ready.

38. I'm gonna highlight yours, because they always make me incredibly happy. You've been so incredibly supportive over the past six months, and I just KNOW that you'll pick out the lines I'm most proud of, or that make you wanna scream into a pillow the most 🤣 I love that your reviews poise questions and made me think, they comment on linguistic and writery things that I maybe didn't give myself credit for. I adore them, and I adore you ❤️

I'm very spoiled with enthusiastic review commentary and it always makes my day. So many people make an incredible effort and it doesn't go unnoticed. And don't get me started on @simplyholl and her legendary unhinged gif reviews. Iconic. 🤭

Thank you for asking!! It's actually given me a writing motivation boost! 🤭❤️

#writer questions #lovely mutuals

7 notes · View notes

youvebeenlivingfictional · 2 years ago

Note

My latent Don Eppes crush has just come back full force. Thank you for that magic little fic 😍

listen my love for him flares up every few months. i have an unfinished fic for him that's been sitting in my drafts for a w h i l e s as part of my unofficial Men I Always Meant to Write for series

Here's a lil snippet:

“Hey, choke up on that bat a bit more.”

You do so without thanking him for the advice, without making a single comment. But when your bat connects with the ball with a sharp, resounding clink!, you feel yourself grinning.

“I was doing alright, you know,” You tell him. But you keep your hands as he’d directed, taking a swing at the next ball shot from the machine. Your bat makes contact in as advantageous a place as before.

“I know.”

“Oh? You been watching?”

“Caught my eye as I was passing.”

You laugh, reaching back and whacking at the button to stop the machine before you turn to face him fully. You realize instantly that it’s a mistake.

Don is leaning against fence of the batting cage behind you, two fingers hooked into it. He’s chewing a wad of gum like his life depends on it—like he’s trying to imitate his old heroes chomping tobacco and shooting the juice through their front teeth.

#Don Eppes x Reader #Don Eppes x You #Multitudes #asks #replies #ice legs

6 notes · View notes

wishingforatypewriter · 5 years ago

Text

The Garden of Love (Portraits of 119)

Summary: In which Sumire chokes on her feelings—literally (self-indulgent hanahaki AU for my Sumire x Erik enthusiasts)

Sumire crossed one leg over the other as she tapped away on her iPad, organizing Akane’s calendar for the month. As the highest-ranking second year on the Elite Ten Council, her best friend had become the de facto head of half a dozen committees—all those the upperclassmen deemed too much work to bother with.

She turned towards her friend once she noticed a schedule conflict. “Akane, which—” She cleared her throat, fighting a tickle that had been growing there since the beginning of the week. “Which meeting did you want to reschedule, the budgetary committee or alumni relations?”

The question seemed to snap the pink haired girl back to reality. She had been staring out the window of the town car with that vacant expression she tended to wear when she was thinking about Yukihira-kun.

“I’ll reschedule alumni relations,” she said. “I thought Ebisawa-senpai would become less belligerent now that Erik is on the council, but I was wrong.”

Sumire glanced back down at the iPad to hide her smirk. Of course Ebisawa Tora would be annoyed watching Akane banter with Nakiri-kun all through their meetings.

Just then, she had to clear her throat again. The irritation took a moment to settle, and she felt her chest beginning to grow tight.

“Are you okay?” Akane asked. “You sound like you’re coming down with something.”

“I’m fine,” she assured, once she felt certain she could speak without breaking into those harsh coughs that had kept her up half the previous night. “Just the cold air, I think.”

The skeptical emerald gaze she found herself pinned under confirmed her suspicion that it was pointless to come at the daughter of the world’s leading medicinal cuisine specialist with that weak ass excuse. But Sumire could tell by the gentle un-furrowing of the fifth seat’s brow that she’d be left off the hook this time.

“I’ll make you some tea when we get home,” Akane said, but she made no further mention of her condition for the remainder of the trip.

Despite her best efforts to get a full night of sleep and combat whatever killer cold she was coming down with, Sumire woke up at four thirty in the morning feeling like her lungs were filled with cement. After botching an annoyed huff, she rolled onto her side and coughed for five minutes straight.

Realizing that there was no sleep left to be had, she showered, dressed for the day, and got started on a slew of administrative tasks that — in the most technical sense — had very little to do with her.

She was downstairs in the main kitchen, working from a spreadsheet and nursing her third cup of ginger tea, when Nakiri Erik came in, about to go on his morning run.

“Good morning, Nakiri-kun.”

“Sup, Sumire?” he greeted, nodding at her before going to fill up his water bottle. “You’re never up this early.”

“I couldn’t really sleep,” she said.

“Is that cough still bothering you?”

“How did you know about—” Suddenly that omnipresent tickle in her throat became overwhelming, and she turned away from him, coughing into a handkerchief.

By the time Sumire could breathe again, he was handing her a glass of water.

“It’s kind of hard to miss,” he said. “You need anything?”

“I’m alright,” she said, a hand unconsciously drifting up to fix her hair.

After he left, when she was once again alone with her traitorous thoughts, the first snowdrop petals fell from her lips.

#ryoali #nakiri erik #mimasaka sumire #sumire x erik #119th generation #portraits of 119 #this lil fic has been sitting in my drafts for MONTHS

19 notes · View notes

romanianseba · 2 years ago

Text

Just A Walk

What happens when you wake up on your dad's best friend's bed come morning? Is he as unyielding as he constantly seems to be?

Pairing: dad’s best friend!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: age gap, reader is twenty (bucky is thirty-nine), sexual tension, mentions of sex, explicit content, smutty smut, dirty talk, adult talk, fluff ?? 18+ only

Word count: 3.4k

A/N: pov: after reading all those countless dbf!bucky fics, now you're wondering what would actually happen the morning after you let the spark start the fire with your dad's best friend.

—

hello! a pretty chill, hot, fluffy lil fic that I hope you enjoy very much!!!!!, makes you smile, inspires you, whatever. love you guys thanks for staying around and always being so kind to me<3 let me know what you think ????!!!! (this has been on my drafts for months cause i had plans to continue but.... hehe)

"What are you doing?" Your voice comes out groggy, thick with sleep as you pat hair out of your face and rub your eyes.

He stands at the other side of the room. Giving you only a side glance that last a second when you speak. Right before diving back into his task at hand; looking for whatever he wants to take from his dresser.

And if you were a bit more awake and on your senses you wouldn't have missed the way he literally froze when he realized he had woken you up.

"I'm going for a walk," He replies, sounding distant and avoiding eye contact with you as he goes to sit on the edge of the bed to put socks on.

A harsh contrast to the intense eye contact he had going on a few hours ago as he railed you on his mattress. Two rough fingers inside your mouth while he hold your face in place, forcing you to keep your eyes on his with each hard trust of his hips.

"Right now? Today?" You push on your elbows to take a look at the digital alarm clock on his nightstand, confirming your suspicion that it is, in fact, before sunrise.

"Yes."

You frown, your student brain unable to understand why.

"Why?" Why?

Why this early?

Why at 5:30 AM on bloody Sunday?

He chuckles under his breath, tying his sneakers fast, "I have a routine, baby."

"I see that," You mutter absently, your mind already taking a moment to just take the man in.

He's glorious. It's difficult for you to think of a more beautiful man. Even when your imagination is so vivid and can get so creative, you couldn't possibly create a person in your head that rivals his beauty.

It doesn't come close to a magazine male model, it's far better.

Bucky's though and raw, with imperfect hot features, unedited; he's real.

Right in front of you; you are in his bed; and you can't wrap your head around it.

His long bed hair tangling in every direction, some rebel strands falling over his face. The comfy thick sweatpants he's now wearing; very innocent, except they're hanging dangerously low on his hips. So low, your thighs squeeze together as you briefly take sight of his happy trail while he slips on a sweater and his white t-shirt riddles up for a second.

And he notices. Of course he notices.

And he gives in. Finally looking you down, laying on his bed, taking in your naked form under his sheets.

Your attention perks up and you feel vaguely more awake when you catch his eyes on you, finally. Your heart skips a beat when he takes you in.

Just like yesterday night.

And you can almost see the flashbacks swimming in his head. Your small body squirming under his. Flashbacks that you both share now. His big thick fingers buried deep inside your warm and tight center, working you wonderfully. Flashbacks from the night you two finally ignored all the logical reasons both your heads had on why you shouldn't fuck each other and gave in to each other's fantasies. His experienced tongue and fingers making you come undone beneath him once or twice before finally taking you.

All the scenes running quickly through his mind —allowing you to fall sleep over his chest afterwards, and not getting that much sleep at all himself— taking him to the present moment.

Your body blinding all his common sense again. After finally knowing how good it feels in his hands, how soft, he was all the more eager to touch you again. Your legs tightly shut and a hint of a smile tugs at his mouth seeing the effect he has on you; a little, sweet, innocent–looking, beautiful girl.

Half his age... and his best friend's daughter.

Suddenly his eyes rip from you, like a coming out of a fantasy, like a bubble has been popped. And he's back to staring at the floor and avoiding your existence in his room. In his bed.

Your heart drops.

But your lips keep the little, youthful, stupid smile that has been there since yesterday night when you sneaked into his house at midnight. With high hopes and an aching cunt, and he didn't kick you out.

What confused you the most was not his distant attitude, but his very active demeanor so early in the morning, he looked fresh and fully awake. Something you were still trying to cope with, your eyes begging you to close them again.

And how does he do it when you, unbeknownst to anyone, clearly see his lights going off well past midnight each day? Staying up till late watching YouTube videos from your bed while keeping an eye on Bucky's bedroom, who's window was conveniently aligned with yours from the house next door.

"How come you wake up so early when you go to sleep so late most days?"

"Like I said, I have a routine," He states firmly as he goes to grab one last piece of clothing to keep warm outside in the already freezing autumn weather. "You better go back home before your parents find out you're not in bed." His voice is firm and authoritarian.

And your insides tighten because that's just how he sounded yesterday when he asserted his dominance over you.

"Don't fucking move."

"Bucky," You whimpered, pussy already sensitive and abused, stubble burning your thighs deliciously as he licked his way through your second orgasm. "Please... please, just– just take me already."

He growled, hands strongly pinning down your hips, "I'm gonna fucking take you whenever I feel like it."

You'll be lying if you said that alone didn't make you so damn wet again.

"I wanna go on a walk with you." Throwing the soft white sheets off your body, you stand up hastily.

"What?" Is his immediate response. Eyes snapping back to your side of the room. "No."

That word alone like a warning.

"Yes, I want to." You persist, enthusiastically.

"You have to get to your house."

His tone of voice is dead serious, but his brain is losing it every passing second as he watches you stand there naked. Eyes burning holes all over your body.

"I love walks."

Trying your best to ignore the intensity of his gaze on your skin, you reach to pick up your abandoned underwear thrown by his desperate hands onto the floor hours ago. Panties going quickly up your legs and clasping your bra before he speaks again.

It takes all the will power he's ever mustered to tear his eyes from you and pace around the room, gathering his stuff to leave as soon as possible. "You can't come with me. Save a moment to go by yourself later– after you've had breakfast, I don't know."

His voice still assertive, but now there's a desperate edge to his tone; his logic trying to convince himself this is a bad idea, trying come up with stuff to stop him from spending more time with you.

"Please," You beg lightheartedly, Unbothered about his seriousness, slipping the pair of sweatpants and old shirt you wore to sneak out of your house back on and being thankful for your outfit choice. Which will not serve as excuse to not go on a walk, you'll be covered enough against the early morning cold.

Knowing it wouldn't be a matter of seeing you wearing revealing clothes for Bucky anymore you had chosen to go with comfiness over looking appealing. Truth be told, he would've taken you even if you were wearing a potato bag with how long you both had dragged the teasing and tension between each other.

Fully dressed, you continue your persuasion. "It should be fun. Besides it's Sunday, they won't be up till later."

He stops abruptly when reaching to unplug his charging phone, deciding he's had enough. Turning back to face you, this time he makes sure to look into your eyes.

"Listen, doll, we're not–" He cuts himself short, deciding he doesn't want to just be a jerk and possibly hurt your feelings.

Slowly scanning your soft, young face and wide eyed expectant expression, he takes a few short calming breaths. Decisive but softer this time, he continues. "We should've talked about this earlier. You shouldn't have even stayed the night over. We're not a couple, alright? We..."

"I know about casual sex, Bucky." You cut him off in a know-it-all tone of voice, close to rolling your eyes at him.

He strides closer, stopping right in front of you. Fresh mint breath fanning on your face with how close his frame looms over yours, big and tall.

The exasperate fire picking up in his voice and expression again.

"Then you understand that you going on a walk with me, suddenly being part of my routine, after casual sex, would imply more than that."

You know how he feels. And, deep down, of course you feel stupid, too. But you're not ready to leave him alone in his misery. You're not ready to be alone in yours.

And you definitely want more of him. Having experienced last night you know sex will never be the same for you, not if it's not with Bucky. And you won't risk having him push you away so soon.

Thankfully for both of you, he was one of the very few people you trusted with your life and his rage didn't make you feel unsafe. Maybe flinch a bit, maybe if you were completely honest it turned you on a bit; but it certainly didn't make you feel at risk at all.

So even when you're not usually argumentative, or the most confident person, and would have already given up with basically everyone else; meekly giving them the reason, you refuse to right now. And it's possibly the most stubborn moment of your life.

"C'mon, everyone can go on a walk. You think it's a Bucky Barnes thing?" You scoff and tease him playfully. "We just happen to be two people that know each other and decided to go and have a walk together for not having anything else to do this bloody early in the morning. I can't go back to sleep and I'm going on a walk, too." Your gaze is challenging now.

Bucky Barnes was convinced that your stubborn and sometimes confident personality was going to add five years to his life and suck five from him at the same time.

Jaw tightly clenched and a very faint spark of amusement in his eye, he growls lowly.

"You don't fucking give up, do you?"

The eye contact you had manage to keep falters and you swallow, suddenly becoming nervous. Your naturally nonconfrontational and calm state of existing unable to maintain the confident facade for longer.

"I— uhm, I promise I won't talk much, won't bother you." You mumble.

His hard features soften immediately, voice a gentle whisper as he shakes his head.

"You don't fucking bother me when you speak, doll," His eyes searching for yours to insist on it; "Get that out of your pretty head."

He lets out a long and tired sigh, stepping away briefly to reach into his reach-in closet and a drawer before approaching you again.

"Here," He hands you a coat and goes to roll a beanie down your head. "Don't want you to catch a cold.

You can't hide your gleeful smile when you realize he's allowed you to join him.

"Thanks."

"This won't happen again." He announced, his hands arranging the warm blue beanie over your head.

Your smile falters a bit, looking up to him, a knot going up your throat causing you to stammer.

"What? This..."

"What? Are you worrying I won't fuck you again, dirty little thing?" His smirk is smug and self-satisfied.

A calloused palm goes up to the side of your neck as he, very slowly, leans down to gravelly whisper in your ear. "You felt too good to give that up so soon, sweet cheeks."

His intention clear to torture you. The innocent, feather-like lick and tug of his teeth at your earlobe confirm it to you.

Facing you again, he stares for a while; blue eyes locked on yours, his nose an inch from yours. Small baby face against his older, mature one. Your mouth goes dry.

"It's the last time you beg to do anything else with me that is not screw around. And as soon as we come back you're slipping your ass back to bed." A pause, "Your own."

You can't argue back on that.

"Fine."

–

"Where are we going on your bike? The park's two blocks from here."

Trailing behind him into the garage, you frown when you see him taking his big, stunning, motorcycle ready.

"Not going there today. I see Mr. Wilson and a few others walking there every day. I don't want any nosy neighbors running their mouths to your dad about it." His answer is fast, like it's a thought that's been going around his head all this time.

Holding a bike helmet in each hand, he approaches you again.

"This shouldn't be weird. I mean, you're always at my house. People know you're basically an uncle to me." You express mindlessly, finding it funny that he wants to avoid you in public all of a sudden.

"Stop," He hisses through gritted teeth and closes his eyes, focusing on breathing calmly through his nose after the guilt-ridden mental slap he just experienced with what you said. "Just– do not say that again."

"Okay," You say just above a whisper, biting your tongue before he regrets letting you go with him.

Sighing he places one helmet on top of the almost sparkling seat of his bike and lifts his hands to help you into the other one. Carefully covering your head with the heavy black material and doing all the safety checks himself; making sure it's comfortable and placed correctly.

His eyes fall on yours after he's pleased with it, hands resting on each side of your head; over the helmet. You stare back, like suddenly being trapped under a spell. His eyes are gentle this time, and the moment feels so intimate, so warm and lovely, you feel heat warming your cheeks.

Just two people who are madly attracted to each other, staring into each other's soul... at least that's how it feels to you. Lasting both an eternity and simply not enough.

Breaking the spell, popping the bubble, slapping you out of a daze; you jump a little, getting startled when he slides the helmet faceshield down.

Ending the intimate eye contact and the spell you were both in.

"Is it comfortable?" He ask, and you're glad to realize he too sounds slightly out of breath.

"Yeah, just a little heavy." You breathe out. "But it's okay."

He nods, his thumb wiping away a dusty spot on the black tinted faceshield. A light frown, caused probably by intense overthinking, permanent on his handsome face.

"Good."

2K notes · View notes

tennessoui · 2 years ago

Note

"This was never right" from the prompt list? 💖

hey hi hello!!! thank you for sending this in!! this (like the last few) are based on a tumblr au: professor can-fuck-me, which does not have a fic of its own but probably could have a discombobulated one shot at this point because this lil ficlet puts the total word count over 8k oops

anyway bit nsfw but not much; sort of implies again that they got together a bit before they should have (they slept together a few weeks before the class was over, while obi-wan was still his professor) so be careful if that's a squick for you!

(1.5k)

“I think you’ve got a good thesis,” Obi-Wan leans back in his chair, tucking the red pen in his hand behind his ear. He’s taken off his glasses at some point in the last thirty minutes, which becomes very inconvenient when he goes to push them up his nose and almost hits his eyes.

God, he’s too tired for this. He and Anakin had stayed up much too late into the night yesterday, at first fighting and then fucking the fight out of each other only to go to bed still upset. He’d forgotten until his alarm had gone off at eight in the morning and Anakin had hit him with his pillow to get him to turn it down that he’d scheduled back to classes office hours every Friday morning for the first month of school.

So now here he is, nursing a bit of a hangover, his third cup of coffee, and trying to remember if the shirt he fished out of his closet would hide the hickies he knows Anakin had left on his neck.

The student in front of him is frowning down at her paper. It’d been a miracle to see someone had already started the assignment he’d given the end of the second week of classes, as it’s due right before fall break, but upon reading her work, he sort of understands. He’s trying to find a polite way to say Complete doesn’t mean viable, but before he can, there’s a knock on his office door.

“Sorry,” Anakin Fucking Skywalker says cracking the door open a bit, “only it’s been thirty minutes, and I sort of need to talk to Professor Kenobi? Oh, is that your paper? Which short stories have you chosen to write on? I’m stuck between two.”

Obi-Wan gapes at him as the girl flushes bright red and fumbles through an answer, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Oh, that’s a wicked dichotomy between themes there,” Anakin tells her. Obi-Wan isn’t even sure he knows what those words mean, but the girl turns even more red and jumps up with a flustered apology for taking so much of the professor’s time, and a loose-ended question as to whether or not she’ll see Anakin in class later, perhaps they could talk more about the essay prompt?

Because, of course, Anakin looks like a college student. Because, of course, in June he had been one. He’d been in Obi-Wan’s sodding class, and he’s been hanging around his house all summer—considering that he sort of lives there now—so of course he’d heard the different drafts of that prompt enough to fake his way through a brief conversation. Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’s ever read a short story in his life.

“Yeah, you bet,” Anakin tells her with a smirk, holding the door open so that she has to duck under his arm to leave. “I’ll see you around.”

Obi-Wan is livid. Obi-Wan is so livid he doesn’t know if he should try standing because if he’s any closer to Anakin Skywalker right now, he’s going to try and strangle him. “That was completely inappropriate,” he snaps. “What are you even doing here?”

“Proving to you that I listen when you talk,” Anakin lilts, locking the door and coming to stand in front of the desk. “Professor.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan warns. “You shouldn’t be here. You’ve no reason to be on campus anymore, let alone visiting me during my office hours, let alone interrupting a meeting with one of my students so you can take up my time and—”

“I remember meetings with you when I was one of your students,” Anakin murmurs, sitting on the edge of his desk and propping himself up with a hand over the middle of his papers. He leans forward and takes the red pen out from behind Obi-Wan’s ear. “You’ll forgive me from wondering what you were doing behind another closed door.”

Obi-Wan stands, and his hands are shaking with anger directed solely at his partner, who in the last few weeks has simply become unbearable. Picking fights. Prodding. Needling. Going for blood.

“Leave,” Obi-Wan tells him hoarsely. “This isn’t right.” He means that it’s not right for Anakin to be here now, for him to drag any and all personal issues into his workplace, into his office. It’s not right for Anakin to make him lose his mind like this, it’s not right that his hands have already migrated to his hips, it’s not right how much he loves this impossible man as much as he hates him in this moment.

“Professor,” Anakin murmurs, looping his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck, “this was never right.”

Obi-Wan kisses him half to shut him up and half because he can’t not kiss him when he’s wandered into his office practically begging for a kiss. There’s a lot he thinks he’s probably fucking up in this relationship, but he knows how to kiss Anakin.

Anakin, despite everything else, knows how to kiss him as well.

His boyfriend moans and arches into him, adjusts the angle so that he’s standing in between his spread thighs, sucking on his tongue and making noises that are far too loud for the current venue. It’s like—it’s like he wants to be caught. It’s lke he wants everyone to know.

Obi-Wan separates himself with difficulty from his boyfriend’s lips, pulling back to study his face.

Anakin’s eyes flutter open just as reluctantly, mouth slightly parted and spit slick.

“You remember the sort of things you told me here?” Obi-Wan mutters lowly to try and keep all arousal from his voice. “Back before I was even close to breaking. Few months in. Anything that was troubling you, anything you were trying to work through.”

“You’re a good listener, Professor,” Anakin replies, licking his lips. One hand falls to rest on his shoulder, the other to resst on the small of his back, fingers skirting the line of his ass. Obi-Wan barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. His partner loves any and every chance to feel him up.

“I’m listening now, Anakin,” he tells him, catching his chin in a bid to force eye contact. “Has something been troubling you?”

Anakin blinks at him and then his face breaks open and his mouth scrunches up and his eyes squeeze closed and when he opens them again, they’re spilling over with wetness. With tears. “I didn’t get the job,” he cries even as Obi-Wan guides him forward so he can press his head against his neck. “I was so close, I was in the—the final stages—but they went with someone else, and I really thought I would, I really thought this was the one, but they didn’t want me—”

Obi-Wan hushes him gently, soothing his hand down the planes of Anakin’s back. “It happens, darling,” he murmurs into Anakin’s curls. “Is this why you’ve been so horrible, love?”

It’s a testament to how upset Anakin is that he doesn’t immediately say anything to protest that, just shrugs weakly and tries to nuzzle closer. “It’s—it’s September, and you said that I should move in for the summer but it’s September now, and I didn’t get the job because they didn’t want me and I can’t think about you not wanting me without my chest getting all tight so I keep—I just need you to say it, alright, I need to hear it.”

“I love you,” Obi-Wan replies, nonplussed. He tells Anakin he loves him all the time, almost every time he thinks it, which is truly a staggering amount of times.

“No,” Anakin says, which isn’t usually what he says in response to that declaration. “No, I mean—if you want me to leave. I need you to—you can’t just…just wait for me to get the message, alright, I…I cling.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan pulls back. This is a feat, considering how tightly Anakin’s arms are latched around him. “Anakin, darling, I don’t want you to leave. Ever. I love you. I love having you with me. Every place I am, I want you to be there as well.”

Anakin sniffles and wipes his wet face all over the shoulder of Obi-Wan’s shirt. He really loves a horrible person, he thinks with something like awe and infinite patience coursing through him. “That’s not true,” he mutters.

“It is,” Obi-Wan disagrees immediately. “It—”

“You just said I shouldn’t be in your office during your office hours,” Anakin points out, sitting back and wiping a hand over his eyes to get rid of the last of his tears. “So which is it?”

Obi-Wwan stares at his impossible boy. But, well, Anakin had come all the way out here to see him, and he’d been so vulnerable and achingly sweet. Perhaps he should be rewarded with equal honesty. “Darling, if you don’t think I’d rather kiss you until our lips are raw here on this desk like this than read shitty, cobbled-together essays from some student obviously aiming for a recommendation letter, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

Anakin tilts his head forward so that his next words are breathed against Obi-Wan’s lips. “Prove it, then.” he murmurs. “Professor."

#asks #prompt fill #professor can fuck me au #you know if this was an ao3 they'd have gotten waay more hot and heavy before they started talking #but most of this blog is more sfw than not lol #love me a switch professor au tho tbh #not extremely relevant here but also an element of this au thats always on my mind <3 #obikin

141 notes · View notes

clarissalance · 3 years ago

Text

Who has the upper hand?

Pairing: Kaeya x G/N!Reader, mention of Varka and Diluc.

Warning: Slight swearing, Kaeya is a lil shit, reader being stubborn and scheming, immense tension

Summary: You’re so terrible at swordsmanship that you can’t withstand 2 strikes from Kaeya or, are you?

Word count: 3k5

Disclaimer: What is written in here is based on my imagination, nothing from this fic should be taken seriously. Most of the fact I put in this fic does not follow the lore of the game so it should only be taken as a grain of salt. For example: section 8 in Knight of Favonius codebook.

A/N: I struggle so much when I wrote this piece. This was suppose to be angstier but I tone down a little bit (because Kaeya was very OOC in my draft, I think he’s still a bit OOC in this fic but I tried my best ;-;, pls don’t bite me.)

How did author write a 50k+ oneshot? I can’t write something more than 5k properly ;-; Anyhow, please enjoy this fic. I’m going to have a good rest for 2 weeks before release a comeback. Please shower Kaeya and our new MC with a lot of loves!!!!

As a strategist of the knight of Favonius, you don't usually have enough time to finish the towers of reports, the never-ending meetings and dealing with cheap tricks Fatui diplomats. Often, you have to skip your daily sword training session, which results in a rather miserable situation. The whole practice ground is staring holes at your defeated posture. You are sitting on the hard soil ground, and the Calvary captain is towering you, his sharp blade just a few inches away from your throat.

It is not a strange scene for any knights to lose a spar against the Calvary captain, he should be one with the best swordsmanship after Grand Master, and maybe Acting-Grand Master, too. However, as knight, they can usually withstand him at least more than 2 blows.

Whispers and talks start to circulate around as soon as you stepped your foot in the training ground. It’s very uncommon to see people from that department wandering around this area. The strategy department is famous inside the Knight of Favonius to be the weakling-cunning-mouthy-jerks, who always find excuses after excuses to skip the monthly knight evaluation.

So, who gives them the right to be exempt from the test? Of course, it’s from the ultimate high chief of strategy department. Rumours say before the strategy chief works for the Favonius knight, the man was once a legendary attorney. That person can flip words from black to white, turns the defendant from guilty to innocent. With a profound convincing skillset coming from the chief, persuading the Grand Master Varka is easy as a piece of cake. The whole department of 10 people is easily off-hook for 3 years, never participate in the monthly evaluation before the man suddenly dropped the bomb 2 days ago.

“ I’m tired from coming with excuses to cover for your lazy asses.” The man waved his hand, his eyes staring outside the window. His nails scratching the messy shaved chin.“ Varka seems to get used to navigating my thoughts-”

“Maybe time is wearing away your skill-” At the corner, someone accidentally blurted out, and the whole table gave him a sharp look. Did he have a death wish or something? If so, everyone here can happily dig him a hole, free charge for the coffin.

The chief cleared his voice again, blue eyes melancholy drifted to the table. “So, you guys have tried your best on this monthly evaluation. I hope to see you all again next month.”

The meeting was dismissed afterwards, and everything spiralled into chaos. The whole department hasn’t touched anything aside from the parchment papers and the quills in the last 3 years. How are they going to master the swordman-ship in 2 weeks?

But, the worst thing is,

Your well-respected, talented, and tactful chief has run away.

The next morning, you received the news that a foxy old man is on a business trip to Fontaine with the Grand Master. The expedition is 2 weeks long.

You should have known what he meant when the deceitful man ambiguously ended his sentence like that. Nothing goes well when the chief said: ‘Farewell, my comrades’.

For the last 2 days, you have been starting to familiarize yourself again with how to hold a sword and how to swing the sword.

As you trail along with the long-forgotten memories, trying to look through the familiar feeling when swinging the sword, you hear footsteps coming in your direction. It is familiar, with the way the person is walking, the beat, the sudden burst of noise in the air, you can only conclude it’s the Calvary Captain. The practice ground seems livelier as soon as the man steps inside, people rushing to his side to give their greetings. Maybe today is one of his practice days.

“ Never thought I would see you here.” The young man calls out, successfully jostle you up from your thoughts. You give him a complex look and turn away, focusing on the tattered dummies. Your wrist is screaming in protest, legs wobbling. You remember those golden days when you were young when you were flexible, and your bones didn't crack as much. Oh, where the golden days have gone?

“What do I own the honour of seeing you here, captain?” You fold your arm defensively, voice monotonously. Kaeya despites the most when you start talking in an emotionless tone. Oh, how you love riling him up in the middle of the practice ground!

“ I come here for my weekly practice, but-” He shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. “ look like the rumour about the abolishment of special permission for the strategy department is true.”

So he has heard the rumours. You roll your eyes, face blanks. You know Kaeya has his own way to obtain his information, but you never thought it’d be this fast. Words don’t easily leak from the strategy department.

“What do you need? Make it short, so I can practice for the upcoming evaluation.” Tired of his long introduction, you ask him directly. If you are going to ignore him any longer, the man will continue poking you.

Starting an argument only wastes your time, and asserting dominance in the middle of the training ground won’t boost your ego. You’re a strategist, your weapons are detailed plans and sharp word, not sword and bow. Showing off your strength in front of those ruthless knights don't improve your relationship with them.

“ Straight the point eh?” You give him an impatiently look, tempting to ignore him again before he flashes you a smug grin. “How bout sparing with me?”

The whole training ground falls in silence, and you direct at the captain a confusing look. Is he serious? No one in the knight except the Grand Master can go against him, not to mention someone who hasn’t touched a sword for three years.

“I can help you with your training, and you can help with mine” Kaeya speaks with utmost confidence that you almost nod and agree. That man is really deceitful, he knows how well your skill has gone dull, yet he still wants to practice with you? What is this man plotting?

“ Do you realize how absurd your offer is? ” You give him a complicated gaze, voice unwavering. Everyone takes in a deep breath, tension crackling. It's not everyday scenery you often encounter. A heated argument between the mischievous cavalry captain and the tactful strategist. Nosy people gather around the pair, internally hoping for the war the breaks out.

“ You know well that I can’t properly block your first strike.” Light-hearted, you joke, but there is no hint of amusement in your voice. Sharpe eyes glaring at the blue figure, you notice the man remains unfazed.

" Shouldn't you choose a more competent opponent?"

The sound whispers and talking about the reasons why Kaeya picked such an easy opponent start to circulate, and you can’t help to curl your lips up. Within a few seconds, you have effortlessly turned the gossiping direction toward your desired path. Flashing Kaeya a victorious grin, you tap your foot impatiently, waiting for his reaction.

You should have worked at PR damage control or marketing instead! The diplomat would have been fine too! At least, you wouldn’t need to practice swordman-ship.

As you mulling on your terrible choice of career, a chill runs down your spine. Tilting up, Kaeya is beaming sweetly at you, the frost slowly creeping up and nipping your shoes. Look like you just pressed the wrong button.

The man narrows his eyes, and you gulp nervously, avoiding his calculating gaze. Kaeya chuckles, his voice laced with worry, wavering and hurtful.

“I just want to help you improve as fast as possible. The test is coming in two weeks isn't it?”

The whole table has turned, and people start to say how considerate and thoughtful the cavalry captain is. The crowd starts to criticize you and tell you to be more grateful and stop suspicious of his unconditional help. Oh, you wish he wasting it on you, many knights in this training ground would love getting advice and improvements from him.

Applause for our dear Calvary captain, smoothly seeking empathy from the crowd and turning the favour back to him. No wonder how fast he climbed up the rank.

Bantering and arguing with a person like him is meaningless, so you accept his offer and drag your sword toward his direction. Let finish this within 2 strikes.

Moving to the centre of the field, both of you face each other, his eyes scanning you sceptically. What is this man plotting again? Bowing, you finally give him a warning look before standing at your ready position. Kaeya holds his sword, analyzing your starting posture.

As soon as the whistle blows, you charge at the man, opening the spar with a direct hit. Kaeya quickly raises his word up to block the first blow, the sound of steel clashing loudly. He then forcefully diverts the sword to the left, a classic way to counter the strike.

Knowing your limited strength against him, you take a step back and swiftly angle the blade downward, aiming for a weak spot at his waist. This move would create a noticeable weakness on your right, and only the idiot doesn't use this as his advantage to disarm you.

You’re right, he uses the loophole you planned, successfully disarm you within 2 strikes. The sword slips from your hand clanging loudly behind as your foot slips and fall on the ground.

His sharp blade is just a few inches away from your neck. The calvary captain wears a solemn look, his cerulean eyes imbued with irritation. Seems like he figures out you purposefully planed to end the match in 2 strikes.

Quickly raising your hand in defeat, you shoot him a taunting grin. The referee declares Kaeya is the winner, and people start to clap and cheer loudly, but overall no one is surprised. As the match end, audiences start to disperse, return back to their tasks.

Kaeya put his sword away and offers you his hand. You stare idly at the gloved hand a moment before putting yours on. The man effortlessly pulls you up, your body flush against his. With Kaeya so close to you, your first reaction is to push the man away, but his firm grip says otherwise. He inches closer, dark blue locks brush your cheek, tall figure towering you intimidating.

“Why end it so early?” He leans down and whispers, your body tenses up visibly. “Surely, you could handle more than 2 strikes of mine.” The young man in blue hums, his voice sultry.

“ What are you saying? I haven’t touched the sword more than 3 years.” You remind him, hands pushing his chest away, trying to create some distance. The man doesn’t budge an inch.

“Your strikes doesn’t say so. The first strike was not bad.” Noticing your effort to push him away, Kaeya stands straight, heels dig into the ground. His lips curl up at the helplessness flashing in your eyes. He loves seeing you struggle, seeing how anxiety and desperation rising in your sparkling orbs. “I think you could at least have a decent fight with me.”

“ Quit spouting non-sense Kaeya, let me go. We are in public.” You let out an annoyed hiss, punching his toned chest. He still wears the uniform improperly like that, the exposed tan chest can be under many layers. Sometimes you don't even know the reason why doesn't he just button the shirt up properly. Finger grazing at the bared skin on his chest, you turn your head away, cheeks heat up.

The man loves seeing you squirming in his trap, and you’re not going to let him see that. Anything, but satisfying his masochist hobby.

“You don’t like skin-ship?” The man fakes a gasp, his orb sparkles with mirth. “But you were being touchy with your friend. Why can't we be a bit touchy? ” His tone suggestively, the tall man snickers at your blushing mess. Out of everything, why would he mention that? You give him stinky eyes, brows furrow deeply.

“I’m not touchy with you.” You deny dreadfully. Archon, how long have you wasted your time here with this slithering serpent?

Kaeya arms wrap tightly around you, your body moulds perfectly into his embrace. You hate how perfectly you fit into his hug like this, but you can’t deny how warm he is, despite the fact he wields cryo.

“ When will you let me go?” Your voice starts to grow weak, dragging slightly in discomfort. Kaeya curiously looks down, noticing your pouting. Sensing his gaze, you turn your head away but his fingers have quickly grabbed your cheek, forcing you to look at his deep blue eye.

“Give me a kiss, then I'd let you go.” His voice serious, but what he just said is not. You look at the cryo wielder horrendously, mouth gaping. His face is composed and relax, like what he just ask is like asking about the weather, asking about your health, not for a kiss. Is he being serious? What in the world did he just ask? A kiss? Excuse me, a what?

“You...you are not being serious.” You wriggle your way out, escaping from his fingers, but his embrace tightens, caging you inside. Damn it, Kaeya. He’s messing with you.

When you flash him a furious look, the man shrugs nonchalantly, his cerulean lock fluttering gently in the wind. Suddenly, you have an urge to wipe off that calm demeanour. He can’t be serious. Why does he have to go all the way to annoy the shit out of you?

The smug grin hanging on his face, the mischief in his blue eyes, the arching brows, everything about him screams a flirt, yet you feel so mesmerized. Blinking a few times, you have to constantly remind yourself this man is not trustworthy. From the attitude to the way he looks at you, to the way he acts around you. Nothing from his action is truthful. Like Diluc’s warning, you can only believe half of his word and action.

“ Of course I’m being serious.” His voice solemn, but you can see the amusement in his eyes. If he doesn’t like you, why would he spend so much effort bothering you this much? What reaction is he expecting from you?

“ I really like you, Y/N” Kaeya confesses cheerfully, and you can faintly hear a few gasps around. Not this again...

Archon, you’re going to die early at this rate. You just want to practice for the upcoming evaluation, not becoming a hot topic for all Mondstadt citizen to gossip about.

And this man too, how can he easily slip out those words when you just heard him flirting with another woman the other day? You already told him numerous times that you’re not interested in dating him, or anyone right now!

Hung your head down in exhaustion, you tap his shoulder, mumbling quietly. “ Fine, fine.” You finally open your mouth, too exhausted and bothered by his stubbornness. He only wants a kiss, and you won’t hurt giving him one. Just a kiss then you can get back to your practice.

“Just don’t confess your love to me in a crowd like this again.” Before closing the deal, you weakly add a bargain, nudging him.

The calvary captain looks surprised, his eye widens little, not expecting you to agree. Normally, it takes another argument or two before you comply with his request. Kaeya timidly raises his gloved hand to your face, gently caresses your cheek. This time, you lean into his touch, nuzzling your face into his palm, eyes glimmering softly. Despite a cryo wielder, his hand is surprisingly warm.

The man in blue curiously peeks at you, he feels like a feather tickling the itchy spot. Are you plotting an escape route? Since when did you become so obedient? He has never seen the soft fur under the spiky façade you set up to face with the world, but strangely, he likes this version of you more.

Noticing his relaxed stance, you carefully gently wrap your fingers around his wrist while keeping eye contact with him. Kaeya eye widens, startles at your sudden touching. Trying your best to not break the unspoken connection, you bring his hand away from your cheek. In those cerulean eyes, you see a hint of disappointment, but it quickly dissolves. Slowly, you draw closer toward the hand hanging in the air, lips fluttering on the smooth skin on his wrist.

The calvary captain instinctively moves back, trying to escape from your sudden contact. Ironic, he is the one who innates the hug and demands a kiss from you. Tightening your grip, you press your wet lips on the exposed part of his wrist dedicatedly while maintaining eye contact with him, eyes drown with submission.

Kaeya stares at you in awe, maybe not expecting the passionate look in your eyes. His azure eye fills with mischief, now replaces with confusion and hesitation. You notice how his ears have dusted with pink despite the winds blowing in the practice ground. The man avoids your eyes, flustering.

Whispers and gasps start to remind you of the crushing reality, so you let his hand down while grinning cheekily at the cryo wielder. Poking and breaking Kaeya meticulously façade is always something you want to try. The man is a living devil, so it’s extremely unusual to see him losing his composure.

Sneakily, you untangle his other arm wrapping around your waist, plotting an escape route.

However, Barbatos doesn’t let you slip away that easily. Quickly regaining his composure, Kaeya snakes his hand around your hip again, tightening his hold. Unlike the first time, the sneaky bastard lifts you up and has the audacity to throw your body on his shoulder, carry you like a sack.

“ Yah! What are you doing?” You exclaim, fluster at his sudden antic. Kicking and punching on his shoulder, you try as many as you can, but somehow, Kaeya manages to dodge all of them.

“ You said you will let me go when I give you a kiss!” The crowd uproars, stares and gossips poke pointedly at your back. You don’t want to hear those comments from those knights again. They're not going to let this live down, aren't they? Bury your face in the Kaeya's furry collar, you let out a frustrating sigh, punching his shoulder as hard as you can.

“ You give me a kiss on my wrist. That doesn’t count.” Kaeya nonchalantly strides away from the practice ground, unfazed by your attempt to escape. This man is a beast, how can he not budge an inch with all of your kickings on his shoulder?

“ You didn’t specify the place. A kiss is a kiss!” You emphasize, and you can feel his shoulder shaking. Is he laughing? “You didn’t keep your promise.” Fuels by the rising anger, you kick your leg aggressively, struggling to free yourself from the iron-clad grip. This time, his strong arm wraps around your calves like a chain.

As soon as you raise your head up, the familiar pathway hits your memories. Shit, he is heading toward the headquarter, likely to his office. You can’t let anyone in there see you in this state. Punching his back profusely, you shot back.

“Not fulfilling the contract is breaking the Knight of Favonius's code of cond-.” Before you can finish your sentence, the man smacks your calves loudly, successfully shutting your mouth. Speechless by his sudden punishment, you let out a disbelief breath.

“ There are no such a section states about fulfilling contract inside the code of conduct, so stop making the rule up.” Kaeya smugly grins, and you can already picture his blue eyes glinting with mischief, the signature shit-eating grin on his handsome face.

" There is, it's in section eight-" Before you can finish your sentence, Kaeya cuts in, waving his hand dismissively.

" Section eight is about interaction with your co-worker, there is none about keeping contracts." The calvary captain humming, trying to recalling the content of the book. Speechless by the detailed memories of his, you can only close your mouth, quietly waiting for him to drop you down. If you stay still on his shoulder, will he let you go?

" You know, not everyone reads and memories the knight of Favonius handbook, you are just unlucky that I know the book by heart." Seeing you deflate weakly on his shoulder, Kaeya lets out a chuckle, patting your head comforting.

Before heading inside the HQ, the man doesn't drop your down but leans in closely, his whisper tickling your ear. “But at least I had fun seeing you squirming in my grasp.”

And then it hits you, the bastard purposely falls for of your antic.

#kaeya alberich #genshin kaeya #kaeya x reader #no beta we kayak like tim #genshin impact #clarissalance #who has the upper hand ?#argument #fluff #tension #smart reader #strategist #genshin varka #diluc ragnvindr #genshin diluc

862 notes · View notes

junghelioseok · 5 years ago

Text

covenant.

↳ your best friend’s engagement forces you to reevaluate your own feelings.

◇ hoseok x reader ◇ smut | angst | werewolf!au | f2l!au ◇ 16.4k [1/1]

⇢ arguably also an arranged marriage!au, ft. kinda sorta dumbasses to lovers? a very, very late bday fic for the most beautiful man in the universe and my favorite funky lil dancer. ♡

notes: i started this in my drafts well over three months ago and all it said was “this ain’t gonna be on time for hobi’s bday i can feel it” and damn if past!me wasn’t right on the money!!! this has undergone three edits, going from 14.6k to 16.4k somehow, and i am going to lose my whole damn mind if i don’t just post it so here it is! hope you enjoy!

warnings: dom!hobi, alpha!hobi, bit of dirty talk, oral (f receiving), some grinding against hobi’s thigh, knotting, hobi’s got a big dick idk, also he’s in heat!!! but things eventually get really soft bc i love him and am a Soft Bitch™ 🤷🏻‍♀️

It’s going to rain.

You can smell it in the air and feel the damp chill against your skin, permeating through every layer of your clothing. The surrounding forest and all its occupants seem to be collectively holding their breath, waiting for the first drops to come. Even your footsteps, soft as they are against the loamy earth, sound much too loud in the hush that’s fallen. Dark clouds gather overhead, looming like an omen, and you silently reach into your purse to check that the umbrella you’d stowed this morning is still there. Vaguely, you wonder if it’s big enough for two.

Around you, the trees slowly begin to dwindle, until there’s only open sky above your head and a wide grassy expanse beneath your feet. A certain heaviness lingers in the air here—a low thrum of energy, born from the ancient magic that sleeps in the gnarled roots of the tree that sits in the center of the clearing. You can feel it prickling along your skin, raising gooseflesh and igniting your veins, and the closer you get, the stronger the feeling becomes.

At the far end of the clearing, you spot a small crowd of people, all clad in black. Your best friend—and your entire reason for venturing out today—stands amongst them in a tailored suit, his black tie snug at his throat and laid atop a charcoal gray shirt. He’s chatting with his father and a few other family members, seemingly calm and collected, but you can tell from the sloppy knot of his tie and the way he fidgets with the hem of his jacket that he is anything but. After all your years of friendship, you can read Jung Hoseok like a book. His auburn hair is disheveled as if he’s been incessantly raking his fingers through it, and even at a distance, you can sense the turmoil in his aura, haloing him like the stormy clouds overhead.

Sensing your approach, Hoseok’s gaze flickers up to meet yours. He raises a hand in greeting and bids farewell to the people he’d been chatting with, picking his way over to you with a wan smile.

“Hey. You made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss this,” you reply, reaching out to take his hand. It’s warm and strong as always, but you don’t miss the slight tremor in his grip. “How are you holding up?”

He shrugs half-heartedly, a sigh escaping his lips and dissipating into mist in the wintry air. “As well as can be expected, I guess. It just… it all happened so fast.”

“I know,” you murmur, twining your fingers together in quiet reassurance. “I’m so sorry, Hobi.”

“Thanks.”

Slowly, his gaze flits to the center of the clearing where the ancient tree sits, traversing from the leafy canopy all the way down to where the gnarled roots disappear into the dirt. In its shadow sits a polished wooden casket, and you squeeze Hoseok’s hand gently as he walks closer, his eyes beginning to glisten.

“I still can’t believe he’s gone, you know,” he mumbles. “All these years of war, of negotiations and peace talks, finally seeing the Accords pass and the company flourish… and now he’s gone. Cancer. Just like that.”

His voice cracks on the last sentence, and you clasp his hand a little tighter. You know as well as he does that a healthy werewolf can live for well over a century, if not for the human genetics that remain susceptible to human weaknesses and disease. True immortality afflicts only the faeries and the vampires of your world—and even then, there are still ways that those folk can die.

“He lived a long life,” you say after a moment’s hesitation, grasping onto any semblance of comfort you can offer. Together, you and Hoseok come to a stop in the shadow of the tree, peering at the closed casket where his grandfather lays. “And it was a good, just life. Not all of us can say that.”

A lone, wet droplet falls onto the polished mahogany, and Hoseok hastily wipes his eyes, tilting his head skyward. “Not long enough,” he whispers. “He still had so much to do. I… I still have so much I wanted to do—to say. And now I’ll never be able to.”

You caress a thumb across his knuckles, the motion soft and tender. “I know. And I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

Hoseok glances down at that, a glimmer of something manic and desperate swimming in his amber-flecked irises. “You could,” he says, grabbing both your hands and clutching them to his chest like a lifeline. “You could bring him back. You know how, don’t you?”

You shake your head sadly, hating the way his frown deepens as you free yourself from his grasp. “That’s forbidden magic, Hobi. That’s necromancy. You know I can’t do that.”

Hoseok’s entire body sags, his shoulders slumping as he lets out a heavy sigh. Instinctively, you step forward to wrap him in a hug, and he loops his arms around your waist automatically, pulling you flush against him. “I know,” he mumbles into your hair. Then he huffs out a dry chuckle, humorless and deprecating. “Fuck. I’m a mess, huh?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Instead, you hold him a little tighter, rubbing his back soothingly in long, slow motions—the same way his mother used to do during bedtime. His heart thuds erratically in his chest, fast and frenzied like a caged bird, but lulls as you continue your ministrations, settling into an even rhythm once more.

“Thank you,” he murmurs after a few moments, his warm breath caressing your cheek. “For coming today. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You can do anything, Hobi,” you reassure, running a thumb along the sharp line of his jaw when he raises his head to look at you. “With or without me. But… you’re welcome, all the same.”

Your presence at this funeral is unusual, and both you and Hoseok know it. Werewolf packs tend to keep their rites and ceremonies private, and the Gwangju pack is no different. Led by Hoseok’s father, and his late grandfather before him, the werewolves of the city have rapidly risen to prominence and power, aided in large part by the founding of JungTech. The company, started by Hoseok’s grandfather, began as a small operation in a battered old warehouse, but quickly grew to become one of Gwangju’s biggest corporations after the signing of the Accords twenty years ago. The peace treaty marked the start of a tenuous coexistence between humankind and Shadowfolk, and, together with your fellow witches—along with the werewolves, vampires, and the few fair folk who decided to leave their homes deep in the forests—you migrated into cities all over the country to forge new lives.

It’s proven easier for some. While the wolves of the city have found tolerance—acceptance, even—you have not fared quite as well. Humans, you have found, tend to fear the ancient magic that runs through your veins. Though nothing you’ve faced comes remotely close to what your ancestors faced in centuries past, you remain wary of those who take a little too much interest in your abilities.

You’re a bit paranoid, your familiar, Bast, has remarked on more than one occasion. But it’s justified, so I suppose it’s all right.

As if sensing that your thoughts have turned to him, Bast stirs in the back of your mind. You feel him yawn and stretch lazily before there’s a tug on the soles of your feet, as if the force of gravity has suddenly, inexplicably doubled. Then he’s materializing—morphing out of the spot where your shadow would be if the sun were shining, taking the form of an inky black cat with sharp, golden eyes. Hoseok perks up when Bast loops between his ankles, and immediately squats down to scratch behind his ears, a small smile settling across his face as a low, content purr rumbles up from beneath his fingertips. From elsewhere in the clearing, a single howl rises up into the air, forlorn and wavering.

It’s starting, Bast says in your head. At the same time, Hoseok straightens to his full height, fiddling with the hem of his black jacket and looking over at you tentatively.

“Sounds like they’re getting started,” he says.

You nod. “I should go.”

Hoseok opens his mouth as if to protest—as if to say no, stay—but you know better and cut him off with a single raised finger.

“I’ll go,” you murmur. “This is a private rite, and I don’t want to break centuries of tradition by overstaying my welcome. Go join your pack, Hobi.”

“Will I see you later?”

“Without a doubt.”

Your parting gesture is to reach out and grab his hand, tucking a little drawstring bag into his palm and closing his fingers over it. “Valerian root and chamomile,” you tell him gently, taking in his rumpled collar and the dark bags beneath his eyes. “Make some tea tonight. It’ll help.”

Hoseok swallows and nods, his features softening as he gazes down at his hand cupped in your smaller ones. He looks like he wants to say something, but another howl interrupts, disrupting whatever thoughts he may have had. Instead, he nods again, murmuring a soft goodbye before turning on his heel to join the rest of the pack gathering around the raised casket. You turn as well, leaving behind the ancient clearing with Bast trotting by your side.

Up above, the heavens finally open, drenching the dirt path beneath your feet with rain. And behind you, the single howl is joined by dozens more, echoing mournfully up into the weeping sky.

///

You’re in the middle of straightening out a display of dittany when the kettle begins to boil, emitting three short, shrill whistles accompanied by a long stream of whirling steam. When silence falls over the shop once more, you wander over to where the kettle sits—atop a small wooden end table next to an old wardrobe. It’s an old relic that’s been passed down through generations of witches in your family, wrought out of silvery metal and suspended in an iron frame above a single lit candle. The flame is glowing pink, flickering in a nonexistent gust of wind, and you smile. Quietly, you grab two teacups from a nearby shelf.

Not two seconds later, the door of the old wardrobe creaks open, revealing the familiar face of Kim Seokjin behind it. A fellow witch and a good friend of yours, Jin has made a name for himself as a baker, running a café in Seoul that offers all sorts of confections—both with magical properties and without. His hair is dyed a muted dusty rose—a stark contrast to the casual black hoodie and jeans he’s wearing—and you reach out to push a stray lock back from his forehead in lieu of a greeting.

“Your hair’s pink again,” you remark. “I like it.”

Jin grins, his plush lips pulling back to reveal perfect teeth. “Thanks.” Carefully, he steps out of the wardrobe and shuts the door behind him. A beat of silence passes, and you take the opportunity to select a canister of tea leaves. You don’t miss the flicker of solemnity that settles into Jin’s features, though, listening as he clears his throat before voicing the question that is undoubtedly the reason behind his unexpected visit.

“So. How’s Hoseok holding up?”

Jin has never been one to mince his words. You suppose you appreciate that about him.

Quietly, you lift the kettle out of its stand and beckon for him to join you at the little wooden table at the front of your shop. It’s tucked neatly into the nook carved out by one of the two bay windows on either side of the front door, flanked by two well-worn, mismatched chairs. Atop it sits a pile of books—everything from ancient remedies to common household spells.

One book in particular always sits open—a detailed list of all the herbs and plants you carry in your shop, along with the various concoctions you’ve created with them. Hellebore, the spine of the book reads, and it’s the same word that graces your storefront in flowing, golden text. An apothecary of sorts, you spend your days dealing out potions and remedies to those in need, both human and Shadowfolk. You do your best to help, for all the times modern medicine has come up short and left someone wanting.

“Honestly? I don’t think he’s been sleeping.” You set the teacups down onto the table and fill them both before handing one over to Jin. “I saw him this morning, at the funeral. He looked exhausted.”

Jin’s brows disappear behind his pink hair. “You went to the funeral?”

“I didn’t stay,” you clarify, taking a sip of your tea. “Just wanted to drop by, say hello, and pay my respects.”

“Werewolves are a private bunch,” Jin remarks. “I’m surprised.”

You shrug. “Hoseok wanted me to be there. So I went.”

“I see.” He doesn’t say anything further, and neither do you, lapsing instead into a comfortable silence that’s broken only by the occasional sip of tea and the clinking of china. Your gaze wanders, drifting over to the front door of your shop, painted a cheerful green and set with a flowery stained glass window that throws kaleidoscopic rainbows across the cream walls and dark wooden floor. Sunlight streams through the wide bay windows, illuminating the interior in warm, hazy gold. On the other side of the room, Bast is curled up, fast asleep on his favorite plush bench beside the glass door that leads to the greenhouse, perfectly haloed by the sun.

“Must be nice being able to fall asleep anywhere,” you mutter, almost to yourself.

Jin hears you anyway, a chuckle escaping his lips. “You sound jealous.”

“Maybe I am,” you reply, laughing with him. “Speaking of which, where’s Adam? Did he stay home?”

Jin nods, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the wardrobe. “Yeah, he’s keeping an eye on the café. Told me to say hi to you for him, though.”

You giggle at the thought of Jin’s familiar, a long-haired sheepdog with a stubborn streak the size of the Nile and blatant disdain for following orders—especially those that come from Jin himself. “Keeping watch, or trashing the place?” you tease.

“With my luck, probably both,” Jin admits with a sigh. “I should probably get back there soon. He ate all the egg tarts last time.”

“Bring him with you next time,” you advise. “Bast will keep him entertained.”

He grins. “I don’t doubt it.”

Finishing off the last of his tea, he stands up and taps the rim of his cup, murmuring a soft cleaning spell under his breath. You smile gratefully as he replaces it back onto the shelf with the others, and stand to walk him back over to the wardrobe. Opening up the creaky door, you watch him clamber inside, standing amongst the hanging coats and the single pair of shoes on the bottom shelf.

“See you later,” you murmur. “Give Adam my best.”

Jin nods. “See you.”

He shuts the door, and you watch the flame of the candle once again turn a soft, roseate pink. It flickers briefly, dancing in an invisible breeze, before reverting back to the color of regular fire, signaling Jin’s departure. Quietly, you clean your own teacup and return it to the shelf.

The remainder of the afternoon passes with few customers, so you opt to close down early and head to your apartment, located up a short flight of stairs on the second floor of the shop. You’re rifling through the refrigerator for dinner ingredients and humming softly under your breath when your phone suddenly rings, Hoseok’s name lighting up the screen in bright white text. “Hey, Hobi,” you say, swiping across the glass to answer. “What’s up?”

On the other end of the line, Hoseok exhales shakily. “Can you come over?”

You blink, glancing at the darkening sky outside. “Now?”

“Yeah. Fuck, sorry. I know it’s late, but I really… I really need to talk to someone. I—” His voice cracks, and your heart sinks. “I need you.”

“Say no more.” Straightening up, you shut the refrigerator door and tug off your apron. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Have you eaten yet?”

Hoseok sighs. “No.”

“I’ll bring takeout,” you decide, already glancing around for your purse. “See you soon, okay?”

Bidding him farewell, you don your coat and head out the door, locking up behind you. Hoseok lives downtown in a sleek, modern penthouse that’s normally a twenty-minute walk away from Hellebore, but after stopping by the restaurant on the corner for food, you opt to catch the bus instead. Fifteen minutes after you hang up the phone, you are rapping the bronze knocker on Hoseok’s front door, a paper bag and a bottle of wine in hand.

Almost instantly, the door is flung open. Hoseok stands in the threshold as if he’s been waiting there, his auburn hair wild and his eyes even wilder. His aura is turbulent, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You raise the bag. “I brought dinner.”

“You’re the best,” he sighs, stepping aside to let you in.

Hoseok’s apartment toes the line between modern and cozy in a way that only Hoseok’s apartment could—with lush green plants and plushy, earth-toned furniture to offset the cold impersonality of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the stainless steel kitchen. Flicking on the kitchen light, you set the food down on the granite countertop and grab two wine glasses out of the cabinet. Hoseok sidles over as you pour a generous helping into each glass, rifling through the silverware drawer for utensils.

“Smells good,” he murmurs, popping a box open. “I’m starving. Thanks for bringing dinner.”

You brush off his gratitude and hand him a glass, raising yours so you can clink it gently against his. Quietly, the two of you fall into a comfortable routine, with Hoseok grabbing the food and you grabbing the bottle of wine to bring into the living room. You help him clear off the coffee table and arrange the food, then settle onto the couch beside him, sipping your drink in silence and patiently waiting for him to gather his thoughts. Years of friendship have taught you that he’ll talk when he’s ready, and you’re content to wait as long as he needs.

Sighing, Hoseok tips the rest of his wine back into his mouth before setting the empty glass down with a soft plink. “So,” he begins, not quite looking you in the eye. “My dad and I had lunch today.”

You stay quiet, waiting for him to continue. He takes several more seconds to muster up the words, and when he finally finds them, they’re exhaled in a tumbling rush. “He told me that he’s pleased with how I’m running JungTech. It’s been over a year, and things are going well… so he wants to expedite my takeover of the pack. In two months, he wants me to take over as the alpha. And…” He swallows. “He wants me to settle down.”

Perturbed, you blink. “What?”

Hoseok finally looks at you, his expression frighteningly devoid of emotion. “He wants me to get married, {Name}.”

Comprehension doesn’t settle in right away. But when it does, your jaw drops to the floor, landing somewhere alongside the ornamental persian carpet and a stray sock that has no doubt jumped ship from Hoseok’s laundry.

“W-what?” you manage after a few long seconds of gaping at him. “Why? Why now? That’s so… that’s completely out of the blue.”

Hoseok shakes his head, a few shaggy strands of auburn hair falling across his forehead and into his eyes. “It’s not, actually. He’s been talking about it for a long time—trying to arrange something with one of the other pack families. It’s tradition, you know? Mating within the pack, keeping the bloodlines pure through marriage. The difference is that Pops always talked him out of it. Always said I was too young, that there was no rush, that I should wait for someone I love, my true mate...” He sighs, heavily. “But he’s gone now. And Dad’s decided that he’s done waiting.”

You shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t, because you know it’ll hurt, but the question comes regardless—leaving your lips in a near whisper. “Who?”

Hoseok takes a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as he exhales. “Do you remember Im Nayeon?”

You do. You’ve known Nayeon almost as long as you’ve known Hoseok—the three of you having attended the same schools starting from elementary all the way up until Hoseok left to attend university in Seoul. Admittedly, you were never close—and if you were completely honest, you always found her to be a bit disingenuous for your tastes. Nevertheless, you often found yourself at the same events—parties and gatherings you attended at Hoseok’s request, and that she was privy to due to her family’s high-ranking status within the Gwangju pack.

“I remember,” you tell him, your bottom lip finding its way between your teeth. “Does… does she know yet? Have you met up with her?”

Hoseok nods. “She was there this morning, at the funeral. We talked a little bit and got coffee after, but… this is all happening so fast.” Slowly, he tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, a sigh escaping his parted lips. “But there’s nothing I can do, right? It’s enough that Dad’s somehow talked Mom into the whole thing, but now he’s gotten the Council on board too. Did you know that Nayeon has an uncle on the Council? It’s insane, right?”

“Insane,” you agree in a whisper, doing your best to ignore the way your heart is splintering at the edges.

“You know, I always thought my Dad pressuring me was bad.” Hoseok buries his face in his hands, peering at you from between his splayed fingers when you hum in acknowledgment. “But this? The entire Council on my back? This is way worse.”

“I’m sorry.” You don’t know what else there is to say. Your ribcage feels like it’s been split open and filled with burning coals, weighing hot and heavy on your insides.

Hoseok has dated in the past, of course. You both have—chasing that elusive, fluttery feeling called love and never quite being able to catch it and hold on. Hoseok’s last relationship fizzled long before he graduated from university, having lasted only about six months. You distinctly remember meeting the girl during one of your frequent visits to Seoul, at a small party hosted by Hoseok and his friends. By your next visit, however, things had already ended. He never really told you why the breakup occurred either—only that the relationship never would have lasted in the long run.

Perhaps foolishly, you chose not to pry.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask softly. Reaching out, you take ahold of his hand and tug it into your lap, threading your fingers into the gaps between his. The gesture is familiar and comforting, like cocoa in front of a lit fireplace, and you can’t even begin to fathom the idea of another person sitting here and holding his hand in your stead.

“Just talk to me,” Hoseok entreaties, squeezing your fingers. “Distract me. What’s going on with you?”

You hum, swallowing down the lump in your throat and letting your head fall onto his shoulder as you pick through the events of the past week for the most interesting tidbits. “Bast has been bringing me dead rats lately,” you finally say, nose scrunching at the memory. “You should see the size of them—they’re almost bigger than he is. And they smell like the sewers, because I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s where he’s getting them from. It’s horrid.”

Hoseok huffs out a stilted laugh. “Sewer rats? Gross.”

“It’s not all bad, to be honest,” you tell him, nestling a little closer to the warmth of his body. Hoseok keeps his apartment chillier than you’re accustomed to, and you’re beyond grateful for the furnace-like heat he gives off naturally. “The bones are pretty useful. The tails too, provided you don’t tell people what they actually are.”

His laugh is much more genuine this time. “Tricky little minx,” he says, amusement lacing his tone. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

You ignore the uptick in your heart rate at his approval, grateful that he can’t see your face as a pulse of heat flushes your cheeks. Instead, you burrow into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. Hoseok smells like the forest—fresh and woodsy, with a slight floral undercurrent from his fabric softener. It smells like home, and you smile when his arm comes up to wrap around your shoulders.

“Jin came by today,” you murmur.

“Yeah?” The monosyllabic response rumbles through his chest.

“Yeah. He asked about you, too. You should probably text him later.”

Hoseok hums a confirmation, and, satisfied, you cuddle a little closer to him. You pull at the afghan he keeps laid over the back of the couch, laying it comfortably over your lap as he rests his head gently atop yours, his ear pressed to your crown. Your eyes fall shut as you listen to the rhythmic thud of his pulse—solid and steady, backed by the soft hum of the refrigerator and distant traffic on the street far below.

It’s comfortable, sitting with him like this. Comfortable, stroking his arm with your fingertips, in time with the drumbeat of his heart. Ever so gradually, Hoseok’s breathing evens out, and you briefly think that you could stay like this—encapsulated in this delicate, iridescent bubble of contentment—for the rest of your life.

You know the thing about bubbles, though? Bast remarks dryly in your head. They burst.

I know, you sigh.

I know.

///

There’s something soothing about taking inventory—something calming in the repetition of walking down the aisles of Hellebore and restocking the shelves one by one. You’d woken this morning to an apologetic Hoseok making pancakes in the kitchen, his residual heat and woodsy scent lingering on the blanket tucked around your body. After a harried breakfast and a promise to text you later, Hoseok rushed off to the office.

You, in turn, returned to your shop, where you grabbed every ounce of cleaning supplies you possess and scrubbed the place from top to bottom, foregoing all of your usual dishwashing charms and dust-clearing jinxes. The physical labor is a welcome distraction from the events and revelations of last night, and you’ve thrown yourself wholeheartedly into all the chores you need to complete.

“Almost out of rosehip oil,” you mutter, eyeing the half-empty vial and making a note to extract more from one of several plants in your greenhouse. “Low on valerian too, hmm…”

The bell over the front door jingles merrily, diverting your attention away from your task. “{Name}?” a voice calls softly. A moment later, a familiar head of coppery red hair pops around the edge of the shelves, choppy bangs framing a soft, warm face. “Hey, there you are. You busy?”

You shake your head and shut your inventory book, setting it down on the nearest shelf. “Not terribly, no. What brings you here today, Lisa?”

Lisa’s answering smile is sheepish. “Got something to return,” she says, holding up a little glass jar full of lavender colored pills that you immediately recognize. “I’m guessing you’ve already heard the news. Looks like I won’t be needing these anymore, right?”

Your laugh sounds brittle, even to your own ears. “Right. Yeah. Not anymore.”

For just over ten years, Lisa has been the wolf assigned to help Hoseok through his heat. Between his family’s status and his longtime designation as the next alpha of the Gwangju pack, it’s imperative for Hoseok to avoid anything that might be perceived as scandalous. Torrid sex stories splashed across tabloid covers is the last thing a man like Hoseok needs, and that’s where Lisa comes in. Once a year, for three days, she goes to him, and no one is none the wiser. Her job is one that calls for the utmost discretion, and as the daughter of a high-ranking Council official, no one understood that better than she did. You’d only found out because of your role as one of the few witches in the country who makes and stocks the proper contraceptives for such wolves—the dosage much stronger than the human equivalent.

And when Lisa had first approached you to purchase the pills, you’d dropped two jars and nearly set fire to a third. Your stomach had fallen to somewhere around your toes, right alongside the shattered glass and little lavender tablets.

You’d chalked the accident up to surprise. Hoseok hadn’t mentioned anything to you, after all, and you’d known very little about the intricacies of werewolf heats back then, having just opened your shop at age eighteen. But surprise doesn’t explain the snaking jealousy that bubbles up in your tummy every time Lisa comes in to restock her supply of pills, nor does it explain the overwhelming sense of relief you feel now as she presses the unopened jar into your hands.

“I still can’t believe he’s going to be the most powerful man in Gwangju soon.” Lisa steps back, tucking her hair behind her ear and letting out a soft sigh. “And now he’s engaged, too. It’s pretty crazy, huh?”

“Crazy,” you agree tonelessly, turning to replace the jar onto the appropriate shelf.

Lisa, however, is nothing if not perceptive. A gentle hand lands on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. “Hey,” she begins, soft and slow. “You know you can talk to me, right? Are you—?”

But the sound of the bell drowns out the rest of her question, metallic and bright in the quiet of your shop. “Hello? Anyone home?” a cheery voice asks.

“Be right there,” you say immediately, shrugging off Lisa’s hand and stepping out from amongst the shelves. There’s a young woman standing at the checkout counter, rifling through the collection of seeds on display, and you cringe as she replaces a few packets in the wrong spots. “How can I help you?”

At the sound of your voice, the woman turns gracefully on her heel, her expression a perfectly crafted amalgamation of surprise and delight. “{Name}!” she exclaims, stepping forward with an outstretched arm. “Long time no see!”

“N-Nayeon,” you stammer, the shock of seeing her face freezing you in place. “What… what brings you here?”

The dark-haired woman steps forward to pull you into a hug, enveloping you in her fruity perfume. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to catch up with an old friend?” she asks playfully.

We were never friends, you want to say. In your head, Bast lets out a derisive snort of agreement. Lisa, you notice, has conveniently melted away somewhere amidst the organized chaos of your shop, disappearing into the myriad shelves and knickknacks.

“Plus, I really wanted to look at some flowers,” Nayeon continues, betraying her true purpose at last. “You’ve heard, haven’t you? About my engagement? I’m sure Hoseok—I mean, my fiancé—has mentioned it to you, of all people. You are his best friend, after all.”

The inside of the shop is beginning to feel stifling. Perspiration trickles down your neck and you tug at your collar, loosening the material from where it’s plastered against your skin. “Sure,” you manage, once you feel like you can breathe again. “Right. Sure. The flowers are right this way, if you want to follow me.”

I’d forgotten how much I don’t like her, your familiar remarks dryly in your head.

Shut up, Bast.

Mercifully, he does. There’s a tug on your feet, and you glance down just in time to see him morph out of the shadow you cast against the sun-drenched floor. Ghostly and amorphous at first, he quickly solidifies into the feline figure you’ve grown accustomed to, and slinks protectively around your ankles before darting off to perch in the cushioned bay window seat.

Conveniently, that’s also where the flower display is. Colorful blooms and trailing leaves adorn the wooden shelves and tables in this particular corner of the shop, and you force yourself to shift back into professional mode as you come to a stop in front of an assortment of honeysuckle. “So, what kind of flowers are you looking for?” you ask, brushing your fingers along the pale yellow petals.

Nayeon hums thoughtfully and picks up a potted rosebush, examining it from all angles. “Roses, maybe. Are roses too clichéd now?” She brings the crimson buds closer and inhales, eyes fluttering shut. “No matter. I’ve always liked them.”

“They’re beautiful,” you agree, turning your attention to the selection of roses lining the topmost shelf. “Do you have a color preferen—?”

“Or maybe these would be better,” Nayeon interrupts, plucking up a pale pink calla lily from the bouquet you keep in a table display. “Or that one—what is it?”

You follow the trajectory of her gaze to a bunch of little white flowers with golden centers, stark against the dark dirt and surrounding green foliage. “That would be bloodroot,” you answer. “One of my personal favorites—it’s both ornamental and medicinal. It would look lovely in a bouquet.”

Nayeon pulls a face and shakes her head. “No, no—I don’t want anything with such a horrible name. What about these?” she asks, reaching up to take a closer look at a larger bloom. “Peonies, right?”

By the time Nayeon makes it back to the checkout counter with a few sample rose cuttings in hand, you’re fairly certain that several eternities have passed. “Is there anything else you need?” you ask as you ring her up and wrap the flowers neatly in paper.

“A discount for an old friend?” she queries, shooting you a playful wink. When you don’t answer right away, she giggles. “I’m kidding! Obviously, I’ll pay. It’s not like I’m pressed for money—I mean, you’ve seen who my fiancé is, right? Now gosh, where did I put my wallet?”

Your cheeks are beginning to feel far too hot. Nayeon is still rummaging in her purse, and you quickly duck beneath the counter under the pretense of looking for some ribbon to tie off the bouquet. Fanning your face, you take a few deep breaths, listening as she continues chattering away.

“We’re having dinner tonight, actually, Hoseok and I. It’ll be our second real date, and… wait!” She gasps, and you peer up just in time to see her slap a hand over her perfectly lacquered mouth. “You should come! Bring someone, if you can—it’ll be like a double date!”

If you can? Bast snipes. Curse her.

You sigh inwardly and straighten back up, ribbon in hand. Shut up, Bast.

If you won’t, I will.

You’ll do no such thing.

Mustering up your best, most earnest smile, you hand over the wrapped flowers along with her change. “That sounds like fun,” you tell her, ignoring the way your insides lurch at the lie. “When and where?”

Nayeon beams and rattles off the address of an unfamiliar restaurant. “Don’t be late!” she calls as she heads for the door. The bell jangles cheerily as she departs, and as soon as the door shuts behind her, Lisa pokes her head around a nearby bookshelf.

“Finally,” she sighs, walking over to join you. “I thought she’d never leave.”

Ordinarily, you wouldn’t dare speak ill of a customer, but you’re willing to make an exception today. “You and me both,” you reply, watching as Bast slinks over like a shadow and hops onto the counter beside you. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your elbow in silent solidarity, and you mindlessly begin scratching behind his ears as Lisa speaks again.

“Are you really going to go to that dinner tonight?”

You meet her gaze, shrugging. “I already said I would. Do I really have a choice?”

There isn’t much else to say, and both you and she know it. Pushing off from where she’s leaning against the countertop, Lisa flips her coppery hair over her shoulder and shoots you a look, brown eyes full of sympathy. “Good luck,” she says sincerely. You get the feeling that she wants to say something else, but decides against it at the last minute. Instead, she bids you goodbye and walks out with a wave and another chime of the bell. Silence settles over the shop once more, and you allow yourself a few moments to breathe—slow and deep, in and out—before picking up your phone and opening up the most recent text messages. It doesn’t take long to find the name you’re looking for, but you still pause, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, before you begin to type.

[4:21pm] You: how would you like to join me for a very awkward dinner date?

[4:21pm] Jin: consider me intrigued.

///

You and Jin arrive at the restaurant first. It’s an ornate, palatial place with tuxedoed waitstaff and a coat room, and despite giving the name ‘Jung’ at the door, you’re certain that Hoseok played no part in the venue selection. The host ushers you to a booth tucked in the back, the cushioned seats a velvety burgundy and a chandelier glittering overhead, throwing refracted, iridescent light across the veined marble table. All of a sudden, the simple black dress you’re wearing feels painfully inadequate. Glancing down at your feet, you wonder if you should have worn heels instead.

Beside you, Jin cuts a striking figure in a creamy silk shirt with ribbons that tie into a bow at his throat, the material loose and flowy up until where it tucks into fitted black slacks. His pink hair complements the elegant outfit perfectly, parted and swept off his forehead to reveal his dark brows.

As if reading your mind, he lays a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You look beautiful,” he says, before gesturing at the booth. “Now, do you want the inside or outside? Think you’ll need to make a quick getaway at some point?”

“Probably,” you sigh. Jin nods and sits down first, and you watch him slide across the seat cushion before settling in beside him. “I still can’t believe you volunteered to be here,” you murmur, plucking up one of the folded cloth napkins and fiddling with the crisp white edges. “You’re a saint, I swear.”

Jin chuckles and plucks the napkin from your clasped hands, laying it across your lap instead. “Not a saint,” he says, matching your soft tone. “Just someone who cares about you.”

Your cheeks warm at his sudden proximity. “Thank you,” you tell him, for what must be the umpteenth time. “I can’t even imagine what I’d do without you.”

“Good thing you don’t have to, then,” he replies with a grin. “Now, chin up. They just walked in.”

You can’t help the groan that escapes you. “Is it too late to run?”

“Afraid so,” he answers honestly.

And then Nayeon is slipping into the cushioned seat opposite you, syrupy smile in place on her berry lacquered lips. “Hi!” she chirps, laying a hand on Hoseok’s arm as he sits down beside her. “Sorry we’re late. We, um…” She pauses and shoots Hoseok a conspiratorial look, giggling. “... lost track of the time.”

Your magic flares, hot and bright in your veins, and you know Jin feels it too when he lays a cautionary hand on your knee beneath the table. “We weren’t waiting long,” he says, offering the two a genial smile. He’s perfectly polite as he and Nayeon exchange quick introductions, and gestures toward the assortment of menus on the table as soon as everyone has settled down. “Why don’t we order some wine to start?”

“Oh, that’s a splendid idea! Isn’t that a splendid idea, Hoseok?” Nayeon turns to the auburn-haired man beside her, and you do the same, gaze landing on Hoseok for the first time tonight. He’s in an all black ensemble, sharp jacket layered over a silky black shirt, the top buttons loosened to bare a tantalizing sliver of golden skin. His auburn hair is parted, a stray lock falling across his forehead, and you shiver when you realize he’s staring right back at you with dark, unreadable eyes.

At the sound of Nayeon’s voice, Hoseok seems to snap out of his trance, his expression smoothing out as he plasters on a smile. “Take a look at the menu,” he says, picking up the leather-bound book and offering it to her. “Dinner’s on me.”

You blink. “We can’t let you do that, Hobi.”

“Let me pick up at least part of the tab,” Jin adds, already reaching for his wallet. “I’m no corporate bigshot, but I do well enough for myself.”

“No need to be modest,” you chime in, nudging him playfully. “Weren’t you just telling me about your new restaurant opening on the way over? Next week, right?”

Jin’s ears redden as all the attention is turned onto him. “Next week, yeah.”

“That’s amazing!” Nayeon chirps, pressing closer to Hoseok. “We’ll have to check it out sometime. Maybe a date night, right, darling?”

Hoseok busies himself with rearranging his cutlery, swapping the knife and fork around. “Right—sure. If we ever make it up to Seoul, we’ll, uh… we’ll definitely stop by. Congratulations, man.”

The conversation continues. A server stops by to take your wine order, and Jin decides on a moderately priced bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Glasses are brought over, and wine is poured. Hoseok finishes his quickly and pours himself another, and though his wolf metabolism prevents him from getting drunk off of regular wine, you know that he’s a bit of a lightweight and tends to avoid drinking heavily no matter what the beverage. He’s drinking with a purpose tonight, and you’re beyond grateful when Jin pipes up with yet another story when the conversation lulls.

“And then I found out that the oven was on the whole time! Adam would probably let the entire apartment go up in flames just to spite me—I should watch my back.”

“Or, you know, just watch the oven more closely,” you tease. “I’ve seen your place, Jin—it’s a complete fire hazard. It’s a wonder it hasn’t burned to the ground already.”

Jin sniffs. “You’re exaggerating. Stop making me look bad.”

“You make yourself look bad,” you retort, laughing when his lower lip juts out into a pout.

Across the table, Hoseok clears his throat. “Speaking of fire hazards—did I ever tell you about the time {Name} set me on fire?”

“I did no such thing!” you protest, reaching over to slap his arm. “I mean, okay, maybe a little bit, but that was one time! And you were barely singed!”

Hoseok snorts out a laugh. “Barely singed? I couldn’t sit properly for a week.”

“Oh please, that’s a lie and you know it!”

Nayeon interrupts your conversation with a loud huff, setting her wineglass down with enough force to thud against the veined marble tabletop. “Do one of you maybe want to fill us in on the joke here?”

Abashed, you glance back at Hoseok, watching as his smile slowly fades back into the careful, neutral expression he’s worn all evening. “Sorry,” you murmur. “It’s an old story from when we were kids—when we first met, actually. We were seven years old, and it was the second day of school. I didn’t have a very good handle on my magic yet, and accidentally set Hoseok’s tail on fire during recess.”

“I preferred to run around in my wolf form back then,” Hoseok further elaborates. “There was a big field out behind the school—remember that, {Name}?”

You nod. “Of course. It went right up to the very edge of the woods. And if you kept going and went far enough, you reached the old wooden bridge.”

Hoseok is smiling again, soft and fond. “That thing was a death trap.”

“But the teachers could never keep us away,” you say, grinning at him.

“All right,” Nayeon interrupts again, sniffing disdainfully. “Enough about the old days—I think it’s time to talk about the present. And more importantly, the future.” She sighs happily and props her chin up in her palm, ensuring that the delicate golden band on her ring finger is on full display, the metal glimmering in the warm light. “You’re both invited to the wedding, of course. And I never did properly thank you for the flowers today, {Name}!”

Her words seem to come as a surprise to Hoseok, who straightens up in his seat. “Flowers? You visited Hellebore today?”

“Of course I did!” Nayeon hides a giggle behind a manicured hand. “I wouldn’t even think of trusting anyone else with my bouquet.”

Hoseok’s gaze skitters over to you, awash with concern and tinged with apology, but you ignore him in favor of forcing your expression into something that’s meant to be a smile. Yet no matter how much you strain your cheeks and stretch your lips, it feels—and looks, you’re sure—far more like a grimace.

“I’m happy to do it,” you lie, your teeth gritted and tight. “I don’t mind it one bit.”

///

“So. That was just as awkward as promised.”

You and Jin are walking back to Hellebore, leaving behind the bustling downtown area for the darker, quieter streets of your neighborhood. Your companion’s hair is tinged orange in the glow from the streetlamps, and you can only chuckle humorlessly when he turns to you and raises his eyebrows.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I was duly warned,” Jin agrees.

A car drives by, the headlights throwing Jin’s profile into stark relief. His expression is solemn but he doesn’t say anything else and neither do you. The remainder of the walk passes in silence, broken only by the occasional strain of conversation from passersby and the low drone of late night traffic. You reach Hellebore with no incidents, and you muffle a yawn as Jin steps into the wardrobe to go back to Seoul.

Just before he shuts the door behind him, he shoots you a meaningful glance over his shoulder. “You should tell him how you feel, you know. He deserves to know. And you… you deserve to be happy.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t need him to. Long after he’s gone, his remark echoes in your head, and no matter what, you simply cannot seem to shake it.

///

It’s been years since you’ve last gone to the old bridge, but after last night’s conversation you find yourself pulled back, lured by the promise of memories of a kinder time. The forest beyond the field hasn’t changed much since your school days, and neither, you realize, has the bridge itself. It still stands tall, proudly spanning the steep ravine that your teachers warned you about, the rickety wood splitting apart at the seams and overgrown with lichen and climbing ivy. Far below, the white-capped river rushes by on its long, turbulent journey to the sea.

Carefully, you step onto the bridge—first one foot, then the other. The energy in the air shifts as soon as your feet leave the loamy earth, finding traction instead on hewn wood, and you sigh as your fingertips brush against the railing. The magic here is an old magic—different from the ancient magic that dwells in places like the werewolves’ clearing and the realms of the fae. The low thrum of it fills the air and seeps into your veins, quickening your pulse and prickling your skin.

“I thought you might be here.” The voice comes from your left, barely audible over the rush of the river.

“You thought right,” you reply, stepping forward until you’re toeing the railing and leaning over to stare down into the swirling, eddying waters below.

Hoseok joins you at the edge. His profile is stark against the leafy green backdrop, and for a few moments, all is still. Then: “I’m really sorry about last night.”

The apology hangs in the silence for a few moments before fading into the sound of churning water and wind whistling through the trees. You suck in a deep breath, oxygen swelling your lungs until you can hold it in no longer, before letting it escape in a resigned sigh.

“You don’t have to apologize to me, Hoseok.”

“Maybe not. But I want to.” He shoots you a sidelong glance. “Will you let me make it up to you?”

You raise a brow. “Make it up to me? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

“Anything you want.” Hoseok smiles crookedly, but you can’t quell the tumult brewing in your belly.

“What do you want, Hobi?”

His smile fades. “I—” He stops and shakes his head, auburn hair flying. “It doesn’t matter what I want. This is about you.”

You gaze up at him, taking in the sharp cut of his jawline and the straight angle of his nose. Your eyes trail along the smooth slope of his rounded cheeks and the soft curve of his mouth, lingering on the little mole atop his upper lip.

And then you reach out and take his hand, savoring the way his fingers immediately, comfortably settle into the spaces between your own. “Why don’t we head down to the river?” you ask. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been, and I’ve missed it.”

Hoseok’s expression softens, a glimmer of something bright shining in his amber-flecked irises. Gently, he tugs on your hand, taking the lead as you leave the bridge behind and head north in search of the sloping path that will take you down and into the ravine that houses the riverbed. You chance a few glances over the treacherous edge, watching the water froth and tumble over the rocks.

“You know, this seems a lot more dangerous now than it did back then,” you muse. “I see why our teachers were always trying to keep us away.”

“We were kids back then,” Hoseok says, grinning. “We thought we were invincible. Nothing could touch us.”

“Simpler times,” you agree with a laugh. “I set your tail on fire, you cried—”

“—and then we became lifelong friends,” Hoseok finishes, joining in your mirth. “Easy-peasy.”

Together, you locate the path down to the ravine. The descent is easier than it was back then, your longer limbs extending your reach, but you’re grateful for Hoseok’s steadying hand all the same. He carefully guides you around the biggest rocks and tree roots, pulling you closer when you lose your footing near the bottom. His fingers remain twined with yours even after you’ve safely arrived at the riverbed, stepping across stones that have been worn smooth and warmed by the sun. You slip off your shoes, letting them dangle from your free hand, and Hoseok does the same.

Sunlight glitters off the water, throwing a thousand refractive diamonds across the surface, but when you dip your toes in you find that it’s cold as a mountain spring in autumn. That doesn’t stop Hoseok from bending down to splash you though, and you shriek in surprise before retaliating with a silent spell that sends icy water splattering across the faded denim of his jeans.

“That’s not fair!” he protests. “You can’t use magic!”

“I’m just using every resource available to me,” you reply with a sly grin, sending a swelling wave of water toward him with a lazy twist of your hand.

From beneath his drenched hair, Hoseok raises a challenging brow in your direction. “Oh yeah?”

Before you can even blink, he’s shrugging off his jacket and pulling his shirt over his head, baring a taut, honeyed abdomen and toned arms. Tossing the discarded clothes onto the bank, he unfastens his belt and lets that drop as well, fixing you with a crooked little smirk all the while. The muscles in his torso ripple.

And then he’s shifting—limbs elongating and reddish-brown fur sprouting from his skin. His remaining clothing rips under the strain of the transformation, floating downstream in tattered shreds, but you don’t pay them any mind. No matter how many times you’ve watched Hoseok shift, you’ll never quite get used to it. He hunches over, more beast than man at this point, his chest rumbling. And before you know it—before you can even pinpoint exactly when the transformation is complete—he’s standing before you as a massive russet wolf, baring ferociously sharp teeth that you know could easily tear a man limb from limb.

His eyes, however, remain the same—warm, molten brown flecked with amber and gold, a devilish twinkle lurking in their depths. You cock your head to the side in a silent challenge, and swear that the wolf in front of you grins before pouncing forward, landing in the river with an enormous splash that leaves you thoroughly drenched.

“Now we’re both soaked!” you cry in between giggles, watching as Hoseok emerges from the water, his fur dampened black and dripping. “How is this a win for you?”

Hoseok rears back and lets loose a triumphant howl, shaking himself out and further drenching you with the spray of water from his coat. You squeal and back up several steps, batting him away, but Hoseok just presses closer and nuzzles his wet face into the crook of your neck. His body heaves with every breath, flaring hot against your skin, and for a few long moments, you simply stand there, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck as icy water rushes past your ankles.

After what feels like an eternity, you step back, releasing Hoseok and staring up into his face. Even in his wolf form, he towers over you, and you reach up to stroke his muzzle tenderly before bopping him on the nose. “Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s dry off.”

Hoseok lets out a low rumble of agreement, and together, you make your way back to shore. You fold up his discarded clothing while he trots off to locate his shredded jeans, quickly finding them caught between some rocks and carrying the denim tatters back over to you in his teeth. Shaking your head, you add it to the growing pile and lay a hand atop it. Heat concentrates in your fingertips, mingling with the magic running through your veins. Stitch by stitch, his jeans repair themselves, drying in the process. Hoseok bumps your cheek with his nose in gratitude and darts off to change, and you dry your own clothes while you wait.

When Hoseok returns, he’s reverted to his human form, fully dressed and raking a hand through his damp hair. “Thanks for drying these off,” he says, flashing you a sheepish grin. “And for fixing my pants. Again.”

“Mending charms are easy,” you reply, and it’s the truth. Over the many years you’ve known Hoseok, you’ve mended his clothing countless times—from the accidental transformations in his early years, before he could control it, to the calculated ones as he got older. Hoseok doesn’t shift terribly often nowadays, but on occasion he still goes out to stretch his muscles and hunt with his pack. His grandfather, in particular, always made the time to take him hunting at least once a month. You wonder if he’s gone since he passed, but decide not to ask.

“Should we go see the Towers?” you ask instead.

“Lead the way,” he agrees, falling into step beside you as you head downstream. The ravine walls are higher here, decorated with gnarled roots and rocky outcrops that obscure the periwinkle sky and cast long shadows across the ground. Cairns begin to crop up on both sides of the river—each tower of stones carefully and deliberately stacked. They’re small and scattered at first, but gradually become taller and more frequent until you’re nearly surrounded by a forest of stone. The air grows noticeably heavier—the magic more potent. It almost feels as if electricity is dancing across your skin, the sparks sinking into your pores and melding with your soul.

Hoseok feels it too, if the look of awe in his eyes is any indication. “I can’t believe I’d nearly forgotten about this place,” he marvels, running a finger across one of the stacked stones. “Do you feel that? The magic?” Then he chuckles. “Wait, of course you do. What am I talking about?”

You smile softly, tracing the path his fingertips leave behind. “Yeah, Hobi. I feel it.”

The topmost stones are almost out of your reach now. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a gray pebble about the size of your palm—a near perfect disc veined with white. Gently, you place it atop the cairn closest to you, watching it glint in the sunlight for a moment before turning to your companion.

“Well?”

Ancient legend dictates that as long as an offering is left, one may take a stone from the Towers. You and Hoseok have each acquired a rather sizable collection during your childhood years, lured by the promise that the stones will bring about good fortune and happiness.

“I forgot to bring something,” Hoseok admits, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “But I can pick one out for you. Hang on…” He hums thoughtfully as he scans the towering pillars, tapping his chin until he alights on one in particular, plucking up a stone that’s been worn smooth, burnished orange and marbled with ivory and copper. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” you reply, admiring the way the marbled surface glitters in the sun.

Hoseok takes your hand and places the stone gently in your palm. “It’s yours.”

Then he’s off—stepping over a fallen log to admire another tower, brushing a curious finger across a moss-covered rock before glancing over his shoulder at you. “Coming?”

You nod, tucking his gift away safely in your pocket. Together, you carve out a path amongst the towering cairns, clambering over river rocks and brushing aside the dense undergrowth. The path opens up again gradually, revealing the burbling water to your left and the steep ravine wall to your right. The river is calmer here—clear enough to see all the way to the bottom where shimmering, silvery fish dart about. A low, flat rock juts out into the water a short ways away, and Hoseok strides over to plop atop it, gesturing for you to join him.

“This is nice,” he sighs once you’ve made yourself comfortable by his side. “The fresh air is doing me a world of good. I’ve been cooped up at the office for so long, I swear I almost forgot what trees smell like.”

“You’re more than welcome to sniff around the shop if you ever need a reminder,” you tell him, nudging his shoulder playfully. “Better yet, I’ll bring you a plant for your office. Spruce up the place a little bit.”

“That sounds great, actually,” he admits with a chuckle. “I don’t have your green thumb, though. I’ll probably end up accidentally killing it.”

“Something low maintenance, then,” you promise. “A succulent, maybe. When should I bring it by?”

Hoseok’s expression sombers. “You can always stop by tomorrow after the hearing.”

Your heart plummets into your stomach. The Ministry—the overarching government body that dictates all Shadowfolk affairs—summons every pack alpha for a confirmation hearing when they first come into power. “They’re holding the hearing? Already?”

He nods. “The Ministry’s summoned me for tomorrow morning. First item on their schedule, I’m pretty sure.” A resigned sigh escapes his lips, dissipating into mist on the air. “And there’s a party at JungTech HQ afterward. You know. So my dad can officially hand the reins over.”

“The most powerful man in Gwangju,” you murmur, thinking back to Lisa’s words.

Hoseok lets out a derisive snort. “Yeah, right. The most powerful man, beholden to his dad, the Council, and the entire fucking Ministry. It doesn’t matter what I want to do. Never has.”

It’s the second time he’s dismissed his feelings, and as much as you want to ask what it is he truly wants, you find that the words are stuck in your throat, your mouth suddenly as dry as the desert on a cloudless day. Instead, you lay a silent hand over his, feeling his warmth seep up into your palm.

“Hey.” Hoseok doesn’t tear his gaze away from the sky, watching a flock of birds fly overhead. “Yesterday, when Nayeon said she’d stopped by… did she say anything to you?”

The sound of her name leaving his lips leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you swallow it down. “Not really,” you tell him. “She looked at some flowers and invited me to dinner. Simple as that.”

Hoseok nods slowly, lips pursed. “Was Jin already there when she came?”

You blink. “Jin? Oh, no—no, he wasn’t. I texted him after Nayeon left.”

“Ah.”

“I’m glad he was free, though.” You stare down into the water, where a curious fish swims in and out of the shadow you cast. “I’m honestly not sure who I could’ve invited if he hadn’t been available. Plus, it’s been ages since I’ve had dinner with him, and it’s been a few months since you’ve seen him too, right? I’m really happy it worked out.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t stop yourself. Hoseok has become eerily still, lost in introspection, and you feel obligated to fill the silence.

“You two make sense, you know.” Hoseok’s voice comes suddenly. “As a couple. Both witches—it makes a lot of sense.”

You peer over at him, eyes widening at his assumption. “We—we’re not actually together, Jin and I. We’re just friends.”

Hoseok straightens at that, his gaze flitting down to meet yours. “Really?”

“Really.”

A beat of silence. Hoseok looks like he wants to say something else, but a quiet buzz from his pocket stops him in his tracks. His mouth clamps shut as he checks his phone, teeth clicking together, and you can tell from the sudden tension in his jaw that it isn’t good news.

“Do you have to head back?”

He nods stiffly, silent apology written all over his face. “Work calls.”

You offer him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me. Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow after your hearing.”

He nods again and turns to leave. Before he can take too many steps, though, you call him back, reaching into your pocket to pull out the stone he’d gifted you earlier.

“Take this,” you murmur, pressing it into his hands. “I’m pretty sure you need it more than I do right now.”

Hoseok’s fingers curl protectively around the stone, holding on like it’s his only remaining lifeline. “Thanks.”

///

Downtown Gwangju is a monochrome forest of towering glass and steel, clamorous and unchecked by nature, proudly defiant in the face of the earth mother herself. The sidewalks are awash with people rushing back from their lunch break, forcing you to dodge around several businessmen too absorbed in their phones. Just as you are finding your footing again, a hapless intern carrying a tray of coffee cups rushes past, nearly crashing into you.

“Oh, shi—sorry! Sorry, oh, jeez. Are you okay?”

You wave off his apology with a smile, taking in the ill fit of his suit and the messy knot of his tie. “Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, reaching out to help him steady the tray in his hands. A stabilizing spell—silently cast, the magic pulsing through your fingertips—should be enough to get him back to his office with no additional mishaps. You wonder if he’ll notice that his tray is suddenly more well-balanced, or that his hands have steadied.

But then again, you suppose it doesn’t really matter whether he does or not.

Somehow, someway, you make it to JungTech without running into anyone else. The receptionist recognizes you immediately and points you toward the elevator with a smile, and you thank her as you press the up button. It doesn’t take long to arrive, and you take a deep breath as you step inside, staring at your reflection in the mirrored walls.

All right? Bast queries, stirring awake in your mind.

You release the breath that you’d been holding in a long whoosh. Yeah. I’m all right.

The doors open on the top floor, and straight away, you are assailed by a cacophony of sounds. Scattered conversations and laughter intermingle with the clinking of champagne flutes. There are at least fifty people scattered around the open space that lies between the elevator and the glass-fronted CEO’s office at the very back—the office that bears Hoseok’s name on the door. There’s no sign of the man himself, but you have no doubt that he’s nearby. This entire party is a celebration for him, after all.

The elevator doors begin to close, and you quickly reach out to stop them, stepping out before it can protest at your dawdling. A young man in a pristine white shirt materializes on your right with a tray full of champagne flutes, and you pluck one off with a murmur of thanks. Sipping slowly, you wander around the perimeters of the party, listening to the lively chatter. Across the room, you spot Lisa, returning her friendly wave with one of your own.

“Hello, {Name}.”

The deep, familiar voice has you whirling around in an instant, head bowing in automatic deference. “Mr. Jung,” you murmur, not quite daring to look him in the eye. “It’s been a while.”

Hoseok’s father inclines his head in acknowledgment, salt-and-pepper hair gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. No doubt he was a handsome man in his younger days, but the salt in his hair has steadily overtaken the pepper in the last few years, the stern lines around his mouth deepening.

“I didn’t know you would be joining us today,” he says cordially. “But then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised after all these years. Have you been here long?”

“Not long. Five minutes, maybe.” Beneath his piercing gaze, you feel like a small child again. Quickly, you scramble for something else to say, gesturing around the sleek glass interior of the office. “This is a lovely party. You must be so proud.”

Another nod. “I wasn’t sure that Hoseok was going to step up,” he admits. “I had my reservations about whether or not he would accept his duties as a Jung, but he has, and I’m pleased that he did. It’s no easy feat, running this company and leading the city’s pack. But I’ve served my time, just as my father did before me.” His gaze flits down to meet yours suddenly, and you find that you can’t read the emotion swimming in them. “I believe I spotted you at his funeral the other day, did I not?”

You nod, resisting the urge to take a sip from your nearly empty champagne glass as your cheeks warm under the scrutiny. “I was, yes. I’m very grateful to have had the opportunity to pay my respects. He was a great man.”

“That, he was,” Mr. Jung agrees. “Hoseok takes after him in many ways. My father—as great as he was—always had a soft spot for the boy. Coddled him a bit too much.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Jung, I think that’s a grandfather’s job,” you reply with a smile.

That earns you a smile in return, the lines around his mouth easing. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Hoseok’s father excuses himself to talk to the other guests, and you set off in search of Hoseok himself. You can feel his aura somewhere nearby, strong and steady, but the room is large enough that you cannot pinpoint his exact location. Not for the first time, you curse the fact that you don’t have a werewolf’s sharp sense of smell. No doubt it could easily be as cumbersome as it is helpful, but it would certainly help you right now.

Turning a corner, you are about to continue lamenting your average olfactory system when you suddenly catch a glimpse of familiar auburn hair, afloat in a sea of black suits. Dodging around a sharply dressed businesswoman and ducking beneath a waiter’s serving tray clears your path to Hoseok, and you’re milliseconds away from stepping forward to greet him when you feel it.

There’s an energy emanating from Hoseok, the likes of which you’ve never felt from him before. It’s heavy and commanding and so potent that the air is laden with it, and a cursory glance at the people surrounding him reveals that they feel it too—their gazes lowered, voices hushed and respectful. In his fitted black suit and emerald green shirt, he looks every bit the alpha he is, and you are quickly realizing that you’re not immune to the power radiating off of him. The Hoseok standing before you isn’t the same Hoseok whose tail you set on fire all those years ago. Far from it. The revelation is somehow simultaneously terrifying and thrilling, and your heart leaps into your throat when you notice that he’s waving you over.

As if compelled, you comply, striding forward until you’re standing before him. “Hi,” your murmur, suddenly feeling shy.

Hoseok’s face splits into a smile. “Hi yourself,” he says, and you would have laughed if your insides didn’t feel like they were about to burst.

“I, um. I brought you your succulent,” you tell him, reaching into your bag. There’s a tiny potted jade plant inside, packaged neatly into a box that you open up and present to him. “It’s jade. Easy to keep alive, and easy to propagate too, if you’re inclined.”

Hoseok accepts your gift, his smile growing as he admires the plump green leaves. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

You shrug and wave off his gratitude, fiddling to clasp your bag shut. “So,” you start, glancing around and gnawing on your bottom lip, completely missing the way Hoseok’s eyes darken as he follows the movement. “It looks like everything went well at the Ministry. Your dad is pleased.”

Hoseok hums, low in his throat. “You talked to him?”

“Yeah, just now.”

“I see.”

He looks like he wants to say something more, but he’s interrupted by a blur of motion and a shrill cry of his name. A moment later, Nayeon is at his side, latching onto his arm and batting her lashes, adorned in a form-fitting red dress and golden jewelry.

“Hoseok! There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you!” Then her gaze alights on you, eyes going wide as if she’s only just noticed your presence. “{Name}, oh my goodness. I almost didn’t see you there, hi!”

“Hello, Nayeon,” you grit out, unable to hide your scowl. You wonder if she spotted it before you hid it behind a large sip of champagne.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice. Her attention refocuses onto a spot behind you, and you watch as her expression lights up, delight etching across her features. “Mr. Jung!” she exclaims. “There’s my favorite future father-in-law. Come and join us—it’s not a party without you.”

Hoseok’s father chuckles lightly, coming forward to stand beside you. “Long time no see,” he jokes, nodding in your direction. “And Nayeon—hello. How are you enjoying the party?”

“Oh, I’m having the loveliest time,” she chirps, simpering up at Hoseok. “How could I not be, when my fiancé is here with me?” Then she smiles—her lips painted the same shade of red as her dress. “But I’m sure I’m nowhere near as happy as you are. You must be beyond excited to spend some quality time with your wife after being busy for so long.”

“I am,” Mr. Jung admits. The severity in his features softens as he seeks out his wife, standing across the room surrounded by friends and extended family. “I’m a very lucky man to have a woman like her.”

Nayeon giggles. “And I’m a lucky woman to have a man like your son. Isn’t that right, darling?”

She tilts her head to look up at Hoseok, who blinks twice in rapid succession, his throat bobbing. “Right,” he says, his voice raspy. “The luckiest.”

And as you turn to engage Mr. Jung in conversation once more, you miss the way his gaze lingers on you.

///

Tuesdays at Hellebore are for brewing. You save bottling for Thursdays—giving your potions and other concoctions ample time to simmer and set—but today, you are hunched over the stove with all four burners turned to different temperature settings, watching over your pots so that they don’t boil over.

A cursory glance out the window tells you that it’s well into the afternoon, the pastel blue sky littered with trailing clouds lit hazy and golden in the sun. You’ve been in the kitchen since early morning, and, desperate for a breath of fresh air, you crack the window open and inhale deeply. Then you turn back to the stove, giving one pot a stir and adding a pinch of burdock root to another.

Wandering downstairs, you head to the greenhouse. The sunlight is brighter here, the air more humid. Inhaling deeply, you breathe in the scent of the hundreds of plants growing inside, before heading for the laburnum tree in the far corner. Carefully, you brush aside the cascading golden flowers, about to gather the dried ones that have fallen to the dirt when there’s a knock on the front door.

“I’m sorry, we’re close—” you say, stopping when you recognize the head of coppery red hair in the window. “Lisa?” Confused, you open the door and let her inside. “What brings you here today?”

“You need to go to Hoseok, now,” she says, foregoing any preambles. “He’s… well, you’ll see. Nayeon’s there right now, but she’s not helping the situation, and...” She sighs. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can help him now.”

All at once, your stomach drops to your toes. “What’s wrong with Hoseok?” you demand. “Is he hurt?”

Lisa shakes her head, red hair flying. “No, he’s fine. I don’t know how much longer that’ll last, though.”

The cryptic response sends your heart into overdrive, pounding against your ribcage like a doomsday drum. Striding over to the bay window, you wake Bast from his nap in a slanted ray of sunlight, scratching behind his black ears and watching as his golden eyes flicker open, pupils going wide when he senses your turmoil.

What is it?

Hoseok, you reply shortly. Beneath your touch, Bast’s ears perk up.

What do you need?

You swallow, hard, and suck in a deep breath. I’m going to open a portal.

It’s a dangerous feat, and both you and Bast know it. Opening a portal requires an immense amount of energy, and maintaining one long enough to travel through is a risk to even the most experienced witches. You’ve heard horror stories of spliced limbs and paralysis, and in some cases, even death.

But for Hoseok, you’re willing to risk it all.

“Lisa,” you say, grabbing your purse and striding back to the front door of the shop. “Can you lock up once I’m gone?”

She nods nervously. “Of course.”

You incline your head in silent thanks. At your feet, Bast is slinking continuous figure-eights around your ankles, betraying his worry at the task ahead. Your own heart feels ready to spring out from your ribcage and onto the sun-drenched floor, but you swallow down your nerves and look down at your familiar once more. Ready? you ask.

Ready, Bast confirms. Be careful.

I will.

Closing your eyes, you begin to visualize Hoseok’s front door, focusing on every little detail you can remember. There’s the scuff in the black paint from when he first moved in and accidentally scraped a table leg against it. There’s the bronze knocker that always hangs slightly askew. The image builds slowly in your mind, coming together like the broken pieces of a puzzle.

The air around you is suddenly much warmer than before, an invisible force sapping away at your strength and weakening your legs. Bast’s energy melds with yours, but it’s barely enough to keep you on your feet. Exhaustion seeps into your bones and steals the oxygen from your lungs. You gasp, chest heaving.

I don’t think it’s going to work. Bast’s voice is a faint whisper in the back of your mind.

It will, you hiss. It has to.

The front door of your shop is beginning to glow white, becoming hazy and amorphous as the edges begin to blur. You spot a splash of black paint coming through the fog, followed by a bronze knocker. A matching handle appears a moment later, growing out of tendrils of mist and solidifying before your eyes.

Sucking in a deep breath, you reach forward to grab it. Slowly, you turn until you can turn no longer.

And then you step through.

The first thing you hear is a low, cavernous rumble—deep enough that you feel it reverberating through your very bones. Then your surroundings begin to come into focus. You’re in Hoseok’s entryway, all your limbs thankfully intact. The relief you feel at your success is quickly eclipsed by worry though, when you see Hoseok himself on the far side of the living room. The look in his brown eyes is nothing short of wild, his white shirt unbuttoned to nearly his navel and his auburn hair sweaty and disheveled.

“H-Hobi?” Your voice is no more than a breath, dissipating in the open air.

“Hoseok.” The new voice has you whirling. Nayeon is pressed against the wall opposite him, her expression harried. “Hoseok, please—“

“Get out,” Hoseok growls, his voice dangerously low. He’s bristling with the same energy as before, the same energy you felt back at JungTech—but this time it’s enough to fill the room and spill out the opened door and into the hallway. You can feel it pulsing against your skin, hot and electric, and know that Nayeon is even more affected from the way her shoulders slouch, her eyes dropping to the floor when he snarls. “Get out, now.”

She does. Nayeon turns on her heel and dashes out, slamming the door behind her and leaving you alone with Hoseok. His eyes are alight with something more wolf than man, his chest heaving with uneven breaths, and it’s all you can do not to shrink back when he turns his full attention onto you. Even from across the room, you can smell the liquor spilled across the coffee table in a dark ooze of fluid, cloying and bitter.

“What are you doing here?” Hoseok asks, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “You shouldn’t be here right now, {Name}.”

“Lisa told me to come,” you whisper. “You’ve been pushing yourself too much, Hoseok.”

Hoseok shakes his head and rakes a frazzled hand through his hair. “You need to leave,” he grunts. Shakily, he reaches out to right the overturned liquor bottle, the pad of his thumb skimming across the shattered edge.

“Let me do that,” you tell him, making to step forward, but Hoseok stops you with a raised hand and a low growl that stops you in your tracks.

“Don’t,” he hisses. “Don’t you dare come any closer to me.”

You shake your head. “Hobi, it’s obvious you’ve been drinking. Let me help you.”

“No!” he snarls, flinching back when you take a step forward. “You need to leave. It’s… it’s dangerous for you here.”

“Dangerous?” Your voice is reduced to a whisper at the severity of his reaction, the energy in the air intensifying until it’s almost unbearable. “Why?”

“Because I’m in heat!” Hoseok spits. He sucks in a deep breath, the air whistling between his teeth, before he lets out an agonized moan and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m in heat,” he repeats, reticence dripping from every syllable. “I can’t even fucking think straight, and I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you if you stay. So please, {Name}. Please go.”

“But Nayeon…” you begin, wavering when his eyes flash darkly at the mention of her name. “Or Lisa… I can call her, maybe—”

“No!”

You jump, startled at the volume of his shout.

“No,” Hoseok repeats, softer this time. “Don’t. I don’t want them. I’m—I’m fine.”

The sticky humidity and the pulsating energy flowing through the room tell you otherwise. “You’re clearly not,” you tell him gently, taking another step toward him. “Let me call Lisa. Or maybe one of the other girls in the pack, I’m sure someone can help y—”

“I don’t want Lisa.” Defeat suffuses his tone, his eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t want any of them. I want—fuck.” Hoseok groans and lets his head fall back against the wall, the dull thunk echoing in the stillness. “It doesn’t fucking matter what I want. You need to leave, {Name}. You’re only going to be in danger if you stay.”

For the second time that afternoon, only one word springs to mind. “Why?”

Hoseok groans again. “Because I’m weak,” he mutters hoarsely. “Because I’m weak, and I’m not thinking straight, and if you come any closer to me, I won’t be able to stop myself from pinning you against that wall right there and having my way with you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. The rippling energy in the air is almost oppressive in its strength, and only grows when Hoseok’s gaze finally lands on you, his pupils blown out and blacker than the night.

“Go,” he entreaties, dragging a frazzled hand through his hair. “Please, {Name}.”

You suck in a deep breath, your lungs swelling and expanding with the newfound oxygen. Then, ever so slowly, you let your gaze flicker up to meet his. “What if I don’t want to?”

Hoseok freezes. Time comes to a standstill, and even the overwhelming energy emanating from him seems to falter. The room is near silent, broken only by your companion’s ragged breathing, his chest heaving beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt. Even from across the room, you can see the sheen of sweat coating his honeyed skin, shining in the light of the setting sun.

“You don’t mean that,” he says at last. “You can’t mean that.”

“I can,” you whisper. “And I do.”

For three agonizingly long seconds, Hoseok remains rooted firmly in place, his throat bobbing harshly. Then, before you can even blink, he’s striding forward—a blur of motion almost too quick for your eyes to follow. He comes to a stop a hair’s breadth from you, one hand reaching up to cup your face delicately, as if you’re made of glass.

“You,” he rasps, “have no idea what you’ve just done.” His thumb traces the swell of your cheek just below your eye, the motion surprisingly tender. Your heart stutters in your chest.

And then he leans down and crushes his mouth to yours.

The rest of the world falls away, dissolving into nothing. Your eyes flutter shut as Hoseok’s hands slide down your sides to curl around your hips, your body melting against his taut frame. He is all you can feel and all you can taste, and you keen helplessly when he grinds against you, his cock hot and hard against your stomach.

The sound seems to awaken something in Hoseok, a cavernous groan erupting from his throat. Pulling away from your mouth, he descends upon the delicate skin of your neck, teeth and tongue blossoming bruises in their wake. Shaky hands find the collar of your shirt, questioning eyes seeking out yours for permission that you happily give. He tugs the garment off almost delicately, his ravenous gaze roving across each bit of newly revealed flesh, and once it’s freed from your head he tosses it aside and sets about doing the same to the rest of your clothing.

Maybe it should feel odd, watching through lidded eyes as Hoseok drops to his knees to pull your jeans down and off your ankles. Maybe you should feel embarrassed, seeing your best friend bury his nose between your legs, delirious bliss etching across his features as he inhales, his strong fingers curling around your thighs to spread you wider. But instead, it feels completely and utterly natural—as if this was always meant to be.

“You smell divine,” Hoseok breathes, slotting himself between your spread thighs and running a fingertip along your lace-covered slit, collecting the considerable slick there and bringing it to his nose. “Fuck, {Name}. Just one whiff, and I can tell that you’re primed and ready for me.”

“Take me, then,” you breathe back shakily, rolling your hips when he slips past the lacy barrier of your panties to find your clit, circling around the sensitive nub until you’re gasping his name.

Hoseok’s gaze darkens to obsidian, his pupils swallowing up the amber-flecked brown of his irises. In one smooth motion, he’s on his feet again, straightening up to his full height as his hands find purchase on your hips. He twirls you around until you’re facing the wall, your palms pressed flat against the woven tapestry hanging there.

“Gorgeous.” A single word, laced with unmistakable awe. Then he’s fumbling with his belt buckle, the metallic clink and tug of a zipper reaching your ears, before he presses against you, clothed chest molding against your bare back. Even through the thin layer of fabric, you can feel the sweltering heat emanating from him, his sweat soaking through the cotton and sticking to your skin. His mouth finds its way to the junction of your neck and shoulder again—teasing at the flesh until you’re quivering—before he begins laying a trail of hot kisses down your spine.

“Wanna fuck you,” Hoseok rasps, tearing your panties away once his lips reach the waistband, the flimsy lace ripped to shreds in his desperate grip. “Want you on your front, want you on your back, want you on my tongue—” His voice drops, rumbling through his chest and sending shivers through your entire body. “Want you. Wanted you for so long.”

And as if to reinforce his words, the velvety head of his cock nestles against the cleft of your backside, hot and slick.

Wordlessly, you arch your back, presenting him with the tempting swell of your rear. A glance over your shoulder reveals the strained clench of his jaw and the bob of his throat, his biceps tensed and his gaze unwavering. His control is undoubtedly dangling by a single thread at this point—a delicate, gossamer thread that’s on the verge of snapping. The delirium of his heat is overtaking his senses, his grip tightening on your hips, and ever so slowly, he begins to press forward until the tip of his thick cock is just beginning to part your walls. Already, the fit borders on excruciating, and your body tenses at the intrusion, stretched to the limit around his thick girth.

Hoseok exhales shakily, his primal instincts warring with his desire to ensure your comfort. Soft lips drop kiss after kiss onto your bare shoulders, your back, your neck—wherever he can reach as he whispers tender praises into your skin. “Breathe, princess,” he encourages lowly. “You can take it—I know you can. You were made for me.”

Obediently, you inhale, focusing on the way your lungs expand and contract as you draw air into them. The pain ebbs away with each breath you take, until all that is left is a low throb of pleasure. Your hips rock back against him, and Hoseok takes it as a sign to push forward once more, parting your walls until he’s fully seated inside you, your body stretched to the limit as you mold around him.

There’s no pain now—only an aching desire for more, more, more. He’s deep enough to reach parts of you that you’ve never been able to explore before—either alone or with other partners—and you moan brokenly when he rolls his hips experimentally. “More, Hoseok,” you whimper. “Please.”

He obliges. One thrust leads into another, the punishing pace he sets fueled by his heady desperation for relief. The full, heavy weight of his cock dragging along your walls ignites every nerve ending in your body, sizzling electricity blazing through your veins. It’s all you can do to plant your palms flat against the tapestried wall, fingers twitching at the woven fabric as Hoseok grabs your hips with enough force to bruise and pulls you back against him in time with his thrusts.

“Look at you,” he says hoarsely. “Love the way you feel, clenching around me like that. My perfect, pretty girl, taking my cock so well. I always knew you were made for me.” He grunts, forehead falling against your back, damp hair matting against your skin as he continues rutting against you. “Always—fuck—knew you were my mate.”

The particularly harsh thrust that follows his raspy declaration sends all coherent thought flying out of your head, taking your surprise along with it. All you can manage is a shuddery whine that vaguely resembles his name, the sound intermingling with the obscene smack of flesh against flesh and the continuous stream of praises Hoseok whispers into your skin.

There’s something building inside you—a dull, throbbing pressure at the point where your body joins with his. He’s still rolling up into you, but each subsequent thrust grows more and more shallow. The realization dawns on your dazed mind all at once, as you feel the growing swell at the base of his cock. Hoseok is rendered near immobile as he finally reaches his high, the entirety of his length sheathed firmly inside your pussy as he spills ropes of white against your fluttering walls. The swelling continues, filling you until you feel fit to burst.

“H-Hoseok,” you gasp. “I can’t. I can’t—you’re going to rip me in half.”

Soothing hands smooth along your sides, warm lips littering kisses onto your bare shoulders. “You can,” he murmurs tenderly. “You were made for me, and I for you. You can take it, princess. I know you can.”

The gentle repetition of his fingertips trailing nonsensical patterns into your skin eases your labored panting somewhat. Beneath his touch, you slowly relax, the pressure in your abdomen abating as his knot begins to subside.

“You did so well.” His voice is no more than a mumble, almost lost in the sweat and slick coating your skin.

You sag against the wall, taking a few moments to catch your breath before slowly easing off of him, the sudden loss leaving your core empty and aching. Gingerly, you turn around to face him, acutely aware of the way your combined juices immediately begin dribbling down your thighs.

“You said I was your mate,” you whisper, almost afraid that the sentiment will disappear if voiced aloud. “Did… did you mean that?”

“Every word,” Hoseok replies, equally soft. “Is that okay?”

A smile blooms across your face. Rising up to your tiptoes, you kiss him again—a soft, reassuring peck that he immediately leans into, seeking out your touch like a flower in the sun. “More than okay,” you breathe, feeling the way his lips stretch upward against yours. “I’m glad, Hobi.”

Hoseok sighs into your mouth, a slow smile settling across his features. “Now it’s your turn,” he says, and in an instant, he’s swept you off your feet, one arm beneath your bent knees and the other around your back. “And I’m planning to take my time with you, princess. You’re not leaving here until I say so.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, crossing your hands at his nape. “Fine by me,” you tell him, earning yourself a wide grin. His lips seek out yours again as he carries you down the darkened hallway and into the shadowy depths of his bedroom, pausing only to nudge the lightswitch on with his elbow. Golden light suffuses the room as he steps forward to lay you on his bed, your back sinking into the plush mattress and dipping further when he joins you. He hovers over you with an arm on either side of your head, and you reach up to trace the vein that lines his biceps with a gentle fingertip, giggling when he gives your bottom lip a punishing nip.

The kiss deepens from there. Hoseok parts your lips and seeks out your tongue with his own, subduing it into compliance. By the time you pull apart, all the oxygen has left your lungs, leaving you flushed and gasping. Hoseok chortles breathlessly and trails down to press a kiss to your navel, before traveling downward until he’s reached your clit. Gently, he wraps his lips around the sensitive nub, rumbling with laughter when you buck against him.

“So needy,” he murmurs. To your displeasure, he straightens back up to kneel between your spread thighs, but your complaint quickly dissolves into thin air when he edges forward until his knee is pressed against your aching clit. Desperate for more friction, you grind against him, your wetness soaking through his jeans in a matter of seconds.

It doesn’t take long for pressure to build up in your belly again, winding tight as a coiled spring. Hoseok is staring down at you, transfixed, and his undivided attention only serves to bring you closer to the edge, teetering on the very brink.

“Look at you.” His voice could almost be described as a purr, if he weren’t so utterly canine in mannerisms and appearance. “Such a greedy little thing, all desperate to get off. You’re making a mess of my new jeans, princess.”

You’re too far gone to care about the teasing lilt that colors his tone. The edge is rapidly approaching, and one last roll of your hips is enough to send you over, your walls convulsing around nothing as you ride out your high.

Hoseok doesn’t wait. In an instant, he’s back between your legs, having moved so quickly you didn’t even see when he’d started or stopped. His tongue darts out to lave at your folds, a growl rumbling through his chest when your hips jump on instinct. Immediately, he tightens his grip, strong arms winding around your thighs and anchoring at your waist to render you helpless in his grasp, only able to take what he sees fit to give.

“How is it that you taste even better than you smell?” Hoseok muses as he leans down to suck your clit into his mouth, lips curling up into a pleased smirk when you gasp out his name. “Cute,” he says, releasing the nub in favor of descending to your drenched entrance instead, flicking his tongue shallowly inside before withdrawing with a chuckle.

“Hoseok—” you begin, only to dissolve into a moan when he sheaths two fingers inside you without any warning, curling them up and in until you’re shaking in his grasp.

“Come for me,” he commands softly. “Go on, let me hear you.”

And you do, chanting his name like a mantra as a wave of pleasure overtakes you. Hoseok’s thumb circles your clit in just the right way to prolong your orgasm, and it isn’t until you’re cringing from overstimulation that he finally relents, descending down to mold his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. His lips part yours, tongue dipping out to explore as he sheds his shirt and shucks off his ruined jeans. His skin, when he presses against you, burns hot as a furnace wherever it touches. Against your stomach, his cock stirs back to life.

He’s gentler this time. Every movement is slow and deliberate and tender as he breaches you, murmuring your name reverentially as he fills you again. Your body bows to his willingly, stretching to accommodate him, and the spike of pleasure that lances through you when he bottoms out is almost enough to send your oversensitive body over the edge again, your walls fluttering around him.

There’s an unmistakable shift in the air when Hoseok starts up a slow rhythm, leaning down to kiss you again. His lips move against yours, soft and tender, before moving past your jugular and down to the crook of your neck, elongated canines scraping against the delicate skin in a silent question. You wind your arms around his neck and nod, giving him his answer. There’s no need for words.

And then his teeth are sinking into the spot he’s so lovingly scoped out, breaking the skin. Your body collapses into a searing orgasm, and the pleasure intermingles with the pain of the bite until you are delirious, rendered boneless in his grasp. Hoseok’s hips stutter, his pace growing erratic as he soothes the wound over with his tongue.

You’re prepared for the swelling this time, but the fullness still manages to knock all the air out of your lungs, bordering on painful as his knot grows. Hoseok quells your whimpers with tender kisses, the instinct to comfort his mate paramount even as he paints your walls with ropes of creamy white. He traces a path from your lips down to where he’s marked and claimed you as his, imbuing your skin with a litany of praises that warm you from the inside out.

“My mate,” he murmurs, reverent. “Finally.”

You lean into his touch with a tired smile. “Finally? How long have you wanted this?”

His lips curl into a smile against your clavicle. “Ages. If I’m honest, I think I fell in love with you the day you set my tail on fire when we were kids. It’s always been you, {Name}. Only you.”

You can’t help it—you need to hear it from his mouth again. “You love me?”

Hoseok chuckles. “Of course I do. My tricky little minx—my perfect, pretty mate. I love you more than anything.” One hand reaches up to caress your cheek, running along the tender skin beneath your eye before cupping the back of your head so he can mold his mouth to yours. “Love you more than I can even explain,” he breathes, punctuating each word with a kiss. His hands blaze trails down the slopes of your body until he finally anchors below the crook of your legs. “So why don’t you let me show you instead?”

And he does. Over and over that night, and in the two days of his heat that follow, he shows you exactly how he feels. Propriety is forgotten, left by the wayside with his scorned fiancé and marriage. He is yours, and you are his.

Consequences be damned.

⇢ aftermath.

also set in this universe:

[myg]

6K notes · View notes