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blossom-hwa · 3 years ago

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Paradise |1| - SEONGHWA

I would say I’m sorry for the length of this fic but the world needs to know about witch!seonghwa. Anyway please enjoy, and happy birthday to one of the best boys in the world <3

Banner credits to @blueprint-han (oh my god I’m still not over how beautiful it is <3 dawn I adore you!!)

Pairing: Seonghwa x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, reincarnation!au, witch!au

Triggers: death, semi-graphic depictions of blood and gore

Word Count: 13.5k

When you die the first time, Seonghwa makes a promise. In a second life, he swears to keep it.

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

Ateez Masterlist

When Seonghwa is young, his parents take him to the woods beyond his village for the first time. His father goes off with his brother to gather herbs or something but Seonghwa wants to play in the flowers, so his mother stays with him, watching with a careful eye as he runs around the field of blooms. She tells him the name of every flower she recognizes and indulges Seonghwa with his favorite smile whenever he picks a new one for the ever-growing bouquet in her hands.

In his rush to see every part of the field, he doesn’t notice the strangely shaped flowers at first. The patch is hidden among some of the taller blooms and blades of grass and they don’t smell, so only on a whim does Seonghwa give even a little more attention to the flowers that don’t really look like flowers. The petals don’t splay out wide, like his mother’s skirts – they wrap around the stem gracefully and open almost like a trumpet. Or something. Seonghwa thinks it’s a trumpet.

“Those are calla lilies,” his mother says, kneeling beside him. “Pretty, aren’t they?”

Seonghwa looks at the strange flowers. They’re pretty, very pretty, all in delicate shades of pink and white. They’d look nice in his mother’s bouquet. But there’s something more to them, something that means more than just the word “pretty.” Seonghwa doesn’t know what it is exactly, but…

One chubby toddler hand reaches out to touch a white petal softly, the way his mother taught him. Don’t rip the flowers, Seonghwa. If you want to pick them, do it with respect.

Respect. These flowers, these lilies deserve respect. More respect, perhaps, than any of the other blooms in this field. He doesn’t know why. They just do.

“I like them,” Seonghwa says with finality. He does, even though he doesn’t quite understand why. “They make me happy.”

His mother cocks her head as Seonghwa reaches down to pick one of the white lilies, then a pink one too. She takes them carefully and adds them to the bouquet in her hands. “They make you happy?”

Seonghwa nods.

“Why?”

He blinks. Wonders. His lips twist down into a pout. “I don’t know,” he whines. Seonghwa doesn’t like not knowing. “They just do.”

“That’s okay.” She pats his head, her warm hand soothing through his hair. “You don’t need to always have a reason for why some things make you happy, Seonghwa.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“No reason,” she says, her hand still in his hair. “Calla lilies can be poisonous, though, my little flower. Be careful with them, okay?”

Seonghwa frowns. Does that mean it’s a bad thing that he likes them? Does it mean he can’t like them? “Does that mean they’re bad?”

His mother’s laugh always comforted him. It doesn’t fail him now. “Not necessarily,” she smiles, bringing him a little closer. Her sparkling eyes meet his. “You like them, yes? You think they’re pretty?”

He nods.

“Then they are good.” She kisses his forehead. “Everyone and everything has a bad side, little flower. But to most things, there is also a good side.” Her eyes smile, sparkling down at the flowers and then back at him. “As long as you can find that side, Seonghwa, it can be good.”

Seonghwa studies the lilies in his mother’s bouquet. They’re very pretty, very beautiful. His chubby finger reaches out to touch the soft petals again, feeling their gentle give beneath his skin.

“Oh, there’s your father.” His mother’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “They must be done.” Her fingers move from his head to his arm, reaching down to grasp his hand. “Shall we go?”

The flowers sit on the dinner table that night, brilliantly arranged by his brother’s artful hands in a tall, glass vase. All of the blooms are beautiful – Seonghwa stares at them throughout the meal, silently repeating the name of each type in his mind as his mother’s voice echoes softly in his ears – but he pauses on the calla lilies, eyes fixed on the way the petals splay so gracefully around the stem, like a dancer holding their arms out to the sun.

Calla lilies. They’re different. Seonghwa doesn’t know why, but by the time evening falls and lantern light glitters on the vase instead of the sun’s rays, he decides calla lilies are his favorite flower. No reason.

They just make him happy.

. . . . .

It isn’t just the calla lilies. There are other things Seonghwa just… likes, without any real explanation other than the subtle tug in his gut telling him that he likes them. The smell of oranges, for example, and the color green. They might not be his favorite fruit or color the way calla lilies are his favorite flower, but Seonghwa likes them. They make him feel happy. That’s enough for his young self to accept these little things as fixtures and facts of life – he likes being happy, and these things make him happy, so he’ll keep them around.

His brother asks him once why he has so much green stuff, why he doesn’t choose clothes or toys in black and blue, his favorite colors. Seonghwa just shrugs. “It makes me feel happy,” he tries to explain. “Even if green isn’t my favorite, it just… feels nice.”

Seongjun doesn’t get it, that much is clear. His entire room is filled with purple and blue and the scent of drying herbs everywhere, a mix of his favorite colors and smells. But he doesn’t question Seonghwa further and lets him be with his green pots and green pens, blue and black interspersed among the little forest of his bedroom.

Life in the village is simple for Seonghwa. Maybe that’s why he gives in to the little tugs in his stomach so readily, even if they seem a little weird to others. He isn’t a hard to please child – above all else, Seonghwa likes making other people happy, and as long as he gets to keep his little quirks close, calla lilies and dried orange peels scattered in green ceramic pots dotted with black and blue, Seonghwa considers himself very content.

Other things also make him happy. The tulips his mother puts on the living room table, the forest-y smell of his father when he comes home every day, the softness of his blanket when he pulls it up to his chin after getting into bed. People, too – his parents, his brother, his friends who live in the village whether they be magickal or non-magickal, but those are… different. Seonghwa can’t pinpoint it, but these bits of happiness don’t come with the subtle tug in his gut that accompanies oranges and calla lilies and the color green. You like these things, it seems to say. You like them. You always have.

To a little kid like Seonghwa, always just means it’s a fact of life, the same way the sky is blue during the day and black at night. Unquestionable. He didn’t develop these tastes. They were just there with him from the moment he could understand the world around him.

His parents don’t get it. Seongjun doesn’t get it. Seonghwa doesn’t bother talking to his friends about it either – he can’t explain how he feels, and they have better things to talk about anyway, like whose toys they want to play with this time. But the tugs don’t hurt anyone, so his family lets him be.

Seonghwa likes it. He’s fine with it, the implicit understanding that these smells and colors and flowers are a part of him and always will be. He understands. It all right even if no one else does.

. . . . .

When Seonghwa turns twelve, his parents send him away for school. They’ve all known he has magick for a long time – he accidentally changed the color of his favorite flowerpot when he was eight and almost cried before his mother changed it back – but his parents still wanted him to have some of a traditional education before he started learning the intricacies of witchcraft. So he packs up his clothes and charms and flowerpots, makes his father promise to keep the calla lilies he can’t take alive, and steps foot into the Aurora Academy of Witchcraft for the first time.

His brother has already graduated from the lower set and is starting classes in the higher set by the time Seonghwa enters the academy, but Seongjun promises him that even though he won’t be there, people will look out for him. The teachers are friendly and so are most of the students, he says, and though Jun might be mischievous sometimes, he’s never lied to Seonghwa about anything serious. He remains a little wary, however, unsure of making new friends when he first steps onto the academy grounds, until he meets Kim Hongjoong from down the hall.

It’s weird. See, where Seonghwa is neat, Hongjoong is a mess. Baskets overflow with books on the floor of Hongjoong’s dorm while Seonghwa’s stand in neat stacks on his desk and shelves, and Hongjoong likes to throw his clothes everywhere – clean and dirty – while Seonghwa meticulously folds his clean laundry into the drawers (“They’re there for a reason, Hongjoong.”) and keeps his dirty clothes in a hamper.

If Hongjoong wasn’t so fun to be around, Seonghwa would probably have distanced himself and found other people to be friends with. They’re very different in their daily habits, their individual quirks. But Hongjoong has a fire that burns within, a subtle flame that rises with excitement and spreads warmth to everyone around. Seonghwa, caught in the circle of his fire, can’t help but draw closer, closer, pulled in like a moth to the flickering light of Hongjoong’s flame.

True to a flame, when Seonghwa comes a little too close, sometimes, he burns. As much as he likes friends, Hongjoong also likes his space. He can tolerate hugs, nudges of the shoulders, even holding hands when Seonghwa doesn’t feel very good, but Hongjoong has his bad days too where all he wants is to be left alone. Seonghwa doesn’t get it at first – his own family is very open with emotion, and he’s used to seeking the comfort of someone else when sadness weighs his shoulders, but Hongjoong is different. He didn’t grow up with Seonghwa and he has other ways of coping. So after a few burns and cold shoulders and subsequent apologies, Seonghwa learns to give his friend space when he needs it. He’ll always be there for a hug or for discussing the merits of ginseng versus yarrow leaves in potions later on (the latter is honestly more likely).

Hongjoong’s eyes shine bright with youth, intelligence, and curiosity. As the days stretch into weeks and then months and Seonghwa only finds himself drawn even closer to the messy boy who bounces with so much excitement and knowledge, he eventually concludes that Hongjoong is his best friend. It just feels right. Not exactly in the way that calla lilies and the smell of oranges feels right, but it’s as good a way as any other. Hongjoong makes him happy, and that’s more than enough.

(He’s also the only one who doesn’t question Seonghwa’s habit of going into the fields every week and picking a fresh posy of calla lilies to decorate his favorite green pot, even though they’ve learned by now that the flowers are deadly poisonous in almost any potion. The most he says is, “Why calla lilies? I think daisies are nicer.”

“I like calla lilies.” Seonghwa doesn’t try to explain the tug in his gut that tells him he likes them, that he’s liked them forever – longer, maybe, than his twelve years alive, even if that doesn’t make sense – but he thinks Hongjoong might understand it implicitly anyway. He’s smart like that. “They look nice. Even if they’re poisonous.”

“Fair.” Hongjoong shrugs. “I’d keep daisies around if they grew here too. Just don’t eat them.”

Seonghwa writes to his family later that day and asks his father to send some him some pressed daisies. He makes Hongjoong a present for his birthday, charming and weaving dried petals and leaves and bits of stem into thick, creamy paper that Hongjoong can use to take notes. His friend refuses to take notes on the paper, though, and uses it instead to send letters back to his family, claiming the stationery is too nice to be used for schoolwork. Outwardly, Seonghwa protests, but inwardly, he beams.)

His brother was right, Seonghwa concludes by the end of the first year when he and Hongjoong are standing in front of the Academy, waiting for their parents to come and pick them up for the summer. The teachers were nice, the students were nice, and he has a best friend now in the form of one Kim Hongjoong.

Life couldn’t get better, it seems, not when he has family at home and a best friend to come back to every year.

. . . . .

Then he takes Eden’s class.

Eden is amazing. He introduces himself as Professor Kim, but he tells them immediately after that they can call him Eden if they want. They all start buzzing the second they leave the room – most of the professors are nice, of course, but none of them have ever been so cool as to let them call him or her by such a casual name.

Clearly, life can get better. Hongjoong is great and things were good last year, but they can get even better – Eden is obvious proof of that.

Hongjoong is the one who actually takes a shine to Eden first. Seonghwa, the shyer of the two, ends up just being dragged along whenever Eden happens to be around so that Hongjoong can say hi. In time, though, Eden knows Seonghwa’s name as well as he knows Hongjoong’s, and the other kids sometimes tease them (or give them looks, depending on who they are) for being Eden’s favorites.

“I’m not Eden’s favorite,” Seonghwa always protests before looking innocently at his friend. “That’s Hongjoong.”

The mock betrayal mixed with nervous pride in Hongjoong’s eyes never fails to make him smile.

Eden has his secrets, though. That makes sense – adults always have things they keep from children – but the biggest mystery Seonghwa has always wondered about but never actually asked is what in the world Eden actually means. It’s a cool name, yes, but very different from those of other people that Seonghwa knows. He also apparently has another name, Yonghwan or something – Hongjoong heard another teacher call him that once – which just confuses Seonghwa even more. Yonghwan or Eden?

He plucks up the courage to ask in the middle of the year, a few weeks after Hongjoong comes to him with the Yonghwan discovery. “Eden, can I ask a question?” Seonghwa asks, shifting on one of the soft chairs in his office.

Eden raises an eyebrow. “You just did.”

Hongjoong cackles while Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “Edennnnnn.”

His teacher smiles. “Yes, of course. Go on.”

Seonghwa takes a deep breath. “What does your name actually mean?”

“What, Eden?”

He nods.

Eden smiles. “It’s a word from a myth from a culture across the world,” he says. Hongjoong leans forward, as does Seonghwa – it’s become a bit of a habit, now, to listen as closely as possible to anything their favorite teacher says. “I traveled there once and heard the story. Thought it was interesting, so I chose it as a fun name.” He shrugs. “Eden was the name of a place in the myth. A garden.”

Seonghwa frowns. “So Eden means a garden?”

“Not exactly.” Eden’s eyes twinkle. “This garden was a perfect garden, filled with every plant imaginable. This culture believes magic originated there, with the first bite of one of its fruits by a human. This Eden, this garden –” he leans forward too – “was paradise.”

Paradise.

The tug in Seonghwa’s gut feels familiar but also not. It has the same sense of timelessness that comes with calla lilies and the color green, but it doesn’t make him happy. Far from it. Rather, Seonghwa’s thin shoulders weigh down no matter how hard he tries to keep them up, and something rises in his throat – heavy, desperate, trying to claw its way from his lips but it feels useless, horribly hopeless, like trying to escape a well as the water rises faster than he can climb.

Sad. That’s the only word thirteen-year-old Seonghwa can come up with. Or maybe desolate? That seems to have the right feeling. Either way, for a moment, he can’t breathe. Can’t even think beyond the stifling feeling in his throat –

It doesn’t make sense, paradise. Paradise is a good word by all definitions. Perfection. Utopia. Seonghwa doesn’t know why he feels these tugs but if he had to feel something for this word, paradise, it should be a happy tug, right? Like calla lilies and oranges and the color green. But this – this isn’t happy. Not even close. Seonghwa can’t even put a name to it.

They’re looking at him, Eden and Hongjoong. He should say something. He was the one who asked in the first place, right?

“Oh,” Seonghwa says.

It’s all he can manage around the tightness in his chest.

. . . . .

So the tugs aren’t always good. The sick hopelessness clawing up his throat every time he sees his favorite teacher proves it. He still calls Eden by his name – going to Professor Kim so suddenly would only raise eyebrows – and in time he grows used to it, but the name always brings back the dull ache in his chest, which doesn’t make sense. Paradise is perfect. Paradise is good.

What business does it have feeling so bad?

It doesn’t matter, though. Seonghwa can’t avoid his teacher, so he’ll just have to live with it. It’s fine. It’s doable.

At least for a while.

Eden teaches classes on types of witches and their respective areas of magic. Seonghwa learns more about green witches, his father and brother’s type, and kitchen witches, his mother’s type. There are others, too – astral witches, hedge witches, sea witches – and they’re all interesting, even if Seonghwa already feels pretty sure his path leans towards that of a kitchen witch, like his mother. The charm that changed the color of his pot was simple kitchen magick. It doesn’t mean anything for certain, but Seonghwa has his suspicions anyway.

Towards the end of the year, as exams approach, Eden decides to give them a break and takes a day to lecture on something that won’t be covered on their tests this year but will be introduced more fully in the future. Seonghwa and Hongjoong slide into their seats that morning, eager for whatever Eden will speak on.

Eden opens his mouth. Next to Seonghwa, Hongjoong leans forward.

“Today, I will be teaching you about blood witches and blood magick.”

Seonghwa doesn’t fall, but he thinks he might have if the desk hadn’t been in his way. Because when the words “blood witches” and “blood magick” fall from Eden’s lips, the resulting tug in his stomach feels more powerful than oranges, than green, than calla lilies, than even the mention of Eden’s name and the fact that it means paradise.

Is it a good tug? A bad tug? A sad one or a happy one? Seonghwa swallows hard, silently, trying to gauge the rush of emotions flowing through his blood. No warmth, no happiness, really, but no clawing hopelessness in his throat either. Closer to sad than happy, definitely, but sad is such a stupid little word – it doesn’t mean anything, not when there are so many other emotions that fall under its wide umbrella.

The feeling settles in his stomach, light but there. It spreads through his veins, rooting him to his seat with a strange… stability? Acceptance? Resignation? Not necessarily good, but not bad either?

Seonghwa barely stifles a frustrated sigh. He doesn’t have a name for it.

When he finally looks up, it’s to realize he completely missed the first few minutes of lecture. Next to him, Hongjoong already has filled half a page with notes. Seonghwa quickly picks up his pen – he can just tell Hongjoong he zoned out for the first bit and get the other notes later – and focuses on Eden’s voice, which is now talking about –

“– evil.”

Seonghwa’s pen hovers above his paper, trembling in the air.

Evil?

“Blood magick is the most powerful form of magick there is,” Eden continues, completely unaware of Seonghwa’s conundrum. “It takes its energy from the substance that contains the most raw magick possible – one’s own blood. A blood witch may use their own blood for their magick, but in most cases, they will use someone else as their medium. It hurts less for them, though it can cause unimaginable pain to the victim.” His expression turns grim. “Power corrupts, and often, blood witches in the latter category turn to the darker magicks in an effort to maintain their power, feeding on the energy of more and more people, simply turning to another when one dies.”

Power.

Darker magicks.

Feeding –

Dies.

Seonghwa feels sick.

“Almost all recorded blood witches in history have been evil. Corrupted.” Eden pauses at the front of the room, staring over his spellbound audience. “The dark witches who have caused the most damage to the magick community have all had their roots in blood. Many schools would prefer to have you learn about this subset of magick later on simply because they fear you will not be able to understand the depths of the horrors these witches have committed, but I think introducing them earlier will help you avoid such an embittered path in the future.”

Hongjoong raises his hand. Eden looks over. “Question, Hongjoong?”

“Yes, Eden.”

“Go ahead.”

“You said almost all recorded blood witches have been evil,” Hongjoong says immediately. “Are there any who weren’t?”

Eden purses his lips, but Seonghwa detects a glimmer of pride in his eyes for his favorite student. “There are a few,” he concedes. “By a few, I really mean two.”

“Out of how many?”

Eden blinks. Seonghwa doesn’t blame him. He himself is surprised at the question that left his mouth. “About a hundred,” Eden says, casting him a curious glance. Seonghwa tries to look innocent, even as eyes turn toward him from all around the room. “It’s the rarest type of magick.”

Hongjoong raises his hand again. “So what happens to those witches who are simply drawn to blood? We don’t control our affinities, right?” He cocks his head. “Are there uses of blood magick that aren’t harmful?”

“Yes, Hongjoong. It’s true that we do not control our affinities, and there are a few ways that blood witches can channel their magick into something harmless, or even helpful.” Eden nods. “There are several extremely advanced healing potions that can only be made using blood magick.”

“Calla lilies.”

Seonghwa thinks he says it in a whisper, but when he raises his head, the entire class has turned their eyes on him. Heat rises in his cheeks and ears and he swallows hard – why did he say calla lilies, what do they even have to do with the discussion at hand –

“Yes, calla lilies.” Eden’s words are careful. “Do you know what they have to do with blood magick, Seonghwa?”

Seonghwa swallows again, fists bunching his clothes beneath the desk. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t like the stares of everyone on him when he actually has no idea whatsoever as to what calla lilies have to do with blood magick or what they’re talking about –

“They’re deadly poisonous in almost any potion,” he says quietly, trying not to shake. Where are these words coming from? “But they are used in those healing brews that can only be made with…”

Anyone could hear a pin drop in the room.

“… with blood magick.”

The room stays silent after Seonghwa speaks. Hongjoong’s eyebrows are furrowed. His other classmates look confused, even suspicious. Eden’s face remains carefully neutral. “Can I ask how you knew this, Seonghwa?”

Seonghwa panics. He doesn’t know where the words came from, where the knowledge came from, he doesn’t know why he even spoke in the first place, no one has ever told him this information before and this is literally the first time he’s ever learned about blood witches so he has no idea what is going on –

“We were told calla lilies are deadly poisonous in potions in our first year.” Somehow, his voice doesn’t shake. “In most cases. I thought… I figured that the few where they weren’t… they were the ones that involved blood magick. Deadly poisons can counteract each other.” He swallows around a dry throat. “I guess… wouldn’t it be a similar sort of thing for deadly magick and a deadly poison?”

Eden’s expression clears. With it, the whole room seems to relax. “I see,” he says, smiling again. “Very good intuition, Seonghwa.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Seonghwa sees Hongjoong smile at him too. He tries to return the gesture.

Even though everything he said was a blatant lie.

Eden continues his lecture, returning to the corruption of those witches who succumb to the allure of power created by blood magick, going beyond healing potions and using their affinities to force others to bow down for fear of harm. Seonghwa fights to keep his expression neutral the whole time, wrinkling his nose in disgust when the others do, widening his eyes when Eden says something especially gross or horrifying, but it’s fake. It’s all fake. Because all Seonghwa wants to do is curl up under his desk and scream, maybe, or at least just sit in complete silence.

He learns several things that day.

One: blood witches are evil. Two out of “about a hundred” doesn’t mean anything, not when the other ninety-something caused so much damage. There is a reason blood witches are rarely recorded – the Goddess Mother rarely bestows such power on anybody for fear of how that power can corrupt.

Two: Seonghwa knows things. Weird things. Things he was never told but just knows like the information was always a part of him, like the tugs in his gut that come with calla lilies and oranges and paradise. They were always there. He just didn’t realize.

Three: blood witches don’t make him feel an evil tug or even a sad tug. The tug that comes with blood magick is disturbingly neutral, not happy but not sad, and it’s even more confusing than the feeling of paradise.

What does he do with that information?

It doesn’t feel like there’s anything he can do, though. So Seonghwa ignores it all, ignores all of the stuff about blood magick and blood witches and paradise, and just takes his exams. He gets good scores. He goes home.

He tries not to think of anything related to subtle tugs and dangerous knowledge, even if calla lilies line the fields he visits with his family every week.

. . . . .

Hongjoong asks to test a spell on Seonghwa in fourth year, their first of the higher set. Nothing really weird happened to him throughout the last year as he finished the lower set, and Seonghwa has relaxed enough to somewhat ride the high of finally leaving the lower academy for the higher set. It’s great – he only shares a dorm with Hongjoong, now. No more messy rooms of four.

Hongjoong’s idea of riding the high, however, means going even wilder with trying out new potions and spells. It’s nothing dangerous – Seonghwa knows Hongjoong will forever be experimenting on something or the other, but he would never ask to try anything on Seonghwa that he didn’t know for sure was harmless. Hongjoong is talented, anyway, so talented in ways a simple witch like Seonghwa will never be able to understand. It’s fine, of course. Seonghwa feels perfectly content with his simple kitchen witch charms, bringing sparks of magick into the mundane, and he’s always up to indulge one of Hongjoong’s experiments every now and then. Hongjoong’s intellect just means he trusts that his friend would never try to harm him with his attempts at trying something new.

“Sure,” Seonghwa says, sitting in his bed. “What’s this spell for?”

“I found it in one of the old books in the library! It’s like reading a palm, but faster.” Hongjoong grins, his magick vibrations already beginning to fill the air. “I might be able to see bits of your future, Hwa!”

Seonghwa opens his mouth, ready to say go for it – Hongjoong has recently found an obsession with reading the future, tarot cards and palm reading and the like, so he isn’t surprised. In fact, he feels a little curious as to what Hongjoong might see if the spell succeeds at all. But then there’s a sudden tug in his gut, the same tug that comes with oranges, with calla lilies, with the color green and any mention of blood or paradise –

It isn’t happy. It isn’t sad. It isn’t even desolate or lonely or heartbreaking, whatever it is that he feels when he remembers the meaning of Eden’s chosen name. Seonghwa’s stomach flops with a strange sense of foreboding. Something will happen when Hongjoong casts his spell, something unexpected. And once it comes...

There will be no going back.

“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong peers into his eyes. “You good?”

Biting his lip, Seonghwa tries to think. The feeling is foreboding. Ominous. No, not quite ominous, that’s a little too dark – casting this spell won’t hurt anyone. He thinks. Or he hopes.

What will happen if he doesn’t let Hongjoong have his way, though? Will he have any other chance to see what the tug in his gut seems to be warning him of? He might miss out on something important – maybe it’ll even tell him why he’s always felt the way he does about oranges and calla lilies and greenery and paradise.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Seonghwa smiles quickly. “Go for it.”

Hongjoong lowers his hands. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s okay.” He tries hard to ignore the racing of his heart – why is it racing? It’s just a little spell. “Come on, I want to know what you see.”

His friend casts him a slightly dubious look, but Seonghwa must do a good job of hiding his apprehension because Hongjoong just lifts his hands again, one of them going to the tiny sunstone pendant at his throat. “Do you have your tiger’s eye?” he asks as the magick vibrations grow stronger. “It’ll help keep you grounded.”

Seonghwa fishes the little pendant from under his shirt. “Here.”

“Okay.” Hongjoong takes a breath, squeezing his sunstone once. “I’m going to start.”

Magick charges the room, infusing the silence with an energy that crackles softly, warmly, in a way that is uniquely Hongjoong – Seonghwa feels the signature of his friend’s magick in the vibrations, a touch of excitement that never fades coupled with the faint smell and warmth of fire. It soothes him as Hongjoong begins to murmur the spell, words low and careful and practiced on his lips.

Then –

Seonghwa’s gut tugs. And in the split second between two words of the spell, he knows something is about to go very wrong.

The air shifts. Vibrations stutter. Energy crackles with too much power, too much warmth, and the faint scent of burning grows too strong, filling Seonghwa’s nose and choking him silently, but Hongjoong doesn’t seem to notice and Seonghwa can’t say a word, not a single word because magick clogs his throat and nothing will come out, nothing at all, not even breath –

Hongjoong finishes. For a second, the magick lingers, pounding against Seonghwa’s head, clouding his thoughts. Hongjoong’s mouth opens – Seonghwa can see it moving and knows his friend is saying something but he can’t hear it, can’t understand it. All he can feel is the choking sensation growing in his throat as he doubles over, silently wheezing into the ground while lingering magick slams its fists against his skin from the inside out, trying to release itself even if it tears Seonghwa’s body apart in the process –

He blacks out.

. . . . .

Darkness. Pure black inky darkness. Seonghwa can’t see a thing, not even his hand before him – does he even have a hand? Is he even alive? Just how badly did Hongjoong’s spell mess up for him to not have a sense of his own body anymore?

Then five words fills the void of nothing, kind and gentle, dispelling the heavy cloak of stifling magick that had settled over what Seonghwa thinks is his body. Warm, so warm, not stifling, but like lying down in a field of flowers under the sunshine.

Seonghwa could listen to it forever.

“Yeah, calla lilies are my favorite.”

He blinks. Or he thinks he does. He can’t do much when he can’t even feel his body, but calla lilies. Calla lilies. His favorite flower. That’s not a coincidence.

Who are you?

And why does your voice sound so familiar?

“I know they’re deadly poisonous in almost any potion, but they’re so pretty.” Seonghwa can hear the smile embedded in your words even though the darkness swallows your face, not a single part of your body visible to his eyes. “And they’re useful in a select few brews, very useful. You know. Just…”

Seonghwa knows what you’re going to say before you even say it. Because he’s said the same thing before.

“Blood magick must be used to make them.”

He said that. He said that in class and everyone looked at him, even Hongjoong, because that wasn’t something he was supposed to know. It wasn’t in any of his textbooks. Eden was only giving them a surprise lecture on blood magick – none of the information was on any exam – but Eden was about to say it before Seonghwa cut in with words that, until now, he didn’t know how he knew.

He still doesn’t. He doesn’t know who you are, why he’s hearing your voice in this void of darkness, why you know that in the first place. But somehow, he got this knowledge from you, your voice…

"I had to learn it all from old books. It’s not something... not something I was taught.” A heavy silence falls for a few moments, silence with a meaning that Seonghwa can’t decipher. “But all good things have a bad side, and all bad things have a good side, so I think it makes sense.” Your voice sounds a little softer now, brightness muted by a resignation, a slight ruefulness in your words. “My magick still has to have some use, doesn’t it?”

My magick.

Seonghwa’s heart stutters.

This voice, this familiar, warm, gentle voice, is the voice of a blood witch.

A blood witch.

The realization pounds at Seonghwa’s skull, a dull throb against bone. Magick vibrations fill the darkness, chasing away the sunshine warmth that came with your voice, squeezing against Seonghwa’s mind and blurring his thoughts and clouding his ears until he can’t even hear your voice anymore as crackling magick energy swallows the last of your words –

“Seonghwa!”

Seonghwa shoots up in bed, almost headbutting Eden, who was just bent over him. He blinks, gasping. One hand rises to the tiger’s eye at his throat. The familiar feeling of the smooth stone against his skin calms him slightly. “Where –”

This is not his bed. This is the infirmary. Seonghwa stayed here once when a flu was going around, but then it was half full of sick students. Right now, no one else is here besides him, Eden, and Hongjoong.

Hongjoong!

“What –” Seonghwa coughs on his dry throat. Someone hands him a glass of water and he downs it immediately. “What happened? I thought we were in the dorms –”

“We were,” Hongjoong says. Only now does Seonghwa actually see his friend’s state – puffy eyes wide with horror and regret. It just scares him more. What could have happened to make Hongjoong like this? “Do you… remember what we were doing?”

Seonghwa blinks. “You wanted to test out a spell…?”

“Yeah.” Hongjoong sniffles. “And then something went wrong –”

“And you blacked out.” Eden sits on the other chair next to Hongjoong, staring at Seonghwa. “Are you feeling all right?”

No bleeding, no aches, no coughing or a tight chest… “My head hurts a little,” Seonghwa admits. “But that’s all.”

“I see. Hongjoong, can you get Seonghwa some more water?” Eden gives him a meaningful look, one that Seonghwa interprets as leave us alone for now. Hongjoong apparently gets the same message and quickly leaves the room, glancing back just once.

The door shuts and silence falls. Seonghwa doesn’t feel uncomfortable, not exactly – he likes Eden and knows Eden likes him, his teacher might be upset with them being irresponsible but he won’t yell – but the silence feels uneasy. Strained. Eden has something to say, and he didn’t want even Hongjoong to hear it.

“The spell Hongjoong was trying,” Eden begins. “Do you know what it was meant to do?”

Seonghwa shifts on the mattress. “Read my future? Something like that?”

“Right.” Eden bites his lip. “If it had worked, that would’ve happened. Hongjoong tells me he didn’t see anything, however. Not even a glimpse.”

“What went wrong?” Seonghwa asks.

“My guess is he accidentally mispronounced something.” Eden flips open a book on the table next to Seonghwa’s bed, showing him one of the pages. “It’s an old spell, so some of these words are pronounced a little differently now than they were before. Or he could have just slipped up. I’m not sure, but…”

Seonghwa swallows, fear rising in his throat. “But what?”

“You’re not in danger,” Eden quickly reassures. “The spell didn’t harm you. It wasn’t supposed to, and as far as I can tell, you’re fine. But just a mispronunciation normally wouldn’t cause you to just completely black out, so I want to ask.” He leans forward. “Seonghwa, did you feel anything different before or during the spell?”

He did. That tug of foreshadowing in his gut when Hongjoong asked, the split-second feeling that something was going wrong even when Hongjoong himself didn’t notice. “Yeah,” Seonghwa breathes. “Kind of? I mean, I’m not sure if it counts, but…”

Eden sits quietly while Seonghwa works his way through an explanation that will hopefully make sense to his teacher and not just to him. By the time it’s over, Seonghwa feels like he probably just confused Eden even further, but his teacher only nods with a neutral expression. “This… tugging feeling. The one you said you feel in your gut.”

Seonghwa nods.

“Have you felt it before?”

Discomfort crawls in his stomach. Yes, he has, but it’s all about random things and it feels stupid to even talk about it – calla lilies and oranges, blood and the color green, paradise and the future? What kind of sense is any of that supposed to make? But he can’t lie to Eden, not when he’s only trying to help.

“Yes,” Seonghwa finally replies. “It’s… weird stuff. Like calla lilies and the smell of oranges.” Don’t mention paradise. “But those tugs usually feel good.” He winces. Usually. “Not like this one.”

Eden nods, face carefully neutral. “I see. Now, I just have one more question.” His eyes bore into Seonghwa’s. “Did you dream anything while you were unconscious?”

Darkness. A voice. Calla lilies, poison, potions, words Seonghwa had once said but didn’t know he knew, and…

Blood.

Blood magick.

Icy fear grips his heart. He can’t tell Eden about that, he can’t say that the voice he heard in his dreams was that of a blood witch – Eden himself was the one who gave the lecture on blood magick and all the ways it is evil. There’s no way Seonghwa can reveal that.

“I dreamed of a voice,” he says carefully. “It talked about calla lilies.”

“What did it say about them?”

“It said…” Seonghwa swallows. “It said calla lilies were their favorite.” He pauses. Don’t say more. “The voice sounded familiar, but I swear I’ve never heard it before until now.”

Grim understanding washes over Eden’s face. Seonghwa’s heart thuds. What does Eden know? What does he have to say about Seonghwa’s dream and weird experiences? What does he need to tell him that even Hongjoong couldn’t stay present to hear?

“I have a theory,” Eden finally says slowly, glancing at the book on the table. “That spell Hongjoong used – a very specific mispronunciation would have turned it into a different spell. One that wouldn’t tell futures, but would show past lives instead.”

Seonghwa’s heart pounds faster. Past lives?

“For anyone on their first life, like the vast majority of us, there would be no impact. Most of us, we live and die once. The Goddess Mother gives us the gift of life, and She takes our souls back to rest when it is over.” Eden looks back at Seonghwa. “However, you fell unconscious, and you had a dream. So…” He takes a breath. “Seonghwa, I believe you are a soul reborn.”

For several seconds, Seonghwa can only blink and stare. A soul reborn? What exactly does that entail?

Eden must see the questions on Seonghwa’s face because he smiles slightly. “I don’t know much about this either,” he admits. “Reincarnated souls are very rare. All I can tell you is that you may begin remembering your past life – or lives, even – in dreams, maybe, or flashbacks. When those come, you’ll be able to piece together what happened that made it necessary for your soul to return once more.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

“No, I don’t.” Eden shrugs. “There are some common reasons, though. Usually important goals unmet in the past life, like revenge, broken promises, and…”

Seonghwa leans in closer.

“And love.” Eden smiles. “I don’t know which of these apply to you if any at all, but maybe that’ll help guide you, yes?”

Slowly, Seonghwa nods. “Yes,” he echoes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Seonghwa.” Eden stands, the smile still on his face. It makes Seonghwa feel a little less terrified of whatever is going on. “I know I just dumped a lot on you so you’re welcome to come to me with any questions, though I can’t promise I’ll be able to answer them all. Are you okay to let Hongjoong back in here? If you’re too tired, I can send him back to the dorms.”

Seonghwa takes less than a second to think of the frazzled mess that Hongjoong probably has become after all that happened and shakes his head. “He can come in,” he says, almost smiling. “He’ll work himself into a fit otherwise.”

Eden laughs. “Touché,” he says. “I’ll let him in, but make sure to get some rest. Don’t want you coming to class with a headache tomorrow.”

The door opens and Hongjoong comes barreling in. “Seonghwa!” he cries, almost leaping to his bedside. Eden quietly slips out. “You’re fine, right? The spell didn’t hurt you – I didn’t harm you too badly? I’m so sorry, I should’ve checked my pronunciation, I just didn’t expect the spell to be that old – you’re fine, right?”

I dreamed of someone I knew in my past life who loved calla lilies and I’m willing to bet they love the smell of oranges and the color green, too. I dreamed of someone who gave me knowledge that I didn’t even know I knew. I dreamed of someone who was a blood witch but talked about healing potions and calla lilies. I dreamed of a witch who knew blood magick but whose voice I could listen to for the rest of time.

I dreamed of someone I knew in a past life, but I don’t know them anymore.

“Yeah.” Seonghwa smiles. “Don’t worry. I’m perfectly fine.”

. . . . .

The first dream comes less than a week later. Still void black – Seonghwa can’t see a thing – but he hears your voice again, younger this time but still clearly yours, speaking of oranges and their citrus smell. You laugh in this dream, a bright, golden laugh, and even in the darkness, Seonghwa can almost feel the warm sunshine on his face that you spoke of, taste the tart sweetness of the fruit on his lips – he can see it all, laid out like the prettiest picture, only he has no idea what you look like.

“Want one, Seonghwa?”

He wakes up with those last words ringing in his ears and an answer lingering on his tongue.

Seonghwa dreams of oranges again the next night. Then the next. And still the next. Then the void of black fills with soft whispers of rustling leaves and branches, and instead of oranges, you talk about the green of the forest, the verdancy of nature and how the Goddess Mother could have wrought such beauty. Green is rebirth, you say, a story of millions of lives fallen and risen again. That’s why you love it so much.

Rebirth. That one word makes Seonghwa wonder if there isn’t a deeper meaning behind your favorite color, one that neither of you ever could have thought of in your past life.

(He can almost smell the fresh air and the flowers, feel the sunshine dappling through tree leaves onto his skin, and a part of him yearns for it more than anything else in the world, even though he knows what you are.)

“Green, blue, black… they go together.” Your words contain a smile. “Pretty, right? Like the forest in the morning turning into night.”

When Seonghwa looks at his favorite pot after that dream, all he sees is your forest under a blue turning black sky.

You say the same words for several days, interspersed with reminders of the citrus smell of oranges, sour sweetness that bursts on Seonghwa’s tongue. He never stays asleep long enough to respond to anything you say, woken either by his alarm or by Hongjoong shaking him awake because “you were mumbling, Hwa, I thought you might be having a nightmare.”

There are no nightmares, however. Only dreams. And when Seonghwa wakes, there’s a warm feeling in his chest that seems to sparkle in his blood – he likes these dreams. He likes hearing you. You make him feel safe, happy in a timeless way. You’ve always made him happy. You’ll always make him happy.

Even if Seonghwa doesn’t know who you are.

Fourth year finishes. Seonghwa grows tired of trying to keep all of his thoughts cloistered in his mind and starts a dream journal disguised as a diary to keep Hongjoong from prying. In it, he writes everything he can remember about you whenever he wakes from a dream, everything he can remember that you said. It’s inane stuff, stupid stuff if he really thinks of it – who cares about void black dreams of flowers and oranges? – but when it’s you speaking, it all becomes important. Very important.

Because, slowly, Seonghwa is beginning to piece together a picture of you.

You like oranges. You like their smell more than their taste but are partial to both. Once, you squeezed one on accident and the juice hit you in the eye. It stung, but the fruit was still worth it.

The color green is your favorite. It reminds you of nature and rebirth, the never-ending cycle of life and death that Goddess Mother created when She made the Earth. From green, you recall your roots, the parents who gave you life and the Mother who gave you magick – it reminds you to be grateful for what you have and to use your gifts to help those in need.

It’s strange, you muse, that you like the color green. By an artist’s definition, it is the opposite of the color red, the color that traditionally defines your magick along with black. Because red and black are the colors of blood, and you are a –

Seonghwa pauses, pen hovering above the thin sheet of paper already half covered in writing. He knows what you are, knows what it means. Should he write it down? What if someone finds this book and realizes he has a connection to a type of witch deemed lethal and evil by the magick community? What would happen then?

And what would happen if they realized his connection is something other than that of enemies? That there is care embedded in your words and happiness woven into his thoughts, a joyousness that makes Seonghwa feel guilty and frightened when he wakes but that he fully relaxes into in his dreams?

His hand trembles. The pen lowers, ink blotting onto the paper.

Blood witch.

Seonghwa stares at the words he’s written, burning them into his mind. You are a blood witch. A blood witch. Yes, he knew this before, but seeing the words inked into his notebook just makes it all the more real.

In his past life, he knew a blood witch. He had some sort of relationship with this blood witch. He even liked this blood witch, if the sunshine warmth he feels with the sound of your voice is anything to go by.

What does he do with that information?

Seonghwa swallows hard. He could talk to Eden – his teacher was the one who told him about reborn souls and already said he was open to questions – but Eden was also the one who gave Seonghwa his first lecture on the evils of blood magick. Since then, he’s had several more, and they’ve all only reinforced the knowledge Eden gave him that first time. Blood magick is evil. Those who practice it should be avoided at all costs or killed.

So not Eden. Hongjoong, maybe, if Seonghwa could work up a way to explain reincarnation without sounding like some weird fake Wiccan who claims to have magic, not magick, and scams people into telling their futures using a blade of grass or something equally useless. Also, Hongjoong treats every word that falls from Eden’s lips like the script of a textbook. As such, he doesn’t have a favorable view on blood magick, to say the least.

So not Hongjoong either. Which leaves nobody else. Not his family, not his other friends, not even his teachers – Seonghwa gathers they’d have even worse reactions to the blood magick than Eden, who might at least try to understand.

Seonghwa closes the notebook. He won’t tell anyone, then. He can only keep his notes hidden, bound, locked shut, disguised as a private diary. Besides, he still doesn’t know enough about you – knowledge is annoyingly limited when it only comes from several recurring dreams, and he doesn’t even have a name for you to go by that he can maybe research more.

It doesn’t matter. Seonghwa is patient. He can wait. And until he has a new dream and finds out something else, he won’t breathe a word about blood magick to anyone.

Something tells him this is a matter he needs to figure out himself.

. . . . .

You come to him in the middle of his fifth year. Not in a dream. In a flashback.

Seonghwa cuts himself with his knife, accidentally, while trying to chop the root he needs for a potion in class. His first instinct is to hiss, to tear off a piece of a nearby napkin and put pressure on the wound, but his eyes fall to the drop of blood welling from his split skin and suddenly –

He isn’t in the classroom anymore.

A polished wooden table sits in front of him, his hand outstretched on the surface. His fingers look longer than he remembers, and they’re a bit paler – is he older? But none of that matters because there is a cut on his index finger, dripping blood, and a silver knife lies nearby. He cut himself.

In the exact same position as when he cut himself in class.

A clatter sounds at the end of the table. Seonghwa looks up to see someone else hurrying over, someone who looks familiar but he knows he’s never seen them ever before in his life –

“Seonghwa, really?”

That voice. That voice.

It’s you.

He freezes as you pick up his hand, forehead wrinkling in a frown. “You should be more careful,” you admonish, using your thumb to swipe away some of the blood. “Give me a second.” You pick up a piece of white cloth on the table and wrap it around his bleeding finger. “What happened to being good at chopping things?”

Only then does Seonghwa see the ginger root in front of him, the same root he was chopping in class. He has no idea how to reply – he’s still trying to take in every one of your features – but his mouth begins moving without a single thought. “I am good.” His lips turn down in the pout Seonghwa knows will usually get Hongjoong to do stuff for him, like lend him notes. “It was just a mistake.”

“Well, don’t make any more mistakes.” You finish tying the cloth around his finger before flashing him an exasperated smile that makes his heart do a little dance. “I may be a blood witch, but that doesn’t mean I want your blood in the potion. None of that on the ginger, okay?”

Blood witch. That confirms it. You’re a blood witch, a blood witch with whom Seonghwa was on friendly terms at some point during his last life –

“I know.” He smiles easily, though every part of him itches to scream what in the name of the Goddess Mother is going on? “I’ll be more careful.”

“Good.” Your smile widens.

And –

A rush of emotion builds in Seonghwa’s chest, a wave that crashes through his blood and warms it with a fire like but unlike Hongjoong’s subtle flame. There’s the happiness of friendship, yes, but something else too – Seonghwa thinks he might be sparkling, really and truly, his heart dancing to a familiar tune of joy and love and it feels wonderful, absolutely wonderful. He opens his mouth to say something in reply.

“Seonghwa!”

Seonghwa gasps. The wooden table has fallen away, replaced by the stone slab on which his cauldron still boils. Blood trickles steadily down his finger, pooling in one of the creases of his palm.

No, no, no! Seonghwa resists the urge to bury his face in his hands as he tries to recall that feeling, that wonderful bliss in his chest when he saw your smile, eyes sparkling and face shining, but his heart has already stopped dancing, leaving behind only emptiness and a ghost of the music that previously twisted through his veins.

“Seonghwa!” Hongjoong shakes him, pulling him out of his distraction. “What in the name of the Goddess is going on with you?”

He blinks once, twice. The smell of ginger comes back to him, mixed with the metal tang of blood. “I – I don’t know,” Seonghwa says truthfully. “What – what did I –”

Hongjoong breathes a sigh of relief. “You cut yourself and then just… froze,” he replies, eyes roving over Seonghwa’s face in worry. “It looked like you blacked out standing up. I tried getting your attention, but you wouldn’t react.”

Seonghwa swallows. He tries not to think of you. “How long?”

“Just a few seconds.” Hongjoong lets go of Seonghwa’s arms, hesitantly picking up his stirring rod again. “But long enough for it to be weird. You should be glad Professor Hong was on the other side of the room – oh, crap, get back to work, he’s looking.”

Fingers shaking, Seonghwa wipes up the blood on his hand and picks up the knife again. He has to put it down when it trembles in his grasp, but slowly, eventually, he slices up the ginger and dumps it into his cauldron before beginning to stir.

Not a dream. Not a dream. Seonghwa takes a deep breath, feeling the familiar weight of the stirring rod in his hands. It grounds him. That wasn’t a dream. It was a flashback or something – he doesn’t know if that’s exactly the right word for it, but it’s the closest he can get with his frazzled mind.

You’re a blood witch. He knew that. Seonghwa was on good terms with you for at least some duration of his previous life. He also knew that.

But your face, your eyes, your smile – the emotions that danced in his chest –

Seonghwa clenches the stirring rod harder, despite the pain that throbs dully in his cut finger. What wouldn’t he give to feel that again, the euphoria that came with just seeing you smile –

But a blood witch?

“Seonghwa!” Hongjoong hisses. “You’re going to get blood in your potion!”

Almost too late, Seonghwa sees the trickle of blood making its slow way down the stirring rod and into his potion. Cursing, he grabs the napkin and wipes it up before any can ruin his hard work. “Sorry. Thanks.”

“Seriously, is something wrong, Hwa?” Hongjoong fixes a worried eye on Seonghwa. “You’re usually focused even in the most boring classes.”

Seonghwa wants to tell. He badly wants someone to tell besides the little notebook beneath his mattress, and if he could say anything to anyone, Hongjoong would be first or second on the list and only because Eden exists.

He swallows, looking at the blood staining the napkin in his hand. Blood witch. You’re a blood witch.

There’s nothing he can say to anyone at all.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Seonghwa smiles. It feels fake even to him. “I’m just a little tired.” He meets Hongjoong’s eyes. “Don’t worry.”

. . . . .

Hongjoong worries. Seonghwa knows this because Eden catches him in the hall the next week and asks him for tea in his office, where he asks Seonghwa if he’s been doing okay. Seonghwa says he’s fine, that he’s just had some flashbacks and dreams. Eden doesn’t look convinced, but he lets Seonghwa on his way after warning him to try not to black out in class or else Hongjoong will really go off the walls with worry.

That, Seonghwa agrees with. So while he doesn’t say anything more, he tries to stay more alert, to head off any flashbacks before they come.

It doesn’t really work. Seonghwa has no control over what he does, has no idea what will trigger a new memory and cause him to freeze in the middle of a conversation or during class. And it’s actually getting worse, because it seems like almost everything Seonghwa does is connected something he did in another life. Slicing ginger root in class. Climbing a tree on one of his days off. Falling over when he laughs so hard his sides ache. Cutting off Hongjoong’s mullet when he gets tired of it and doesn’t want to wait until their next free day to go into the nearby village for an actual haircut. Once, Seonghwa finds himself humming a melody he’s never heard before, not even from Hongjoong’s own lips. Later that night, when he falls asleep, he watches you pick herbs in a garden, humming the exact same melody.

Bits and pieces, little snippets of nothing. Seonghwa writes down everything he can remember, no matter how trivial it seems – he even begs Hongjoong to help him transcribe the little melody he heard you hum, risking his friend’s curiosity for any information he can get. He doesn’t ask questions, thankfully, but that doesn’t mean Seonghwa doesn’t see Hongjoong’s strange glances as he scribbles the notes onto a piece of paper he later pastes into his notebook under a couple of lines about how you pick herbs the same way Seonghwa always has – pinching off leaves just where they meet the stem, head bowed in reverence and thanks to the Goddess Mother.

Eden said blood witches are the bane of magick. He said – still says – that blood magick can’t be trusted under any circumstances because the allure of power will always turn out to be too much for a blood witch to resist, and if anyone comes too close to them, they’ll die.

Where does Seonghwa fit in that equation? Did he get too close to you? Did he die from something you did, when you were no longer able to resist the temptation of power and killed him to maintain it? Your smile says no but Eden says yes, and Seonghwa has no idea who to trust or believe.

One night, after even Hongjoong has gone to sleep, Seonghwa sits under the window of their shared room, staring at his notebook. Moonlight illuminates the pages covered in ink that detail his memories of words you said, things you did, your looks and habits and quirks. Several pages are covered in bare sketches of your face, your clothes, always scribbled out in the end because Seonghwa can’t draw for the life of him no matter how hard he tries, so he attempts to make up for the lack of visuals by describing you as clearly as he can in words.

But what is the purpose? Seonghwa pinches the bridge of his nose, staring at one scratched out sketch of the style of tunic you wear whenever you work in the garden. These are clues, he’s sure – he wouldn’t remember all of this if none of it was important – and Eden said souls are reborn for a reason.

“Usually important goals unmet in the past life, like revenge, broken promises, and…”

Seonghwa leans in closer.

“And love.”

That probably isn’t even an exhaustive list. Seonghwa is sure Eden missed some things – even his teacher admitted he didn’t know everything about reincarnation and reborn souls. And Seonghwa has no idea where to even start with figuring everything out. All he has are his dreams, his blackouts, and this little notebook.

Does the fact that you are a blood witch even have anything to do with why he’s been born a second time?

“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong’s sleepy voice drifts through the silence. “Why are you still up?”

Snapping the book shut, Seonghwa gives Hongjoong a smile that he probably can’t even see, anyway. “Give me a minute,” he says. “I’ll go to bed soon.”

Hongjoong doesn’t answer, just rolls over as his breaths begin to even once more. Seonghwa quietly slides the notebook back in place under the mattress and slips between the blankets, closing his eyes.

And just as though the Goddess heard his worries (perhaps She did), Seonghwa dreams.

In his dream, Seonghwa walks down a dark path, almost like a tunnel. Memories flash on every side of him, all things he’s seen and heard before – the herb garden, bubbling potions, your voice, your eyes. He pauses for a moment in front of the memory where you gave him a smile after he accidentally cut himself and his fingers reach out, unconsciously, to touch your face. They pass through air.

Not tangible. Not real.

Seonghwa swallows, looking through the tunnel of memories. They swirl around him slowly, mesmerizing, colors blending into a kaleidoscope mural, but the longer he stares, the harsher the colors become, too bright, too dark – your voice distorts, high pitched and shrieking before growling lowly, and every sense of peace Seonghwa had fades away as the memories close in on him and he begins to scream –

He falls to his knees on grass, wet as though from rain. Fingers clutch his chest as he gasps breath after painful breath – he can still feel the memories squeezing his skin as though they were real and tangible, not just figments of his imagination.

Slowly, his bearings come back, and he focuses on the setting around him. Trees, familiar trees – Seonghwa is almost certain this is the forest near your home. But odd colors pigment the bark and leaves. Dark red.

Red.

His head snaps down. The grass –

The grass isn’t wet by rain.

It’s wet by blood.

Seonghwa scrambles up, heaving. Red spots splatter across his blurring vision – oh, Goddess, his pants are entirely covered in red stains that paint his hands too –

He stares at his skin, sticky red rivers drying on his palms. It isn’t his blood, he tells himself. Nothing hurts physically. Nothing but the clawing in his heart that crawls up his throat, choking it with raw, bitter rage and hopelessness trying to leave his mouth in another scream.

He recognizes this feeling. He’s felt it before in a subtler version, when Eden explained the meaning behind his name. Something about paradise also has to do with the blood coating his hands and his knees, blood that isn’t his but that he knows came from someone important, someone he cared about or maybe even loved.

Red still dances across his vision. Seonghwa tries to blink it away. He needs to see. He needs to figure out where this blood came from and why, why his hands are bathed in it even though he only remembers putting his palms against grass intermittently stained in red –

“Seonghwa, wake up!”

His hand connects with something solid and Seonghwa’s eyes fly open to darkness. His chest hurts. He can barely see.

Somewhere nearby, Hongjoong groans. “Seonghwa, what –”

Tears. Those are what blur his vision. Seonghwa blinks them away, wiping them harshly off his cheeks as he sits up in bed to see Hongjoong on the floor, cupping his cheek.

His hand throbs. He must have hit his friend when he woke up.

“Hongjoong?” he rasps. “Goddess, I’m sorry – are you hurt?”

“Not really.” Hongjoong sits up, wincing. “I’ll be fine. Were you having a nightmare?”

Seonghwa looks down at his hands, half-expecting to see red staining his skin. Nightmare is a light way of putting it. He can still feel the blood caking his palms and drying under his nails. Not his blood. Someone else’s.

Panic rises in Seonghwa’s throat. Whose blood was it? Did you kill someone? Did your blood magick wreak the carnage he saw on his hands? Did you finally fall victim to bloodlust and murder someone so brutally?

Bile rises in his throat and he almost gags as the smell of blood fills the air –

“Seonghwa?”

With effort, Seonghwa takes a deep, shaky breath. He didn’t see where the blood came from. He doesn’t know who did it. It might not have been you – it could have been someone else. “Yeah,” he replies, still staring at his hands, trying to believe that last thought. It could have been someone else. “It was a nightmare.”

“… Do you want to talk about it?”

Seonghwa shakes his head wildly. “No. No.”

“Okay.” Hongjoong rubs his cheek, still wincing a little. His eyes look concerned, almost wary, and Seonghwa can’t blame him – he’s been acting off for weeks at least, ever since he got that first flashback in class. Still, his friend doesn’t ask, for which Seonghwa is endlessly grateful. Even if he wants someone to talk to about the whole reincarnation thing, he doesn’t want to get into this dream. At all.

“Well, we have class in a few hours,” Hongjoong finally says, breaking the silence. “You should try and sleep some more. You went to bed late.”

Seonghwa nods slightly, shifting underneath his twisted blankets. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “I’ll try. You should too.” He winces a little, looking at the silhouette of Hongjoong’s body. “Sorry about your face.”

“It’s fine.” Hongjoong waves him off, sliding back into his own bed. “Don’t worry about it.”

Silence falls again. Seonghwa curls up under his blankets, facing the wall. He can’t quite bring himself to close his eyes.

“Seonghwa?”

“Hm?”

Hongjoong’s voice sounds very uncertain, very small. “You’d tell me if there was anything wrong, right?”

Seonghwa’s chest tightens. With anything else, he would – Hongjoong is far and away his best friend, and there is nothing Seonghwa would keep from him without good reason. But he has a good reason this time, even if Hongjoong might not understand.

You’ll never know whether he’ll understand if you don’t say anything, one side of his mind argues.

He’ll say something if he doesn’t! the other side retorts.

Seonghwa takes a small breath and turns around in bed. His eyes meet Hongjoong’s in the faint moonlight still out their window. “Yes,” he lies, trying for a smile. “Of course I would.”

. . . . .

In the infirmary, Hongjoong stares Seonghwa down. Honestly, Seonghwa would probably run if his body wasn’t so completely exhausted from the flashback of blood splattered across green where, incidentally, he still didn’t manage to see where it came from. He can’t look at his friend – all he can do is stare at his hands, where he still half expects to see blood painting the skin.

Whose blood was it, if it wasn’t his?

“You lied to me.”

Seonghwa resists the urge to bury himself beneath the bedsheets. The tiger’s eye at his throat, the stone Hongjoong gave him, isn’t doing wonders for grounding him. Maybe it’s because the one who gave the gift is so angry.

“You said you’d tell me if there was anything wrong.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Hongjoong explodes. “You blacked out, Seonghwa!” he yells. “Literally fainted and fell over! I’m your roommate, I’m your friend – why wouldn’t you tell me what was going on?”

Why indeed. Seonghwa is so stupid. He could tell half-truths, maybe not full ones but just enough to keep Hongjoong relatively in the loop – his friend wouldn’t be so angry if he’d told him even a sliver of what was really going on –

With effort, Seonghwa pulls himself into sitting position. Despite his annoyance, Hongjoong helps him up. They sit in silence for a little longer.

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa finally says. “I didn’t know how to tell you what was happening because I don’t really get it either.” He winces. “I knew you’d ask about my dreams and things, and I didn’t want to give you nightmares of your own.”

“Your nightmares were that bad?!”

“That’s why I didn’t want to say anything!” Seonghwa snaps. He sighs. “Look, if you were having really bad nightmares, would you have told me unless I pressed? Answer honestly, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong crosses his arms. He doesn’t say anything, which gives Seonghwa a clearer answer than words would have. “See?”

“Well, now that I know, are you going to tell me anything?” Some of the fight has faded from Hongjoong’s eyes, which Seonghwa appreciates. “I just want to help, Hwa. If there’s anything I can do…”

There really isn’t anything he can do, though. Seonghwa himself can’t control his dreams or flashbacks – they come whenever the Goddess Mother decides it’s time, and no one can predict her movements or intentions. But maybe he could tell Hongjoong the bare bones of what’s going on. Eden at least knows a little. Hongjoong knows nothing.

Seonghwa swallows. Nothing about blood. “Remember that time in fourth year when you tried that future reading spell on me?”

Hongjoong nods.

“Well, it shouldn’t have gone that badly, even if your pronunciation was off. That’s what Eden said, at least.” Seonghwa shrugs. “Except in one case. Apparently with a specific mispronunciation, it turns into a different spell that sort of… reactivates old memories. Memories from a past life.”

Hongjoong remains silent as Seonghwa does his best to explain what he knows about this whole reborn soul thing, his dreams and flashbacks. He doesn’t mention blood, and if he pauses a little as he tries to pick and choose the few words he uses to talk about you, Hongjoong doesn’t say anything. In fact, by the time he’s finished, Hongjoong hasn’t spoken a single word.

Eventually, he opens his mouth. “So what were the last few nightmares about?” Lantern light flickers in Hongjoong’s eyes. “Your other dreams never seemed this… bad.”

Seonghwa looks back down at his hands. They still feel sticky, even though only pale skin stares up at him without a trace of red. Well, there’s no way he can avoid talking about it now. “Blood,” he finally says. “Just… a lot of blood. I don’t know where or who it was from.” I might have an idea, even though I don’t want to believe it. “I just know it wasn’t mine.”

“And you’re sure this was like… a past life dream, and not just a random nightmare?”

“Yes.”

A pause. “Have you talked to Eden about it?”

“No.” Seonghwa finally looks back up at his best friend. “And I don’t want you to say anything, either.”

A sheepish look crosses Hongjoong’s face. There’s no way he doesn’t know what Seonghwa is referring to with that. “Okay. But why? Wasn’t he the one who first explained all this stuff to you?”

“… Things.” Seonghwa’s fingers curl into the bedsheets. Like the fact that I knew and possibly cared for a blood witch who may have been the one responsible for all the blood on my hands. “He knows about as much as you. I just… I have a feeling this is something I need to work out alone. Or maybe not even at all.” He shrugs helplessly. “I can’t control any of this. I think it’s just going to come to me when it does, and when that happens, I’ll figure out what the purpose of this second life is. Until then, though, I don’t really want to… speculate. I guess.” Especially not about the blood.

Hongjoong purses his lips. “Fine,” he says. “But I’m going to try and find you some books on this anyway. I think it’ll help you make some sense of this.”

“I tried.” Seonghwa makes a face. “There are like two books about it in this whole school’s library, and they’re apparently restricted. I couldn’t even get them when I said it was for a class project.”

The smile Hongjoong flashes him is more than a little frightening. “We’ll see about that.”

. . . . .

One week later, Hongjoong drops not two, but four books on Seonghwa’s desk as he tries to immerse himself in his notes. “Books on reincarnation.”

Seonghwa gapes. “What the –”

“Thank me later.” Hongjoong picks the top book off the stack and carries it to his bed. “I’m going to read them too.”

Once Seonghwa has made sure Hongjoong didn’t steal them and in fact obtained them legally from the school library (with a side of lying, but Seonghwa did that too so it’s not like he can really talk), he stays up half the night for the next few days reading book after book. It doesn’t take longer than that to get through them – there are only four, after all – but even with this limited information, Seonghwa begins to understand things a little more. They say different things, tell different stories, but all four books agree on several tenets of reincarnation that Seonghwa commits to memory.

One: the Goddess Mother rebirths souls for reasons. Important reasons. It isn’t something to be taken lightly.

Two: the dreams would have come, anyway, even if Hongjoong hadn’t mispronounced that spell. He only sped up the process. A couple of the people Seonghwa reads about didn’t get their dreams or flashbacks until they were into their forties or fifties, but apparently it’s all part of the process. The Goddess Mother has an agenda and She will see it fulfilled.

(Seonghwa wonders a little if She orchestrated Hongjoong using that spell and that’s why he felt the foreshadowing tug in his stomach before it all happened. Then he stops thinking about it, because a mental debate about fate versus free will is only going to give him a headache.)

Three: none of the process can be controlled. The dreams come at will and there is nothing Seonghwa can do to prevent them or make them come. Which means he will only understand the reason why he has been reborn when the Goddess Mother decides it is time.

It sucks, but Seonghwa expected it. If he could find any way to control the dreams, he would’ve stopped the bloody nightmares already. But all he can do is wait – even Hongjoong reluctantly agrees – so wait he will. No sense in trying to do anything more.

He does wish that some of the people he’d read about had experience with blood witches, but there’s nothing. And Seonghwa isn’t about to risk his reputation to ask for books on blood magick – reincarnation was innocuous enough, but blood magick? Absolutely not.

No more forthcoming information reveals itself at school, at least not important things. Seonghwa makes notes on the way you blink, on how your skin feels when it brushes against his skin. Why, he doesn’t know – none of this seems that important upon second thought – but it feels important to Seonghwa, even if he doesn’t understand why. He even asks Hongjoong to teach him how to draw and learns enough to sketch your face in the sunshine.

(The next page of his notebook holds a shaky picture of a forest clearing spattered in blood. When he looks back at it just days later, Seonghwa almost gets whiplash at the difference between the two images. He also almost throws up.

How is it possible that you, someone with such a radiant disposition, could be one of those who wrought the bloody carnage that stained Seonghwa’s skin?)

He graduates. Hongjoong graduates. They promise to keep in touch, both between themselves and with other friends and Eden, and then Hongjoong goes off to travel. Seonghwa returns home for some time, works for a while until he moves in with Yeosang, a quiet green witch who needed a roommate. They become friends – Hongjoong feigns jealousy when he comes over to visit, which is met by Seonghwa pretending to chop his neck as Yeosang laughs – and then they find out about a shop for sale a couple villages over. They decide to buy it, and together, they open a little magick store for basic witchcraft needs. The magick community there takes to it like wildfire, and by the time Hongjoong comes back for a second visit, this time dragging along a tall sun witch and a taller astral witch, Mingi and Yunho (“Who’s the one replacing people now, huh, Hongjoong?” “Seonghwa, please, you know I was joking about Yeosang –”), the shop, Horizon, has been doing pretty well.

A necromancer, San, moves into an old cottage nearby after its previous owners pass away. His grandparents, he tells Seonghwa after the elder finds him crying in the forest and brings him back to the shop for a cup of tea. They left him the house. Between shaky sobs, Seonghwa learns that the place is small, but it seems too big with his grandparents gone. His heart quietly breaks for the man, who, in the moment, really doesn’t look much older than a boy.

He’s doing much better when Seonghwa eventually plucks up the courage to visit. The house honestly creeps him out at first – dolls stare at him from several corners of every room and he almost has a heart attack when several of them talk (“They complimented you!” “Well, forgive me for being startled when a doll that I thought was inanimate started telling me I was handsome –”), but as time goes on, Seonghwa grows used to San’s flights of fancy and the raised souls he keeps in various forms around his home (all consensually, the necromancer makes sure to emphasize).

With San comes Wooyoung, a ray of sometimes annoying but always endearing sunshine, and Wooyoung later drags in a solitary moon witch, Jongho, who Seonghwa immediately adopts into his rudimentary coven. Jongho doesn’t seem too keen on it at first, but after Wooyoung and San have pestered him enough and he meets Yeosang (personally, Seonghwa thinks the latter was more influential than the former), Jongho quietly grows into his part of Seonghwa’s little second family.

The dreams still come. So do the flashbacks. Sometimes Seonghwa still wakes up expecting to see blood caked all over his hands and arms. But that’s as bad as it gets, and life moves on fast enough that Seonghwa doesn’t have too much time to dwell on it all.

Hongjoong ends his travels and moves into the shop with Seonghwa and Yeosang. Yunho, Mingi, and Jongho pop over for visits every now and then. San is at the shop more often than not, usually with Wooyoung. Life is good and it goes on, even if the knowledge that Seonghwa is a soul reborn with a specific purpose to fulfill nags at the back of his mind most of the time.

Then San finds a witch left for dead in the woods.

And everything changes.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 happy birthday wish for seonghwa!!!!!)

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monsterlover48 · 3 years ago

Text

Part 1: The Meeting

<<Masterlist>> <<Previous>> <<Next>>

Bodyguard!Orc x Princess!Reader

Summary: Y/N, the princess of Evermore, the beauty of the west. She had many suitors, many men, and women who wanted her by their side. Too bad her eyes were already set the day he came to save her life.

Warnings: PTSD, flashbacks (sorta), medieval fighting

~~~ Princess Y/N was a kind soul. Always tended to her princess duties and went out of her way to give to the lower class. Everyone loved her, and they knew she would be a wonderful queen.

When word got out about the attempted assassination, the people were outraged that someone would dare hurt their beloved princess. Y/N Could still feel the man's glove-clad hand grasp her face to silence her screams every time she closed her eyes, and she didn't know how to get the image out of her head.

The morning breeze soothed her warm skin as she walked outside and into the growing gardens of her castle. The beautiful greens of the grass and plants paired with the myriad of colours that decorated the flowers set the frantic princess' mind at ease. She had one hell of a night, and it took hours for her to get a good night's rest. Her mind was plagued with nightmares of her death and the death of her people. She just wished it wouldn't come true.

Y/N had worn a lilac dress that morning, lace on the sleeves, and a large bow on the back. It was her favorite, and she wanted to wear it to bring up her mood. She didn't want anyone to see the wound on her arm, but the bulk of the bandages showed through her frilly sleeves.

"M'lady. The king requests you." Y/N handmaiden, Cassandra, spoke quietly, breaking the serenity of the garden. The princess's shoulders deflated, and she hung her head low before she smiled at her friend.

"Do you know what about?" She asked, linking her good arm with Cassandra's. The maiden giggled and shook her head playfully.

"Your knight is coming to protect you. They're having a contest to see who could protect you the best." Cassandra grinned. Y/N's cheeks flushed, and she gasped.

"Today? Do I look alright?" The woman began to unnecessarily judge herself, muttering curses of how she should have done her hair better.

"You look fine." Cassandra giggled. They walked down the large corridor and through the guards that stood straighter at the sight of their princess. Y/N nodded and bowed to everyone she passed politely, a smile stuck on her face in her princess facade.

"Daughter, you took long enough." Her father playfully scolded, holding a hand out to help her into the royal chair. They were in the courtyard where entertainers, fighters, or jousters came to do their thing.

As Y/N looked amongst the crowd, she saw many creatures in knight armor. Ranging from tieflings to humans. But one she hadn't seen before, someone massive in size. It was well known that Evermore was more of the accepting kind when it came to other races, but not many creatures of that size came to the lovely kingdom. And they were all fighting for her favor as a personal guard. She felt as though the taller one would win. She couldn't see his face or even his skin to tell what he could be, but she didn't care. The princess didn't necessarily want a personal guard, but if she was to get one, she wanted it to be someone who could truly protect her life.

"Which do you think would win, princess?" A voice asked behind her. Y/N turned to see a man she's never met before. He was handsome; bright blue eyes and dark brown hair with chiseled features, but she wasn't too interested. He smiled at her with an attempt to be charming, but she knew the play.

"The tall one." She replied, pointing towards the looming figure as he practiced by his lonesome.

"Ah yes, that one. He seems pretty strong." He chuckled, and Y/N realized he had an accent that wasn't from Evermore.

"What's your name?" Y/N asked curiously. However, before he could respond, the tournament speaker began his speech about the rules and how the tournament would go.

The trumpets sounded, and two knights stepped up before they began to fight. Swords clashing and metal banging sounded around the courtyard, and Y/N was on the edge of her seat every time a knight fell. She hoped they weren't too injured, but she had to admit, it was interesting to watch them fight.

By the time the last two were up, it was two large men, clad head to toe in thick armor, but Y/N noticed the one she kept her eyes on. The tall one with bulging muscles. She bit her lip as they started, gasping when the clashing of swords and their blasts against armor. But ultimately, she was correct; the tall one was the champion. The crowd cheered loudly as the last man fell, and the tall man roared triumphantly.

The princess stood from her place and straightened out the skirt of her dress. Everyone gasped when the creature took off his helmet, revealing an orc to be the champion. Orcs used to be the villains of Evermore's story, but the war had ended, and they were at peace. However, that doesn't mean many orcs came into Evermore and never came to protect their princess. Y/N looked around at the shocked faces of her people and squared her shoulders before she walked out of the royal seating and to the courtyard where the champion stood.

Everyone watched their princess with wary eyes and shifted in their seats as she approached him. The closer she looked, he was taller than she expected. Thrice her size, and he had a scowl upon his handsome features. His skin was a pale green, and he had large tusks sticking out from his mouth. His mean stare didn't detour the princess as she smiled and bowed politely to the knight.

"It seems you have won. What is your name?" She asked, clasping her hand behind her back. He huffed a piece of stray black hair away from his eyes, the long strands reaching past his shoulders. He bowed to her when she walked closer, propping his arm onto his knee.

"Rhudrak Fang Cracker." He replied. His voice was gruff, as though he had gargled rocks before he spoke.

"Well, Rhudrak Fang Cracker. It is nice to meet you. I will be happy to work with you." The crowd cheered then, the piercing noise almost startling the princess. She turned to look at the crowd before looking back at her knight.

"Yes! This man is my daughter's champion. The one who will protect her with his life. Do you agree?" Her father asked, walking into the courtyard as well. Her father was a very accepting man, and no matter the fact that he witnessed orcs kill many of his people, he would never discriminate against a man who wanted to protect his only daughter.

"I agree," Rhudrak responded. King Gustus nodded, and Y/N smiled at the crowd as the royal family plus the knight and other guards walked back to the castle. Y/N couldn't help but steal glances at the steely man. She found it very interesting that an orc would want to protect her. And he looked so mysterious. She just wandered-

"Y/N, dearest." Her mother scolded. Y/N tore her eyes away from her knight with warm cheeks and turned to her mother.

"Yes, mother?" She asked. Meira shook her head disapprovingly and continued walking.

"Your father was talking to you." She hissed. Y/N bowed her head in embarrassment, and she could've sworn she saw a ghost of a smile on her Rhudrak's face.

"While you were in your fantasy land, I was discussing the rules of your supervisor and how you must act." He told her with a kind and understanding smile. Y/N was very close to her father, and she was glad to have him understand how easy it was for her to get lost in the clouds. Unlike her strict mother.

"What are his rules?"

"No. Your rules." Her father corrected. Y/N gasped and choked on her spit before she looked at the people in front of her.

"What do you mean 'my' rules?" Y/N asked incredulously.

"You are not to leave the sight of Rhudrak. The only time you will be alone is when in your chambers, safe. You will do what he asks of you. If he tells you to run, to hide, or even to walk, you do it. He is there to protect you; let him do his job. No running around the halls in the middle of the nights anymore. People are after you, my dear, and I couldn't stand losing you. It almost happened once, and I will not let it happen again." Her father told her. She wanted to roll her eyes, to pout and say 'not fair.' But she almost died that night. The visions still haunt her in her sleep and even during the day. She knew if she wanted to survive, she must do what her father asks of her.

"Yes, father." She replied solemnly, all traces of humor gone from the conversation.

"Now go make yourselves acquainted while showing him his room. It's the one next to yours." Y/N nodded and looked at her parents awkwardly as they walked away.

"Your room is this way on the third floor," Y/N spoke. She was exhausted from the excitement of the day and had zero social energy, but she knew she had to do it anyways.

"Third floor? How do you even get upstairs with those tiny shoes on?" Rhudrak chuckled. Y/N hid her giggle behind her hand and shook her head as they approached the stairway.

"With difficulty. Try walking around hours a day with a corset on." She scoffed. Rhudrak laughed loudly but quickly quieted down.

"Tell me about the night of your attack." He asked suddenly. Y/N was taken aback by the sudden question as they walked up the many stairs.

"Well... I couldn't sleep. I think that's the only reason I'm alive right now. He wore a black mask with strange symbols on it. He was human-sized. That's all remember." She said. She was lying of course. She could remember so much more. The blue of his eyes and the stench of leather as his hand clamped down onto her mouth. She couldn't breathe when he sat on her. She felt hopeless and the gleam of the moonlight on his blade made her shiver with unease.

"Princess?" Rhudrak asked gently, looking at her with a thoughtful gaze. She snapped out of her wandering thoughts and shook her head with a smile.

"Well, here you are. My chambers are right here. I'll let you get settled in." She said with a bow, walking back to her room. She shut the door gently and allowed herself to break slightly at the memory of her attack, fresh tears slipping down her cheeks.

Taglist!

@vanta-monsters @inosh-k @sylum

#monster #monster lover #monster smut #orc #orc x reader #monster x human #monster x reader #orc x human

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mallowstep · 3 years ago

Text

(nature; nurture)

You know the truth of yourself in pieces.

* * *

You are three, sitting on your mother's lap.

"And you understand this is a life-long commitment?"

"Yes," she says.

"And Mothkit, Frogkit, and Hawkkit, do you want Feathertail to be your mother?"

"She is our mama," Hawkkit says, and the woman laughs.

"That settles it, then."

* * *

Growing up is not a balloon inflating, the way you once pictured it. It is a crab moulting over and over again, exposing its softest parts, in hopes it survives.

* * *

You are the first to go to kindergarten. Only by a few minutes, but still. That feels like it counts for something.

You kiss your mother's cheek, and then drop your bag. A man crouches down beside you. "And what's your name?"

"Mothkit!" you say, and he shows you where to put your bag. You glance back at your mother as you venture deeper into the classroom. She wipes a few tears from her eyes.

* * *

Unlike a crab, you cannot reabsorb what you lose. Your teeth are collected in a box, exchanged for a few quarters, occasionally a dollar. Your hair is swept up and thrown away. You go shopping, and now there are two sections you have to examine. One for you, one for your brothers.

* * *

Stormheart picks you up for school, and no one is waiting in the passenger seat. You all climb in, and you end up stuck in the middle.

"Where's Mama?" you ask.

"She's at home," Stormheart says. He glances back at you for a second, smiling. "She's just having a bad day."

You kick off your shoes at the door when you get home, dropping your bag on the kitchen table. Your brothers are slower, but you peek through the crack in her door before Stormheart catches up with you.

She's asleep, not facing you. Mistyfoot is on the other side of the bed, reading a book.

Stormheart scoops you up. "Come on, bug," he whispers. "Let's go play outside."

* * *

But your soft parts stay the same, just growing between each exchange. You ask her about your father many times, and her answers drift, circling around a truth you want her to finish. You slip into her room after having a nightmare, and find her sobbing. You make a family tree, and stare frustrated at the missing names.

* * *

You follow her out to the garden. Frogpaw spends more time out here than you do, but you're bored, and your mother is here, digging tiny troughs into the earth.

You cross your legs on the grass beside her. She smiles at you. "Are you going to stay out here?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want a hat?"

"No." The sun is warm, and you lean down, your elbows pressing into the dirt. "What are you planting?"

"Poppies," she says. "Do you want to help?"

You shake your head. Feathertail takes a handful of sandy dirt, and pours the bag of seeds onto it.

"Mama?" you ask, and she lifts her brow. "What's assault?"

Feathertail pauses what she's doing, and looks questioningly at you. "Where'd you hear that?"

"It was on a TV show." You fidget with blades of grass. "I wasn't really watching."

Feathertail sighs. "It's -- when you hurt someone," she says. "When you attack them."

* * *

But you are not a crab. You are a girl, and you are changing. Your father sends you a letter and asks you if you're a help to your mother. You grapple with the undeniable proof he's in prison, like she explained a year or two ago. You shoot up past your brothers over the summer, and have to buy new clothes. A new garment comes with it. Feathertail cleans a few things out of a room you can't think of as hers, and it becomes yours. Your soft parts move, find new places in need of protection.

* * *

Sometimes, you want to explain everything to Leafpaw, all in one breath. You want to say, My mother didn't give birth to me, but I know who did, and I was not wanted, except that I was, and my father believes I am capable of nothing, and my period has started, and I don't know what that means, and I think you are beautiful.

You don't say any of that.

* * *

But you are not a crab, so you find traces of your past exoskeletons, the ones that didn't fit. A shirt you wore five years ago. A diary you can barely understand. A folded piece of paper you do not open. They don't make sense with who you are, and yet, they are who you were.

* * *

Shadepelt teaches you how to use make up. Feathertail and Mistyfoot don't wear any, but she does, and she makes it look easy and fun and flawless.

It's much harder when you have to do it.

Hawkpaw and Stonefur arrive home when you are scrubbing it off in the bathroom downstairs. You don't come down here very often, and it is strange to think that this space is a part of your home.

When your face is clean, you trudge upstairs. The air is tense, Hawkpaw and Frogpaw staring across the kitchen table at each other, Feathertail watching them.

"I'm -- allowed to know," Hawkpaw says.

"What do you want to know?" Frogpaw says. "We know everything we need to."

"Maybe you do," Hawkpaw says.

You glance at Feathertail. Her back is to you.

You slide unnoticed into your room, and pull out the stack of letters from your father. You read them all once, exactly, and then add them to the stack you keep in your bottom desk drawer. There's no point in rereading them.

But you run your thumb over them, listening to the way the old, dried paper crinkles.

Frogpaw is asking the wrong question. It's why Hawkpaw wants to know that matters.

* * *

Freshman year draws to a close, and you think you are in your final moult. Leafpaw falls asleep on your shoulder on the way home from a field trip, and you hold hands as you wait to be picked up. You haven't outgrown any clothes in months, and your brothers are now taller than you. You look in the mirror, and realize this will always be the face that looks back at you.

* * *

There is always talk. You try to ignore the worst of it,

("Well, Hawkpaw is a creep," and, "I heard their mother doesn't love them," and, "Bet you can't wait to see your daddy,")

but that's easier said then done.

Leafpaw squeezes your hand. "They don't know what they're talking about," she says.

But they do. That's the problem. They're wrong, but they know what they're talking about.

A junior Mothpaw doesn't know sits beside her at lunch, in Leafpaw's space.

"You should move," Squirrelpaw says.

"No one's sitting here."

"Someone will be."

True to form, as soon as Leafpaw bursts into the cafeteria, she forces herself between Mothpaw and the junior.

The junior rolls her eyes. "I was wondering," she begins, "how you feel about the death penalty."

* * *

There are still old memories you revisit. Feathertail is hospitalized for the third time you can remember, and you log your hours for drivers' ed as you practice making the trip back and forth.

* * *

On Halloween, you take the bucket of candy Feathertail gave the three of you to share and sit on the back porch. Frogpaw and Hawkpaw keep stuffing their faces long after you've finished, and you feel like you're witnessing something obscene.

"I did some math," Frogpaw says. "We were born a month early." He throws a candy bar up, and it lands on his stomach. "Means we were conceived around New Years."

He throws the bar up again, and this time it lands in his hands.

"You ever want to throw a party? Just one. Make a bunch of food for dinner and sit around the table and call all the different dishes courses?"

"What the hell are you saying?" Hawkpaw asks.

"I think i'm just saying something," Frogpaw says. "I think I'm just hoping if I say enough things, I'll find the right thing to say.

* * *

You get your license. It says your name on the card, Mothpaw, daughter of Feathertail, and ask for permission to drive the car.

You don't have a plan for where you're going, and you end up in front of a cathedral.

* * *

The stress of junior year threatens to break you. College applications loom, your classes grow teeth, and you start to bicker with Leafpaw over petty things.

You read over the essay requirement for colleges, and think about what kind of essay you could write. Because there's really only one story worth telling, and it feels wrong, to type out all of your family to a stranger.

It makes you glad you started early. "My mother was fourteen when we were born," you write, and then scratch out. "My father is alive. We know who the other is. I've never met him," you write, and then erase. "I don't know who I am," you write, and then you keep writing.

* * *

At some point, you decide you don't believe. But. You keep coming back. There is something reassuring in routine. Your family doesn't ask where you are going, and you don't volunteer it. Sunday morning. There's some kind of peace, in having the time to sit and think and be.

* * *

"I think I've messed everything up," Leafpaw says. "I've gone about this all the wrong way, and now, everything is terrible, and this is all my fault, Mothpaw, I'm sorry-"

You kiss her, and then lean your forehead against hers. "We're both at fault," you say. "Besides. Maybe the honeymoon is over. We've got lives to attend."

And Leafpaw, inextricably, is part of that life. You can think of the essays you would've written about her. How her hair looks brown until it catches the sun, and then it shines like red glass. How she stomps when she is excited. How she links arms with you and says you're going shopping until you find your family Christmas gifts.

* * *

They invite you to a class, but it feels strange, knowing you don't believe. How do you say, I am here, and I am not, and I don't think you'd really want me.

You don't. You kneel down and offer a prayer to a god you don't believe in. Maybe it will catch.

* * *

Feathertail listens to you practice your speech.

"I'm so proud of you," she says. "You know that, right?"

You nod. She tells you this often, but something about her tone makes your throat catch. You've outgrown the days when Feathertail's arms could surround you, but even so, you start to cry when she hugs you.

"I love you," you say.

"I love you too," she says. She settles back onto the couch, wrapping her hands around a mug of tea.

This is the truth of who you are. This is what you will always fail to capture. How can you describe how the light streams inside at an angle that you've always known, one that makes the dust swirl through it? How can you describe the books on the coffee table, how each book has been read and loved, not merely thrown there for decoration? How can you describe yourself in any way but being there?

* * *

You meet your father's eyes. You know them. You have seen them in the mirror.

* * *

You hold your diploma in one hand, stopping for a photo. You were the first to enter kindergarten, you were the last to leave high school.

The excited chatter in the air is a reminder of what this day is. You have all bought your final yearbooks, signed names and numbers you won't remember in a few months. You're in it a few times -- Feathertail and Leafpaw delighted in hunting for your every appearance -- and you think, maybe it is okay if you are pieces.

There is something whole and solid that is made of them.

#mine #human misty au #mothwing #feathertail #yes i will make you read my long second person fiction #leafpool #mothpool

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0risha · 4 years ago

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@madamlindsay ordered : a side dish (megumi and broken youth by NICO touches the walls) with some carrots (fluff) and a can of soda (drabble).

Chef's note — omg I remember this song from naruto 😭 and yes you did it right, I promise.I really hope this fits with the song lol, I've been playing it all day.

3 0 0 follower event with @matsuzumi ( make sure to check Chef Kaze's blog for her other works)

"Sukuna's vessel." You turn to Maki. "Should I stay away from him?"

With a low chuckle, she shakes her head. "He's a good kid, you'll understand when you meet him." With a hum you turn your attention back to the blades of grass beneath you, still dewy with after rain.

To say you were nervous was an understatement, you weren't all that great when it came to meeting new people. Too overwhelmed with the want to give off a good impression.

"Don't be nervous. They're a nice group of kids, they'll make you feel right at home. Right, Toge?"

A silver haired boy –who you guessed had the inability to speak actual words due to his cursed ability– hums in confirmation. "Salmon."

"I want to be with you guys," you whisper.

Maki raises a colored brow in speculation. "Why's that?"

You fix your attention on a black and white animal who was too occupied with rolling in a patch of grass to pay attention to you three.

"I mean....you guys have a panda." You admit.

You watch as Maki's dark emerald hair moves swiftly when she lets out a loud laugh, her glasses sloping down on the bridge of her nose. "How can you say something so funny with a straight face?"

"Salmon."

"That was... funny? " You question as you spot four figures in the distance.

Maki's laughter dies down as she comes to a realization. "You're just like Megumi....otherworldy." You hum absentmindedly, not too sure what it was she was trying to say.

"Oi!" A loud voice breaks through your stupor. You squint your eyes to see what you believed to be Gojo Satoru. He was taller than you expected. In the same line of vision, you see three other figures who you guessed to be your future classmates.

Though what you did not expect to see when you stood, were two dogs no– wolves, bounding towards you.

With wide eyes, you stagger back slowly, not sure if they were actually heading towards you. Unfortunately, your suspicions are confirmed as the two very big animals claw at your uniform as you topple over.

A slimy, wet tongue no— two slimy, wet tongues find purchase on your cheeks. You breathe in and out slowly, eyes directed towards the sky as you laid back on the grass and took the assault.

Inadvertently, you couldn't hear a thing. You were sure there were probably chatters of surprise. But you didn't attempt to get up, the embarrassment weighing too heavily on your chest.

A second or two passes by before the licking stops. When it does, you blink out of your haze, a frown plastered on your face.

"Are you... uh- okay?" The two dogs are replaced with a face that hung over yours.

Absentmindedly, you whisper, "pretty."

Oh.

You scramble up with hot cheeks. "Uh... sorry?" You stutter. He was pretty. The sun's light caught the sparkle of his dark blue eyes and the long lashes that loomed above them. Your eyes flit down to see that his lips were a shade of rosy pink.

Trampling under your prior embarrassment, you look up to see his cheeks scarlet red. "I should... be the one to say sorry." He awkwardly bows. "They don't usually get that hyper."

With an awkward shuffle you search for the wolves but to no avail. "Where'd the wolves go?"

You take notice of how he kept averting his gaze from yours. Did you mess up that badly?

"They're my divine dogs, I can summon them at will." He affirms, face growing content. He must really love his dogs, you think.

"That's interesting," you declare, sitting back down on the grass. Your introduction to the rest of the first-years, long forgotten. "Can you bring them back?"

"Are yo–"

"It's fine, I wanna see them again." You wave.

With clasped hands, he does. Unfortunately, you find yourself in the same, prior predicament.

"I actually don't care anymore." You whisper to yourself, a smile growing on your lips. Blinking out of your crestfallen daze, you turn to your silent classmate.

"What's your name?"

"My name?" He points. Slowly, you nod your head. "Megumi." He states, choosing to situate himself right next to you.

"Oh."

He blinks at you in confusion.

Blearily, you shake your head. "Maki said that I was just like you." You ponder, nuzzling your cheek to the black hound's. Your eyes catch onto the three dots on its forehead.

"What do these mean?" You ask, shifting closer to Megumi's figure.

"It's a long explanation." He turns to face you, pretty eyes locked on yours. For a second he turns his attention back to his white hound, a ghost of a smile on his face as it nuzzles its nose into the palm of his hand.

"I wanna hear it."

Meanwhile, Gojo and Yuuji shuffle their feet with panned expressions. "W-what about us?"

"Can't believe he's gonna get a partner before me." Nobara grumbles, eyes creased in anger.

"I didn't actually expect... that." Maki blinks, propping her glasses up higher onto the bridge of her nose.

"Salmon."

#I will edit this when im done washing the dishes 🙈#megumi x reader #megumi fluff #megumi x you #megumi x gender neutral reader #jujutsu kaisen x gender neutral reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjkmag #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #xetou and kaze hit 300!

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mymegumi · 4 years ago

Text

SUNRISE OVER TOKYO

pairing: kuroo tetsuro x gn!reader

genre: fluff

word count: 5.3k words

warnings: nekomata!reader, minor character death and post timeskip

summary: as nekomata’s only grandchild, you’d always felt indebted to him in a way and found time to meet him almost everyday. through the years, you’d heard all the stories he’d wanted to tell of his favorite volleyball team and his travails as a younger man. by chance, you meet the captain of his glory day team who’s everything you didn’t know that you needed.

note: thank you to cass ( @misutv ) for the plot and for basically the whole idea, you’re a real one and ik daddy shemar would be proud of you

↬ back to nav.

The morning air was crisp, and there were still drops of dew hanging onto the blades of grass in the sitting area of the retirement home. The sun had barely risen over the horizon, and yet the sky was already vibrantly cerulean, pale white clouds blotting out the golden rays.

“It’s lovely out today,” you murmured softly, as if speaking any louder would disturb the calm of the early morning, “I’m glad you convinced me to take you out.”

“Of course!” Your grandfather, unlike yourself, had a booming voice, one he’d used to carve his presence into the minds of everyone around him. His smile was infectious and warm, like the feeling of drinking a cup of hot chocolate on a chilling winter day. “I’m not sure how often you’re let out of your little office to soak up the rays; people forget how often we are like plants, needing the warm summer sun to help us grow and expand into our fullest potentials.”

You loved your grandpa, you really did. He had been the one who had raised you when your parents passed away, taken too soon from you and yet never failing to make sure you had everything you needed in life. Even despite all of the hardships, like money and worrying about your education, he had made sure you always felt the love that children had gotten from their parents.

He tended to ramble a lot, though, and sometimes you just didn’t listen to him all the way. He was, as many old people were, a talker and you were sure that he could chat with you all day if you let him.

“Mhm,” you gripped the handles of his wheelchair a bit harder, pushing him along the pathway of the retirement home, concrete underneath your shoes hard, “they don’t really let us take breaks and take in the air.”

He tutted, tongue hitting the roof of his mouth in annoyance when you said it, and the action of it had you rolling your eyes because you knew he couldn’t see you from where you were standing. “It’s just like corporations these days to be preventing our youth from going outside. When my volleyball team was at its peak, we spent every summer day in the gym with the doors open and the breeze flitting through like a dancer.”

This was usually where you started to tune back into what he was saying, hoping that you could catch glimpses of his self-proclaimed glory days. The volleyball team had been his pride and joy when he was still coaching high schoolers, kids who worked their butts off to get to the national stage and play their rivals.

“Tell me about the team again, grandpa,” you requested, holding the door open to the retirement home as another pair of people left. He gave you a glance over his shoulder, eyes bright with amusement as you flushed, feeling the heat crawl along the nape of your neck.

“Anything for you, sweet one.”

Yasufumi was always kind to your requests, taking each one in step despite the embarrassment they seemed to bring you. You had been at Nekoma when the golden era of his volleyball team was still in action, but you had been going through a rebellious phase, often trying to turn away from the interests and endeavors of your older guardian.

It had only been when he retired from coaching and you had entered into the workforce that you truly had begun to listen to his words of wisdom, each one carried in your heart to serve as a lesson or a purpose for the things you did everyday. He only ever told you those stories when you asked for them—to pull out the fact that you enjoyed listening to him talk about volleyball, or to embarrass you over the fact that you had missed out on meeting many of the young men he was talking about, you wouldn’t know. Instead, he would talk about things that had happened at the retirement center, each one more confusing than the last and the list of unbelievable things that happened never ending.

Yasufumi watched you settle into the chair nearest to one of the windows, shifting uncomfortably in the small wooden chair that the retirement home gave to visitors in the common area, which was now a bit busier since it was later in the morning. People were walking around and talking amongst each other, and somewhere in the distance, you saw a pair of people playing chess at one of the tables outside.

“When the third years were just first years,” he starts, hands folded over themselves and sitting in his lap, “they argued almost constantly. The youngest of the bunch seemed to have a grudge against the shortest of the group that had lasted until they hit my gym floor; listening to them argue was just about the only other noise you’d hear in the gym besides the oldest of the group trying to mediate them.”

Yasufumi leaned back a bit in his wheelchair, joints in his leg creaking and moaning as he adjusted himself. His legs weren’t completely gone, but it was bad enough that you had sought out a doctor to prescribe him a wheelchair.

“Those boys were at each other’s throats for as long as I can remember, and it’s honestly a surprise that they had ended up working out their differences long enough to make anything of themselves.” His smile was filled with warmth and reminded you of your youth with him, every day filled with laughter. “My fondest memories of the team was during their third year, and they put in the best work during that era.”

Your grandfather’s face talking of this era brought feelings of melancholy for you, filled with a regret that you had missed out on his favorite remembrance of high school. If you had only been less filled with a need to rebel and push away, not knowing the value of being by his side until it was almost too late.

He talked to you for hours, retelling the stories of his volleyball team and the things that they had endured when they finally ended up going to nationals to meet their rivals for the first time in what had seemed like years. When you watched him talk, your heart clenched tightly in your chest the way his face portrayed the emotions of an insufferably saccharine past, as if he knew that his age was finally catching up to him.

In your own self loathing, you wished you had met the men that had shaped your grandfather’s glory days and that you had put in more of an effort to become friends with them because they seemed like people that you could have been friends with. You knew that Yasufumi would have appreciated seeing more than just you at the retirement home, but you didn’t have any contact information for you to reach out and see if they would like to come visit.

You had a feeling they would, though, because bonds forged through the trials of sports seemed to run deeper than any others. Giving your grandfather a brief goodbye, you tucked the visit into the part of your heart that each visit went into, for safekeeping on days you wouldn’t be able to see him again.

The next time you visited Nekomata Yasufumi, you were mildly surprised when the receptionist told you that there were already a group of three young men visiting him out in the recreation area. When you signed your name, the three signatures above yours were in a messy scrawl of young adults that were still adjusting to having to sign their name on legal documents; Nobuyuki Kai, Yaku Morisuke and Kuroo Tetsuro.

Despite being prepared for more people when you enter into the common area, you were taken aback by the sheer noise that was coming from the group gathered nearest to your grandfather—a group that was laughing happily over something you couldn’t understand while the tallest of them had a volleyball tucked underneath his arm.

“Oh! There’s the fifth of our group.” Your grandpa called out to you after he spotted you walking in, bag set on one of the hooks at the front for coats and bags. His smile was infectious and before you knew it, there was a smile spreading across your lips. “Let’s move outside, now, we can do introductions on the lawn.”

Your laughter was soft as you made your way to your grandfather’s wheelchair, hands reaching for the grips out of instinct before the tallest of the group, someone you vaguely remember from high school since his hair was so distinguishable, stopped you.

He looked at you with an air of lightness around him, as if he were carefree. “Hey, I got it.”

“Thanks.” You nodded your head to him, lips pulling into a slight smile as you walked around to your grandfather’s side, giving the taller man—whose hair was absolutely atrocious—one last curious glance.

“Kuroo,” your grandfather’s tone was chiding, “you didn’t even introduce yourself.”

“You said we were doing introductions on the lawn!” The man’s tone was light and joking, looking down at the older man before lightly patting down on his shoulder, “I know you’re old, but your memory isn’t going, now is it?”

“You wish it was,” Yasufumi retorted with an eyeroll, arms crossing over his chest, “that way I’d forget about that time you’d flubbed a receive you had claimed would be so easy to get.”

Kuroo, as you had just recently learned was his name, made a noise of distress that landed somewhere in the back of his throat, face twisted in distaste with blotches of pink dusting across his cheekbones and bridge of his nose. “I thought you had forgotten about that, that was so long ago!”

“I’d never forget things that embarrass you,” he joked breezily, wrinkly hand reaching up to grab your hand in his, “because you were insufferable in high school!”

Kuroo turned to you, then, making sure you were looking at him before dipping his head low in a simple greeting. His hair fell a bit, ends drooping and covering up more of his eyes from your gaze. “I’m Kuroo Tetsuro. It’s lovely to meet you, Mx. Nekomata.”

“Ah,” you started, hand coming up to wave him off as you felt a rush of heat crawl along the back of your neck at his sudden attention, “my name actually isn’t Nekomata. My mother took her husband’s last name.”

You gave him your name, body heating up just a bit too much when he repeated it—you loved the way his mouth rolled over the vowels and consonants of your name. When you gave him a nod of confirmation after he got it right, the grin he gave you back was almost blinding.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you!”

Now on the front lawn and standing just in front of the pair of other men that were talking amongst themselves, you bowed quickly after offering the both of them your name. Mixed between their smiles and the contagious energy that was Yaku and Kuroo, the energy was nowhere near as awkward as you had feared upon meeting your grandfather’s golden era third years.

Before you know it, the four of you were coerced into playing a few rounds of volleyball—nothing serious and almost incredibly competitive.

Paired together with Kuroo, the man was heartwarmingly kind in a way that you hadn’t been expecting from a man of his nature. In the few interactions you had had with him, you had expected more teasing, almost like you were expecting to have been poked and prodded until he figured out the way your cogs turned. In a nice turn of events, he was simply just the type of man that liked to provoke his friends to get them out of a funk if they were to experience any sort of failure; as often Kuroo would make some sort of misconstrued comment about Nobuyuki if he missed an easy to block to spike.

In between lifting the mood should it turn sour, Kuroo was also effortlessly teaching you the sport you’d avoided all throughout your youth. In avoiding your caretaker, you’d also managed to put learning volleyball on the back burner of things you wanted to do in high school and you’d never learned a lick of it.

Yaku was shouting encouraging words from across the way to you, but after a few minutes you’d ended up tapping out for a quick break. Nobuyuki had offered to step out too, and that left the blond to play a game of volley with Kuroo, the two bantering off handedly while your grandfather was laughing.

It wasn’t often that you saw his expression as bright as you did then, as you were often only met with a sage face when he told you anecdotes to not waste away your early years. There was something in your chest that ached seeing his expression so freely filled with joy, since you knew that some days he wasn’t even capable of getting to his wheelchair. Those days seemed to be making more frequent appearances as of late.

Pushing that thought to the back of your mind, instead you called out to the pair of boys that you wanted to go back to playing a two-on-two. At Nobuyuki’s protests, you had teased him that he would be beat out by a person who didn’t even exercise regularly, which had brought out a whole other slew of arguments. It took your grandfather’s chiding to get the mini game back on track again.

With Kuroo as your teammate, and your grandfather barking out orders to you that you took with a grain of salt, you were only marginally better at the sport by the end of their visit.

Yaku and Nobuyuki had left only minutes earlier, both giving you their well wishes and offering to come visit Yasufumi again when they got the chance. He had only waved them off, telling them to get a significant other before coming back to him.

Kuroo had ended up staying for a bit longer, citing that the game had winded him more now that he was no longer playing volleyball, instead working for the entire association as a whole. You just barely missed the nod of approval your grandpa gave him at his career choice, as if giving him approval for something else.

The three of you had settled into a trio of seats in the common area. By now, most of the people that were visiting loved ones had continued on, leaving the space almost empty. That was in your favor, however, as it meant your grandfather could establish a little spot for himself by one of the love seats, meaning you’d been at Kuroo’s side while the two of them reminisced of days of old.

The stories they swapped with each other ranged from Kuroo’s earliest volleyball days, to Yasufumi’s days playing against Karasuno’s now departed oldest coach. The thought had soured the mood, and despite Kuroo’s best efforts to return it back to normal, your grandfather had instead insisted that the pair of you go back to your normal lives, as opposed to entertaining an old man’s memories. It had been a clear time for the two of you to leave, which found you both walking to the parking lot.

“Do you often visit your grandfather?” Kuroo had his hands intertwined behind his back, walking casually as he glanced at you.

You nodded, looking back at him with a warmth somewhere in your chest developing. “Yeah, as often as I can. I’m usually here when I have days off, since I’m the only grandkid he had.”

Coughing into his hand, he spun his keyring around his finger as he started to slow his pace to match yours. You had a feeling he didn’t want to leave your side yet, and just the thought made you smile to yourself.

“You were really good with him, do you have a good relationship with your grandparents?”

Kuroo laughed, a loud one that came from the deep parts of his chest, like you had just told one of the funniest jokes he had ever heard. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it. I had a pretty shitty relationship with my parents, so my grandparents practically raised me. You learn how to deal with older people after a while, and Coach Nekomata had always been like a father figure to me growing up.”

“I get that,” you admitted, turning your head to try and remember where you had parked your car, “it’s hard, sometimes. I love my grandpa, though, and I don’t think I’d trade this experience for anything.”

Kuroo’s smile held a note of forbearance, as if he wanted to tell you something but bit his tongue at the last second. Instead of questioning it, as you normally would if you had more confidence, you just hit the unlock button on your car keys—the car just next to the two of you lighting up and beeping happily.

“This must be you.” He rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck anxiously, and you could have sworn he had something else to say. Instead, you got, “I’ll see you later then, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Nodding your head, you watched him walk further into the parking lot, head shaking slightly.

You had some sort of intuition that wouldn’t be the last you’d see of him, and on your third visit to see your grandfather after the Nekoma third years visited, your premonition of another meeting had been granted.

Signing your name into the guest book, you recognized Kuroo’s looping scrawl a few lines above where you were going to sign. Seeing it in there, you unconsciously straightened your back up a bit, shoulders pushing back to adjust your posture into something a bit more sightly. The receptionist just gave you a warm smile that made the tips of your ears burn.

With that bit of forewarning, walking into the common area to see your grandfather talking to Kuroo wasn’t a surprise.

“Darling!” Your grandfather’s voice rose above the din of the common area, his normal booming voice all you can hear adverse to the polite chatter of others in the general vicinity. A few heads turned to look at him, but his beaming face is enough to have them turning back to their own conversations without a second thought.

“Hey, funny running into you here.” Kuroo patted the seat cushion closest to him on the couch when you arrived, and you gave him a quick nod as thanks. “I was just telling him about the time a friend of mine tried to convince me to sell him a stock in the volleyball association just because he wanted to say he owned volleyball in Japan.”

“It sounds like you’ve got interesting friends,” your murmured, eyes scaling across the slants of his face and down the slope of his nose—you were trying your best to avoid looking at his hair and be seen as rude, “was it one of the ones that was here the last time you were here?”

He shook his head, and it was almost instinct the way your eyes drew to his hair, which seemed to be moving on a mind of its own. You’re pretty sure your grandpa was laughing at the way you were watching, but you weren’t one hundred percent sure. “Nah, those guys are actually sane, it’s a friend named Kenma. He’s a year younger than me, but he’s made a pretty good name for himself.”

Conversation between the three of you flowed easily, since if Kuroo ran out of things to say, your grandfather would find an anecdote to throw around that would cause Kuroo to think of something his own grandparents would try and tell him, before it would end up a battle of philosophies from two different families. Kuroo often lost those discussions, however, because you were Yasufumi’s kin and there wasn’t a battle you wouldn’t fight for him.

The day seemed to pass in almost slow motion, each conversation longer and filled with laughter. There was something about the fact that Kuroo could handle your grandfather so well that sat well with you, and it helped that Yasufumi had already liked Kuroo to begin with that made you unreasonably happy.

You thought, somewhat briefly at one point when your grandfather is laughing at a dumb joke that Kuroo made about the state of taxes in Japan, that you wouldn’t mind seeing more of this man.

“I really enjoyed seeing you,” Kuroo divulged to you later on when your grandfather had had his fill of interacting with people for the day, “and Coach Nekomata, of course.”

The way he added on the second part of the conversation made heat crawl across your face, and the meaning of his words seemed to dawn on Kuroo, as well, if the deep pink flush that creeped along the tips of his ears and at the sides of his neck are any indication. There was a deep satisfaction of making a grown man blush so hard that settled along you, and it made you more confident than you normally were.

“Well, I think that seeing you there was a nice surprise,” you commented, looking at him with what you hoped was a sincere expression painted on your features, “and I definitely won’t mind if it were to happen more often.”

That was the right thing to say, you decided as you watched a bright beam spread across Kuroo’s lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling at the statement. “Of course, I’ll make sure to stop by more frequently. Maybe I could get your number, so we can coordinate our visits?”

You pulled out your phone to exchange numbers with him, and as he entered his number into your phone, and subsequently called himself from your phone, you just took a minute to admire him.

You’ve only met him a few times, but from what you could tell, he wasn’t a bad guy. Sure his hair was a bit on the obscure side, but you had dated far worse guys than that. He seemed to be a family oriented man, if his relationship with his grandparents and older sisters were any indication from the stories he told you and your own grandfather. He worked as a representative of the Japanese Volleyball Association, so that meant he had put in the work to get where he was and had an eye for things that others might have overlooked.

You saw yourself falling for him very easily, and watching his retreating figure wave to you as he walked to his car, you realized that maybe you already were.

Nekomata Yasufumi passed away on a cool Tuesday evening in the middle of summer.

From what the nurses had told you, he had passed painlessly in his sleep, without so much as a warning that his health was declining to this point. You were just grateful that it wasn’t long, because the thought of him suffering was worse than any hardship you had faced thus far in life.

Your friends had called you and texted you, asking you were okay and if there was anything they could do for you, and yet, there wasn’t a thing that their words said to you that could soothe the ache in your heart. Yasufumi was the only person in your life that had been there steadily, and now that he’s gone, you were a bit lost in where you were meant to go next.

The only person that you had even allowed by your side throughout the entire process of the funeral was Kuroo.

After the day you had exchanged numbers, the two of you texted often—about your grandfather, about his grandparents, and sometimes just about whatever he had seen that had reminded him of you. You weren’t anything more than friends, but you liked to think that Kuroo was just taking it slow, trying to court you like you were something to be valued, rather than doing it in a more modern way.

When he heard that Yasufumi had passed away, he had been a bit distraught at the news. In what would usually be near nightly texts, you had gotten radio silence for a good few days.

You understood, though, because this was another father figure to him, and you didn’t hold his silent treatment against him. When he texted you a few days before the funeral, asking if he could drive you there and stand with you, you agreed almost immediately.

“Nekomata Yasufumi was one of the most carefree men I had ever had the pleasure of meeting,” he read from a paper in his hands, shaking slightly at the top because of the wind, and perhaps a bit because of the shake in his hands, “and he brought joy wherever he went. Working with him, and working as one of his athletes had been one of the most amazing moments in my life. I wouldn’t have traded that experience for anything in the world.”

There were a few more people that shared their stories of your grandfather before they buried his casket, each one tearfilled and sentimental in their own rights. There was a deep pain in your chest that dulls a bit more with each joyful memory that others had of the only man in your life for so long.

Kuroo stood by your side throughout the entire process, an arm wrapped around you protectively, and you could feel the warmth of his hand on your upper bicep. When you felt as if the whole situation was too much, and that the tears that you had been shedding throughout the week would make an appearance in front of all these people, you just looked at Kuroo. He offered you a gentle smile each time, a sea of emotions swimming hazel eyes that you understood more than anyone.

After the ceremony, no one faulted you for leaving early.

“I’m sorry.”

Blinking at him, you tilted your head to the side as you wiped at your salt-stained cheeks. “Why? He passed painlessly, and I think he’d be having fun wherever he ended up.”

“I know,” Kuroo amended, chin tilted down towards his chest so you can’t see his expression, “but I’m just sorry that he was the last of your family.”

You made a noise, a bit of a hum and just a noise to let him know that you had heard him. You thought about it for a minute, hands pressed firmly in flat fists, fingers digging crescents into your palms to avoid crying again at the mention of it. You didn’t want to be sad, because you liked to think that your grandfather was somewhere playing volleyball with the coach of Karasuno again, as they should be.

“I think that, I think that I’m going to miss him,” you had started, drawing Kuroo’s attention to you, “but also, I know that I’ll never be alone, because he’s always with me.”

Kuroo chuckled a bit at that. “Yeah, definitely. He cared for you a lot, that’s for sure.”

When the man at your side rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, you inquired softly about what was on his mind. He sighed lightly, leaning a shoulder against the wall the two of you were standing by.

“He had even given me advice on how to ask you out,” he looked away from you, but still you could see the bits of red spreading across the tops of his ears, “and he kept telling me I was waiting too long to ask you out, and that you would get snatched up before I could get a chance. But I just wanted to do it a bit slower.”

“I get it,” you smiled up at him, “but if you asked me out now, I’d say yes.”

“Oh.” Kuroo’s face erupted in a gorgeous shade of rosy pink. “Well, I was going to wait. I thought it might be inappropriate to ask you at Nekomata’s funeral.”

“Mm, well,” you mused, hand reaching towards his, “I get the feeling, he’d just be happy we got together at all.”

Kuroo met you halfway, his hand enveloping yours in a firm grasp. Despite the hole in your life that was oddly Nekomata Yasufumi sized, you thought that maybe there’d be someone who could patch over the wounds that were developing.

“Do you want some time alone?” You looked up at Kuroo with a blink, hand curled in his warmth. “I don’t mind, I can go sit in the car for a bit.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t really have anything to say to him that I can’t say in front of you.”

He leaned down, knee pressing against soft soil with a hand tracing along the stone of a gravestone, Nekomata Yasufumi written in elegant script with the year he was born and the year he passed on it.

“Hey, Coach,” he started, thumb brushing against the granite in smooth, slow strokes, “we just wanted to let you know about how life has been going.”

You crouched down, the side of your thigh pressed against the denim of his jeans. “Gramps, we, uh, we visited Mori and Lev in Russia for a couple of days, which was really lovely.”

The elder of the two was seemingly more successful, despite the modeling career Lev had gotten with his sister. He was doing what he loved in a foreign country, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been a bit impressed when he had ordered for you and Kuroo at a restaurant in fluent Russian.

Lev was in the process of learning his third language, English, and had tried to show off in front of the two of you. Morisuke had laughed at him mercilessly, and corrected him in anything that he had gotten wrong, showing off another hidden talent the former libero had kept tucked away.

“The best part of the trip, though,” Kuroo knocked the side of his head against yours gently, in what was nothing more than a love tap, “was putting a ring on their finger.”

He pulled over the hands that were intertwined with yours, tugging the fingers down to show off the golden band adorning your ring finger that rested snugly. After showing it off, the sunlight reflecting off of it in straight lines, Kuroo ghosted his lips over the engagement band he had presented to you.

“We’re gonna keep a seat open for you,” you murmured, reaching out to trace your hand along the engravings of your grandfather’s name, “and I know you’re gonna watch us with a stupid story about Tetsuro that’ll have everyone laughing wherever you ended up.”

Kuroo pulled you closer with an arm winding around your shoulders, lips resting against the crown of your head as you pressed a palm against your chest. Despite the fact that the loss of your grandfather had opened a cavity in your chest, with each passing day the ache seemed to dull just a bit more. You didn’t think it would ever go away fully, but just carrying it with you would mean that it would become bearable.

Kuroo stood without another word, hand resting on your head and shaking a bit to mess up your hair. Before you had come in, you had already agreed that you would get a few minutes alone with your grandfather, and you appreciated the fact that Kuroo understood.

It was early in the morning. The morning dew was clinging to the green blades that curved and bent underneath every step that your fiancé took, each one a soothing contrast to the sun that was peeking up over the Japanese horizon. As the clouds floated through the sky, you sat and talked with your grandfather of all the things that he had missed in the last few months that you had been unable to visit him—your lover, and his former protégé, waiting for you in your car.

t.list :: @nekomabvc @shadowkunoichi @duhsies @iwaizoom @hikariakaashi @kyotarou

#hqcorenet #hanimehub #kuroo tetsuro #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo tetsuro x y/n #kuroo tetsurou x y/n #kuroo tetsurou x you #kuroo tetsurou x reader #kuroo tetsuro fluff #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo x reader #kuroo x y/n #kuroo x you #haikyuu!! kuroo #grind for the wealth

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ughseoks · 4 years ago

Text

asterismos ⋆ 4

PAIRING; jungkook x reader

GENRE; angst, fluff, eventual smut / enemies to lovers / fantasy au

RATING; 18+

WORD COUNT; 4k

WARNINGS; swearing, weapons, blood, injury, fighting, ~magic~

SUMMARY; As far as you’re concerned, things like magic, prophecies, and fate are nothing more than fairytales. But when you accidentally bind your soul to a mysterious amulet you found at an antique shop, a group of seven warriors from a magical world inform you that you now hold the key to saving them all. The fate of the realm Elodia now rests in your hands, and you realize that you couldn’t have been more wrong.

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— banner created by the most talented human ever aka @kimtaehyunq 🥺

Author’s note at the end!

“You know she’ll never join you, right?”

The man scoffs at the statement coming from the Elodian collapsed on the ground behind the metal bars of the cell. “You shouldn’t speak of things you know nothing about. I know that she’ll choose the right side; she’s my sister.”

The Elodian in the cell’s returning smile is a broken one. “Your time away from Earth has caused a rift to form between the two of you. She doesn’t even think you’re alive.” He stops to cough, the sound grating against the other man’s ears. “But beyond that, she’s no longer the little girl you once knew. Unlike you, she didn’t grow into a person driven by hatred and revenge. No matter what her relation to you is, she would never turn her back on innocent people. Your father holds no power over her decisions—although I’m afraid I can’t same the same about you.”

“Don’t you dare speak of my father in that way.” A wild look dances in the man’s eyes as he takes a few steps towards the occupied cell. “He was a man with a vision. You and the rest of the world were—and still are—too blinded by your foolish ideas to see it.”

The man behind bars smirks. “Those are bold words coming from someone who’s only half Elodian.”

An angry roar escapes the taller man as he thrusts his fist into the rocky wall beside him, a sickening crunch resounding in the small chamber upon impact. He lets out a small grunt of pain and allows his arm to drop back to his side. A soft blue light begins to emit from the wound, the broken skin and bone expertly weaving itself back together. When the glowing finally stops and all that’s left on his skin is dried blood, a tense sigh escapes the man’s lips, the angry glint in his eye giving away just how unstable he is despite his calm exterior.

“You were a fool for giving her the amulet. I know that she’ll choose my side in the end.” He turns to exit the dark room, only pausing to throw a final comment over his shoulder. “The glamour you placed on her is wearing off. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Which one…” you trail off, your eyes scanning the various weapons laid out before you, “Which one should I, uh, try first?”

Seokjin shrugs. “Whichever you want to, Y/N. You’ll know when you pick the right one.”

You nod slowly and continue to gaze at the various sharp, slicey, and spiky things being presented to you. The boys are peeking over your shoulder, and as much as you need their guidance for this, you also feel a bit overwhelmed with the amount of pressure on you. What if you make a fool of yourself trying to wave around Namjoon’s enormous greatsword? What if you accidentally shoot yourself in the foot with Hoseok’s bow?

You’re shaken out of your thoughts when Taehyung lays a large hand on your shoulder. “I know that this all feels a little overwhelming, but you don’t have to be embarrassed or worried about your lack of training, alright? We’re here to help you.” His voice is soft and soothing, and you find yourself feeling a little more confident with his gentle encouragement.

You nod and take a deep breath before stepping forward to pick up a small throwing knife. Taehyung grins at your choice, stepping forward to demonstrate how to use them. You attempt to copy his expertly executed movements, but the knives all end up scattered across the ground rather than stuck in a tree.

“At least they didn’t end up stuck in any of us,” Taehyung jokes and ruffles your hair.

Slowly but surely, you make your way through every option until you’re left with Jungkook’s weapon—a broadsword.

None of the weapons have really clicked with you so far. Although you feel a little bit like you’re living out one of your childhood fantasies when you swing the various swords and knives around your body, none of them feel quite right in your gentle hands. The weight of them resting in your palm is foreign, and despite your best efforts, you just can’t seem to find a weapon that works with you.

When you raise the (almost comically) long sword into the air to test it out, you note that you can feel Jungkook’s presence from where he stands only a few feet away. Chancing a glance over at him, you’re surprised to see that instead of the irritated or exasperated expression you were expecting, he’s wearing a look that almost seems interested.

With a determined huff, you attempt to swing the sword in a wide arc, only to fall onto your behind when the unexpected weight knocks you off balance.

“It’s useless,” you sigh and hand the sword over to Jungkook with a downcast gaze, “The human in me just… cancels out the ‘warrior’ part of being Elodian, I guess.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Hoseok interrupts, “That isn’t necessarily true, Y/N. There’s still something we haven’t tried.”

“If it’s another weapon, it probably won’t end well,” you pout. “I think it’s pretty clear that big, sharp, pointy things aren’t really my specialty.”

“They aren’t mine either.”

You turn to look at Jimin. He’s standing a few feet away with his arms crossed against his chest, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. When your brows furrow in confusion, he drops them to his sides with a chuckle, taking a few steps forward to close the distance between the two of you.

“I never had an affinity for ‘big, sharp, pointy things’ when I was training to be a warrior,” he explains. You don’t appreciate his usage of air quotes around the former part of his sentence. “That’s why I turned to magic. It came way more naturally to me than physical weapons ever did. You might be the same way, Y/N.”

“Y-You think I could be a magic user? Even though I’m only half Elodian?”

Jimin shrugs. “We won’t know until we try. Here, give me your hand.”

Jimin’s fingertips are soft against your skin, the palm of his hand pressed to the back of yours. He crouches on the ground and guides your hand so it’s resting on the green grass below. Despite being warmed by the sun, the grass is still slightly damp from the morning dew, the small droplets wetting your fingertips where they press against the soft blades.

“Close your eyes,” Jimin murmurs from beside you, shifting his hand so his fingers are nestled between yours as you follow his instructions. The grass pokes at the palm of your hand from where it sticks out of the cool soil, and if you weren’t holding your breath in anticipation of what Jimin is about to do, you might’ve giggled at the ticklish sensation.

“I want you to picture a flower. It can be any kind you want; just make sure you stick with the one you choose.” He pauses for a moment to let you decide before speaking again. “Have you chosen?” You nod. “Okay. Now, I want you to create a clear picture of that flower in your mind. Be as detailed as possible, like you’re looking at the real thing right in front of you.”

Your eyelids flutter closed as you follow his instructions, your brow knit in concentration. Jimin’s hand is warm on top of yours, and as the image of the flower in your mind grows clearer, the heat from his hand grows warmer along with it. Tingles of warmth climb up your arm all the way to your shoulder, your heart rate increasing as the sensation grows stronger.

After a few seconds, the feeling of the grass on the underside of your palm begins to increase from a light tickle to a steady pressure—it takes you a moment to realize that it feels like something is growing beneath your hand.

When the pressure ceases, Jimin retracts his hand from yours, allowing you to pull your own hand away once your eyes are open again with a gasp.

“Did I…” you trail off as you stare at the beautiful tiger lily sticking out of the ground where your hand once was. The vibrant orange hues of the petals are just as bright as you imagined them—brighter than any tiger lily you’ve ever seen in real life. “Did I do that?”

Jimin nods whilst smiling proudly.

You gulp, “I… but you helped me, didn’t you? When your hand was on top of mine.”

“Here in Elodia, our full powers and connection to the magical realm must be ‘awakened’ by a magic user,” Hoseok speaks up, “Jimin awakened yours.”

“All I did was teach your body how to tap into its magical abilities,” Jimin smiles, “The rest of it was all you.”

“Woah…” You trail off and reach out a hand to touch the flower. The petals are soft against your fingertips—and surprisingly warm, too.

“Jungkook, wasn’t your awakening flower a tiger lily too?” You hear Taehyung speak up from beside you, a knowing smirk lighting up his face.

“Yes.” If the blush on his cheeks means anything, Jungkook seems uncomfortable with Taehyung’s line of questioning.

“You know what they say about matching awakening flowers…” The blue-haired man trails off meaningfully as Jungkook shoots him a glare.

“Shut up, Tae.” Jungkook growls the command, but there’s no real malice behind it, and Taehyung simply snickers in response.

“What are awakening flowers?” You pipe up from your spot on the ground below. In all honesty, you’re starting to feel a little bad about asking so many questions all of the time—but you’re in a totally different realm where magic exists. You’re bound to have at least a few questions.

“They’re the first flower that an Elodian grows during their magical awakening,” Namjoon supplies helpfully. “Taehyung was referring to the popular belief that having identical awakening flowers is a sign of being each other’s Bonded.”

Jungkook is blushing furiously now, his gaze trained on the ground at his feet. You don’t blame him—you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks as well.

“It’s just a myth, though,” Seokjin reassures you before placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, “Lots of people have similar awakening flowers. No need to worry about being Bonded with grumpy over there.”

“Hey! I am not grumpy, hyung—”

“Yes, you are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Are you two going to keep arguing?” Yoongi interjects with a sigh, “Or can we get on with saving Elodia?” Jin stifles a chuckle at the angry look on Jungkook’s face, only to let out a yelp when the youngest juts out an arm to elbow him in the stomach.

“Anyways,” Jimin smiles at you, “I think that you have a lot of potential. I would love to train you and teach you how to use your magic to its full extent—that is, if you want me to.”

“I…” you trail off, unexpectedly strong emotions bubbling up in your throat.

Maybe it’s because for the first time since you’ve arrived in Elodia, you feel as if you just might belong here.

“I would love to train with you, Jimin.” You get a little choked up at the end of your sentence. Jimin’s gaze softens, and the amount of love that you see sparkling in his deep brown eyes is enough to open the floodgates.

Tears begin to slip down your cheeks, the salty droplets leaving streaks as they fall relentlessly. You do your best to wipe them as they fall, but it’s of no use—they’ve already seen your tears, and you’re too emotional to keep them at bay.

“I just…” you sniffle, “The entire time I’ve been here, I’ve felt like a burden. Like I’ve been holding you back and somehow preventing you from completing the mission. But now—now I feel like… like I can finally do something to help other than just... stay out of the way.”

Jimin nods in understanding. “You’re not useless, Y/N, even though you often believe yourself to be.”

“Thank you.” Your voice is barely a whisper, but you know they hear it anyways.

“So, Jimin will work with you on your magic skills,” Namjoon speaks up after a few moments of silence, “And those will most definitely prove useful in our journey, I have no doubt. However,” he sighs, “I believe that there is still the matter of your lack of hand to hand combat skills—which will inevitably be crucial to your survival at some point in the future.”

You nod. “Can’t Jimin just help me with that as well? Since he’ll already be teaching me magic.”

“I don’t think I’m the best suited to teach you,” Jimin frowns. “Although I can most definitely defend myself, I’m not the person you should be learning from—especially considering that we have such little time to prepare you for what’s to come.”

“Jungkook can teach her.”

You turn to face Seokjin fast enough to feel a twinge of pain in your neck. But before you can say anything, Taehyung is already speaking up.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Seokjin?”

You flinch, expecting Jungkook to scoff. But he never does. Instead, he looks ashamed, gaze downcast as he clears his throat nervously.

“What happened last time… it won’t happen again.” He lifts his head to lock gazes with Seokjin, a hard look of determination set on his face. “I promise.”

“Y-You really don’t have to if you don’t want to—”

“Nobody is forcing him to help, Y/N,” Seokjin cuts you off with a reassuring smile, “He volunteered.”

“Oh.”

Jungkook is looking everywhere except you, the tips of his ears tinged red. You have to fight to keep from staring at him in shock.

“Shouldn’t she have her own blade?”

Your attention is pulled away from Jungkook at Yoongi’s question-comment, a curious look in your eyes. “Am I even allowed to have one? Aren’t they only given to warriors?”

“You are a warrior,” Hoseok smiles, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, “Sure, you need a little training, but the mentality of a warrior is what’s most important—and you have far more courage than you seem to know.”

What the hell is with these insanely attractive men complimenting you? You swear, you’re going to have a heart attack one of these days.

“It’s not that I disagree,” Namjoon interjects, “But where are we even going to find her a blade? They’re normally gifted during our warrior officiation ceremonies, and

“I have one she can bond with!”

Namjoon turns to Taehyung in shock, his look of disbelief mirrored on the other six Elodians in the group. “Taehyung! That—That’s illegal! Why the hell do you have a spare sacred blade?”

Taehyung shrugs. “Someone dared me to steal it a few years ago, so I did. I’ve been holding onto it since in case of an emergency like this.”

“You stole a sacred blade because of a dare?” Namjoon balks. “You could be stripped of your title as a warrior!”

“It was a triple dog dare! I couldn’t just chicken out!” Taehyung defends, “Plus, it came in handy, didn’t it?”

Namjoon lets out a heavy sigh. “I can’t believe you. We’re going to have a serious talk sometime about who you choose to hang out with.”

“Okay, first of all, you’re not my dad. Second of all, Jungkook was the one who dared me to steal it, so why isn’t he the one getting in trouble?”

Jungkook makes a noise of protest when Namjoon’s sharp eyes land on him. “I was only kidding when I said it! I swear.”

“Liar,” Taehyung pouts, yelping when Jungkook gives him a harsh shove.

“Anyways,” Yoongi interrupts, a small smile tugging on the corners of his lips, “Since Taehyung is conveniently in possession of a highly sacred blade, you can simply bond with it and use it as your own.”

“Bond with it?” You question, “How do I do that?”

“I’ll show you,” Jimin smiles, “Don’t worry; it’s really not that complicated. I’ll explain more tonight when you’re about to bond with it. Okay?”

You nod, and Seokjin reaches out to give your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Half-Elodian or not, you’re going to become a true warrior tonight, Y/N. Be proud.”

“Jimin. Could you be any more vague?” You mutter in frustration, “I know literally nothing about magic and sacred blades and Elodian sparkles and shit. You’re gonna have to be more specific than telling me to ‘let the blade take control’. Like, what does that even mean?”

Jimin raises an eyebrow at you as you continue to speak, mouth quirking up at the corner when you end your small speech with a frustrated huff. “I’m sorry that I can’t give you more concrete instructions, Y/N. But I’m telling the truth when I say that the blade will do most of the work for you, and this experience is different for everyone. It’s deeply intimate; the sacred blade is making a connection with your soul. I can’t tell you how your bond with it will form, only give you what I hope is helpful advice.”

You groan, dragging the palm of your hand across your face tiredly. “Sorry. I’m just… I’m nervous, I guess. What if I do it wrong?”

“It’ll be alright, I promise. Just the blade—and trust yourself. You’re part Elodian; I know you have it in you.” He reaches up to give your cheek a gentle pinch before taking a few steps back. “I’ll leave you to it. You may feel emotional when the bond is formed, and that’s completely normal. Just shout if something goes wrong, alright?”

“O-Okay. Thank you, Jimin,” you smile, eyes never leaving his back until he disappears from your vision altogether behind the trees.

Once you’re alone, the noise of the forest around you is nearly overwhelming. Excited chirping and the rustling of leaves assaults your senses, the subtle sounds mixing together into a cacophony of chaos in your mind.

“Focus,” you whisper to yourself, reaching into the satchel handed to you by Taehyung to pull out the sacred blade.

Your fingers wrap around the hilt of the knife, pulling it out of the satchel so gently that one might think it was made of glass. The blade itself is only a few inches long, the sleek, black material glinting in the moonlight that filters through the tree leaves above.

Allowing your eyes to fall shut, you take a deep breath and try to focus on the way the blade feels in your hand; the grip is surprisingly soft against the skin of your palm, and it almost feels like it’s moulding to fit the shape of your hand.

As the seconds pass by, you begin to feel a tingling in the hand gripping the knife, the feeling growing in intensity until shivers are suddenly wracking your body. You open your eyes at the onslaught of sensations, eyes flying open when what feels like a bolt of electricity shocks you to your core.

When you open your eyes, you aren’t met with an image of the forest bathed in milky moonlight. Instead, you see a beautiful array of bursting colors—some of which you didn’t even know existed. They’re vibrant and filled with every emotion you’ve ever felt to the strongest degree; it feels like you’re tangled in the threads that weave your very soul together, but in the most beautifully inexplicable way.

It feels like years rather than moments before the colors fade and you’re left standing alone in the clearing. When you glance down at the knife in your hand, you’re shocked to see that it’s extended to become the length of your forearm, a swirling magenta pattern snaking around the meat of the blade as opposed to the blue lines in Jimin’s knife.

“Y/N?”

You glance up to see Jimin watching you carefully, a gleeful grin spreading on his face when he notices the glowing blade in your hand.

“You did it!” he cheers, running up to you to wrap you in his tight embrace. He pulls away moments later, hands immediately coming up to wipe away the tears on your cheeks that you didn’t know you’d been shedding. “I’m so proud of you, Y/N. You’ve come so far.”

“I’m a warrior,” you giggle, causing a bubbling laugh to fall from Jimin’s lips in return. “I-It’s so pretty, Jimin. And I feel… I’ve never felt… when it bonded with me…”

Jimin nods in understanding. “Your emotions are probably going to be running a little high until you get some rest. It’s expected after performing such an intimate ceremony.” He reaches out his hand for you to take, squeezing your palm comfortingly when you interlace your fingers with his. “Come on. I know a place where you can be alone with your thoughts for a little while; you probably need it.”

The place that Jimin shows you is beautiful. He parts with a gentle goodbye and a promise of returning within the hour, leaving you to take in the beauty of the scenery in stunned silence.

It’s a scenic overhang that gazes out across the expanse of the hilly forest of Elodia, a sea of glowing flowers illuminating the grass that sways in the gentle breeze. Seeing as the overhang isn’t shielded by any surrounding trees, a blanket of moonlight kisses everything you can see, the sight beautiful enough to nearly bring you to tears again.

You aren’t sure how long you sit out there, feet hanging over the edge of the rocky edge of the overhang when a voice announces its presence from just a few feet behind you.

“Is this seat taken?”

You nearly topple over the ledge at the sound of Jungkook’s voice, clearly not expecting to see him out of all people right now. Too shocked to speak, you simply shake your head no and scoot over a bit, holding your breath when he plants himself just a foot away from you.

“I wanted to say… that I’m sorry.”

That catches your attention, head swiveling to look at him with wide eyes. His gaze is focused on where his feet are swinging back and forth in the open air—a nervous habit that you seem to be mirroring.

“You’re… sorry?” you finally manage, voice barely above a whisper.

Jungkook nods. “I’m sorry. For the way I’ve been acting towards you. It’s—It’s unfair to you, and no matter what my personal feelings are regarding the situation, it doesn’t warrant me treating you so terribly. You didn’t ask for this, yet you left your entire life behind to fight for Elodia.”

“It’s not like I had much of a choice,” you mumble humorlessly. Jungkook tenses beside you.

“I know. But you’re still doing your absolute best to help, despite it all. Despite the treatment you’ve received from me.” He exhales slowly. “So I’m sorry. You’re not a burden, and you never were. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Jungkook…” you murmur, trying to find the “I…”

“It’s alright; you don’t have to say anything.” He finally looks up at you. “But I’ll make it up to you. I promise I will. Nothing bad is going to happen to you again; not on my watch. You’re Elodia’s last hope.”

He pulls his feet back up onto the ledge and stands before extending his hand out for you to take. You stare at his outstretched palm for a few moments before acquiescing and allowing him to pull you up from your spot on the ground.

“We should head back so you can get some rest,” he says once he releases your hand, nodding in the direction of the campsite in the woods. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

a/n; wow. it has been quite a long time since i’ve updated this fic. i’m sorry that this update is so short & for it taking so long :( school has been A Lot & i’ve been working really hard on a big project to post later this month. but! i finally got off my ass and finished writing this chapter. think of it as an early christmas gift.

i apologize for any inconsistencies 🥺 it has been a long while since i dusted off this fic & worked on it, so not all of it is fresh in my brain. i also did not edit this before posting so i’m sorry for that too. i’m also sorry for how utterly horrible the pacing is for all the previous chapters bc i went in and reread them a while ago and... oof. ya girl really rushed that ish. maybe one day i’ll get to rewriting them so they’re better <3

TLDR; thank y’all so much for continuing to support this fic even though it’s been slow going with updates. your encouraging comments keep this fic alive 🥺 i love y’all!!! idk when the next update will be but i’ll do my best to have it out as soon as i can.

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#networkbangtan #btsghostie #bangtanarmynet #jungkook x reader #bts fantasy au #bts x reader #jungkook x you #bts au #jungkook smut #bangtanuniversity

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vanserraseris · 3 years ago

Note

END OF PART V - This part sort of just gives a little insight into the Vanserra family dynamics, and they’re kind of a mess. The brothers probably aren’t as shit as they are supposed to be, though, but they’re still pretty bad. There are a few mentions of child abuse, Beron is literally the worst. It got a little longer than I’d first planned, but I hope you enjoy it (and big thanks to everyone who is reading)!!!

ahhhh i love it sm. love the brothers. fuck beron

Prince of Ashes. Part V.

masterlist.

Eris’s eyes snapped open, the incessant banging coming from the front of his cottage startling him out of a dreamless sleep. Despite having just woken up, Eris’s movements as he reached for the dagger he always kept on his nightstand were quick, controlled. Even in the dark of the room, Eris could see that there were no intruders. Not many people knew of his personal cottage, but that didn’t mean Eris never worried about being killed in his sleep while there.

“What is that?” Eris had nearly forgotten about Lucien. His youngest brother seemed to have fallen asleep curled up on the large cushioned chair by the stone fireplace again instead of going to the smaller room he’d claimed as his own. Eris didn’t know why, but when he took Lucien to his cottage, Lucien often preferred sleeping on one of the chairs in Eris’s bedroom. Lucien’s red hair was a mess and his shirt was wrinkled as he sat up, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

Eris grabbed the pair of old brown boots he had by the foot of his bed, wondering who in the hells was capable of getting past the wards he’d had Lagos put around his personal home. “Don’t worry, it’s just the door,” Eris answered, irritation lacing each word in the hopes that Lucien wouldn’t think anything was amiss.

Lucien didn’t seem worried in the slightest as he yawned before he asked, “Is Micah back? He left a bunch of scrolls on the table.”

“Micah has a key.” All three of his friends had a key, and the only other person he could think of that would be coming to see him so late at night was Rufus, but Rufus could easily winnow through the wards.

Eris snarled softly when he saw the wrinkles on his own shirt, briefly considering whether or not he should just put another one on, but decided not to when the banging started once more.

It was probably Beron. Eris figured he had absolutely nothing to worry about, his father was most likely just angry with him, and that was nothing new. Or perhaps Beron had come for Lucien. Eris ran a hand through his hair, his other hand still clutching his dagger as he tried to decide if it was Lucien his father wanted, what he might do. With a few large steps, Eris made his way across the room. He crouched down in front of Lucien’s chair, holding the dagger out to him, “Take this.”

Lucien straightened, suddenly looking a lot more troubled, but he didn’t reach out to take the dagger. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” Eris desperately hoped it was nothing. “Rufus probably just got drunk and forgot how to winnow again.”

“Eris,” russett eyes wide, Lucien grabbed onto the loose sleeve of Eris’s shirt, “Where are you going?”

“To open the door,” Eris flashed his brother a small smile, hoping that it would be enough to convince him that everything was alright. “Take this and stay here.” Lucien knew how to use a blade, most Autumn court children did.

Lucien was just a little older than half a decade, but despite his age, he knew all too well how dangerous the Autumn Court was, how cutthroat. Lucien took a deep breath, eyes now on the dagger in Eris’s outstretched hand.

The hilt of the dagger was ornate, golden, and fashioned to look like the head of a snake, green jewels that acted as the snake’s eyes glittered brightly as Lucien curled his small fingers around the weapon. Eris brought his now empty hand up to ruffle Lucien’s hair, “I’ll be back,” he promised.

Lucien nodded once, pulling his knees up to his chest, a look of pure determination on his young features as he watched Eris stand to his full height.

Eris regretted that he’d left all of his hounds at the kennel in the Forest House I’m his rush to leave. He’d have preferred at least Enya, his oldest hound and the alpha of the pack, to have watched over Lucien. Eris no longer had a weapon, but his magic would most likely be enough, so with one final glance at Lucien, Eris tore out of the room. As Eris walked with fast steps down the hall, the bronze sconces that lined the walls flared to life behind him.

The banging on the door hadn’t gotten any louder or any more frantic, and as Eris approached it, he lifted his nose in the air, taking a deep breath. The familiar scent of red apples lingered in the small foyer - not father - but it did nothing to ease Eris’s worries. His features schooled into a practiced look of irritation, Eris pulled the latch on the door, unlocking it before he yanked it open, “Cato.”

His brother smiled. To anyone else, it might have looked sincere, “Eris.” When Eris didn’t move to the side, Cato made a face that looked genuinely confused, his brows raising in a look of mock puzzlement, “Not going to invite me in?”

Eris didn’t move, he was taller than Cato, and while they were both lean, Eris’s shoulders were broader. He effectively blocked the entrance to his home as he asked, “Why are you here, Cato?”

His younger brother frowned, “Can’t I come say hello to my older brother?” He tilted his head a fraction, russett eyes widening slightly. “I only have one, you know.” Perhaps that was why Cato and Eris never really got along. Eris was the only obstacle to Cato’s place as High Lord, and they had never spent much time together while Cato was growing up - Eris had been sent to a war camp right after he’d been born.

They had almost no relationship, and yet, they still managed to fight over the smallest of things. Eris supposed that their non-existent brotherly bond meant that there would be no regret for Cato when he would inevitably end Eris’s life. Sending Eris away had been smart on Beron’s part, he’d practically ensured that his two eldest sons were always at each other’s throats.

Eris growled, “No. No, you cannot come say hello, especially not at the crack of dawn.”

“Did I wake little Lucien?” Cato’s voice dripped with such a convincing act of concern. Even Eris could admit that Cato was the best fucking courtier in all of Prythian, a snake in the grass in every sense.

“You woke me,” Eris spat.

Cato was no longer acting the part of the concerned younger brother as he practically shoved past Eris, “Don’t worry, I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

Eris bit the inside of his cheek so hard he drew blood. Slowly, Eris shut the door, mumbling a frustrated, “I doubt it,” under his breath.

When Eris finally turned to face Cato, he looked closely at his greatest rival. Not a single one of Cato’s deadly throwing knives was in sight, but that didn’t mean none were there. Cato’s eyes looked tired - troubled - and if Eris didn’t know any better, he'd have guessed that he looked a bit nervous.

He was holding himself up a little too straight, the sleeve of his shirt sloppily peaked out of his jacket, and a muscle in his jaw was working. Wonderful, Eris thought, Cato had finally decided to kill him. Eris took a breath, controlling his flames, getting ready for a fight.

“I know you favour the runt, Eris.”

Eris blinked. His brows furrowing slightly as he shook his head, “Cato—”

Cato raised a hand, “I don’t know why, but father’s given us orders to make his life as miserable as possible - probably to piss you off as much as because he’s just a horrible old bastard - and I’m not going to go against a direct order from the High Lord.”

Eris froze, “And you’ve come to tell me this because?”

Cato flashed him an adder’s grin, “I’m in a benevolent mood.”

Eris eyed him. Eris didn’t know if Cato had ever done him any favours, at least not in the last century. He sometimes wondered if Cato and him could have been close, knowing very well that it was much too late now. The resentment Cato had for his only older brother had been ingrained in his very young and impressionable mind by their father. Eris would be lying if he said he didn’t resent Cato as well.

Cato’s grin, faltered, turned into a frown, a seemingly real and true emotion Eris didn’t think he’d ever seen on his younger brother’s face. “It is an act I’ve done in good faith,” Cato wasn’t meeting Eris’s gaze, “Owain, Maddox, and Priam got the lecture, too.” Cato tugged on the cuff of his jacket sleeve, “I’m sure Rufus would have gotten the lecture if he’d been at the house, waste of father’s breath if you ask me - he only ever listens to you.”

Cato had gone out of his way to warn Eris, and while Eris was grateful, he couldn’t very well let almost all of his brothers turn on Lucien just because Beron had ordered it. “I’m going to say it once, Cato, don’t you dare lay a hand on him.”

Cato huffed a laugh, flames in his eyes, “I don’t follow your orders, brother, and if you're asking me, I’d say the little runt would benefit from having the rest of us beat on him as well.”

Eris wasn’t usually one for any sort of physical violence, but he was blinded by rage as he lunged at Cato, grabbing him roughly by the collar and shoving him back up against the wall. Eris snarled, teeth bared, “Don’t touch him.”

“I wasn’t being entirely serious,” Cato rolled his eyes, “But it’s fucking nice to know your weakness, Eris.”

Of course Cato would use their youngest brother against him. “I think all of us would benefit if I cut out that silver tongue.” Eris didn’t mean it, but it worked in Eris’s favour if Cato feared him just a bit.

Cato grinned again. “I’d be very careful, Eris, I’m not in the mood to gut you tonight, ” Eris hadn’t felt the point of the knife pressed up against his side until Cato applied just a little more pressure, “I’d hate to get blood all over my good jacket, but I’ll do it if I have to.”

Eris snarled, pressing Cato harder up against the wall, “You always manage to make my blood fucking boil, you know.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Eris thought he felt Cato’s knife cut through his shirt.

With one final growl, Eris loosened his hold on Cato’s jacket. He took a few small steps back, running a hand through his long hair.

Cato adjusted his jacket with one hand, in the other, he twirled the knife between his fingers, the simple silver blade flashing. “Be honest with me, Eris, just this once.” Eris would have asked him what the hell he was talking about, but Cato didn’t wait for a response before he asked, “What’s so very special about Lucien?”

Eris couldn’t actually tell him about the oath he’d taken, wouldn’t risk Cato using that against him, so he simply sneered, “Absolutely nothing.”

Cato scoffed, “I know you dislike it when precious little Lucien gets a beating, but I think you’re overreacting. Father’s hands aren’t as painful as the whips he was using on us at Lucien’s age.”

Eris set his jaw, opting to give his brother some of the honesty he’d asked for. “I want to protect him from that - maybe then he won’t end up like the rest of us.” Eris made a vague gesture with his hand.

There seemed to be a sort of understanding between the both of them when Cato met his eyes once more, a strange sort of openness that Eris couldn’t really read. Cato sounded a bit defeated as he spoke, “You cannot protect him forever.”

Eris knew he couldn’t, the vow he’d taken haunted him some nights, but that didn’t mean he wanted Cato to point it out. “I can try,” Eris snapped.

“I appreciate the honesty, truly, but let me tell you something, brother. Your efforts will have been for nothing if the outcome is no good.” Cato shook his head, “I reckon no one - not mother, not Rufus, definitely not Lucien - no one will remember that you tried.” His lip curled over his teeth at the last word like he was disgusted by it. “Father’s got it out for little Lucien, I don’t know why, so try and protect him if you must, but when it all goes to shit, just remember I warned you.”

Eris couldn’t even begin to guess why their father was acting this way so suddenly, but he dipped his chin at his brother. “Thank you, Cato,” Eris said with as much sincerity as he was able. Eris wasn’t very used to thanking anyone, and he didn’t think that Cato was very used to hearing any thanks, either. Eris could practically hear his father’s voice, see the sneer on Beron’s face, as he’d hissed at a young Eris that sons of Autumn never gave thanks.

Cauldron boil me, Eris thought, he was going fucking soft.

Cato’s russett eyes widened at the words before his genuine look of surprise was replaced by a scowl, the masks were back, it seemed. “You won’t be thanking me when I steal your crown, brother.”

“If you are feeling benevolent when you decide to kill me,” Cato flinched, but Eris continued, choosing to ignore it, “Do me a favour and make it quick.” The silence that dragged between them as they stared at each other was uncomfortable.

They looked so alike, very much like their mother. Long red hair, sharp cheekbones, elegant brows, the only difference was the russet colour of Cato’s eyes and the much softer lines of his face.

With a shake of his head, Cato moved past Eris, ensuring that their shoulders hit. He threw open the door, the heat of the room leaving as he stood in the doorway for a moment, as though he wanted to say something.

Cato stepped over the threshold of the door, the first few rays of the sun peaking over the horizon. “And not like you asked for my advice,” Cato picked at a thread on the sleeve of his shirt, turning to face Eris once more, “But you should stop spoiling the little runt, you’ll make him as useless as Rufus. And father is growing impatient with you and I’d rather not be dragged out of my duties to watch your flogging.”

Eris nodded once absently, his mind reeling, but nothing except irritation showed on his face. Perhaps Beron had learned in truth that Lucien was not his son. Perhaps Beron was no longer questioning the blood that ran through Lucien’s veins. Perhaps Eris would not be able to protect him, and Eris would rather tear out his own throat than let Beron harm his youngest brother. He’d made a vow, after all - he found he had to remind himself that was the only reason why.

Before he winnowed away, Cato called back to his older brother, “Be careful, Eris.” It could have been a warning or a threat, but Eris was choosing to believe that Cato might have actually been a bit worried for his well being.

Eris shut the door, turning and leaning against it with his eyes closed. He slowly slid to the floor, breathing in through his nose, wrapping his hands around his knees. He hadn’t felt this helpless since he was a child.

Eris felt dizzy as he thought about how he would have to find a way to get his father to pay even less attention to Lucien, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to go about it. He was also trying not to think too much about Cato. Cato had fucking warned him. The brother who he competed against, constantly fought with, never trusted - had warned him. Cato was young and ruthless and cruel, just as Eris was, and Eris knew they were more alike than they were different.

They were two-sides of the same tarnished coin. Eris took another breath, he didn’t like thinking about his brothers too much, it made his chest ache. Eris thumped his head a couple times on the door behind him. Perhaps if he hit it a little harder he’d knock some sense into himself. Eris could feel flames dancing on the tips of his fingers. He’d gotten much too emotional, all his actions driven by that stupid oath, and he’d lost his edge.

“Eris?”

Eris opened his eyes at the sound of Lucien’s worried voice. He was sure he hadn’t managed to control his magic, and he knew that there were wild flames flaring in his eyes. Eris was almost certain Lucien would flinch away from him, away from that all-too familiar and dangerous fire, a fire that reminded most people of his father. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

Lucien was no longer holding the dagger Eris had given him, but he took a small step towards where Eris sat. “Are you alright?”

In the light, Eris could clearly see just how terrible Lucien looked after Beron’s beating. It had taken all of Eris’s strength not to go after his father, and just like a coward, he’d done nothing but winnow Lucien away from that cauldron-damned house. Eris hadn’t been there to see Lucien’s punishment - he didn’t even know what Lucien might have been punished for - but Beron’s marks were all over his little brother.

Eris could barely look at the black eye, at the split skin near Lucien’s eyebrow, at the dark bruise on his cheekbone. Eris knew there were more bruises he couldn’t see.

“I’m fine.” Eris lied, willing the flames in his eyes to vanish.

Lucien took a few more small, slow steps towards Eris, like he was approaching a wounded animal. It must have been a shock for Lucien to see Eris in this way, but Eris was tired, and he didn’t think he had it in him to act alright even for Lucien’s sake.

Lucien sat right next to Eris, leaning up against the door, mirroring the way Eris was sitting. Eris knew he should perhaps be offering Lucien words of comfort, but he didn’t know what to say.

Lucien was the first to break the silence. “It’s light.”

“What?” Eris turned his head to face Lucien, confused.

Lucien looked up at him with a small smile, “What can fill a room, but takes up no space. Your riddle.”

Eris raised an auburn brow, “I’m going to have to start giving you harder ones.”

“I’ll solve those ones, too.”

Eris felt the corner of his mouth tilt up just a fraction, “I bet you will.”

Lucien turned away from Eris, moving so that he was leaning up against Eris’s side. “Don’t worry too much about whatever’s bothering you,” Lucien muttered, “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

Eris took comfort in knowing that at least Lucien believed in him, and he figured that Lucien was probably right

Eris would figure something out, he always did.

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georgemackayhey · 4 years ago

Text

Hotter Than Summer

a/n: Remember when I promised more NSFW stuff? Yeah so this is by far the smuttiest thing I've ever written. Do Not interact with this is you're underaged. But if you're legal, have fun! 18+ only

w/c: 8k

───※ ·❆· ※───

Every year, you went on a trip with your family.

Your parents and siblings would cram into one car, and meet up with your neighbors in the countryside, under the same roof. A cabin that over looked a lake, that housed a forest, that wrapped all the way around to where you were.

You'd go in the dead of summer, when school let out. When the mosquitoes were rampant and the heat was crippling. You couldn't ever figure out what was so enjoyable about heading into the middle of no place to melt inside a rented home for a few weeks, but you went back each year. Of course, swimming in the lake was a blast and campefires at midnight were such fun. But that was mostly due to the fact that you got to spend such quality time with your favorite old neighbours.

Your fathers best university pal, and his wife only moved across the street when you were well into your high school career. But your dad was chuffed still to have his oldest friend one hop skip and jump away. Your mom was just as fond of the family, and soon you were sharing dinners and going to festivals and movies with them and their son, George.

When you met, you ignorantly assumed there was no way he wasn't a jock, or something equally as brain dead. No one with a face that pretty could possibly be smarter than a blade of grass.

But it wasn't long after they moved in, untill his parents asked you to show him around the school. And even though he was older and so vastly different from you, one morning, you found out George wasn't at all how you'd imagined. As you took him through the school halls, he went on and on about the theater program and marveled over your decently sized and poorly decorated library. He even thanked you for wasting your free break guiding him round to help him make sense of the schedule in his hands.

And after then, you had it bad. So that was precisely the reason you decided to steer clear. You gave small waves in the halls, and pretended not to scream internally when he sat next to you at lunch, every now and again. You went about your day pretending you were much more preoccupied with your other friends, and saved all your hopelessly romantic daydreams about George for your diary.

Until summer, of course. When you showed up to the cabin with your family and your siblings and some of their friends. George would be there, and you let yourself trail behind him like a puppy then. But he always asked for your company, really. He always dragged you to go swimming or to walk three miles to the nearest convenient shop for snacks. He'd sit next to you during rainy afternoon movie marathons and entertain all of your fireside ramblings.

But it had been three years since you'd spent a summer in the cabin. Your last time was the summer after you graduated. George's last time was two years prior, and nothing had quite been the same since.

///

You knew he wouldn't be there, this year. You should have been off, just as well, drinking till dawn or whatever else college kids wasted evenings doing.

His parents were there, though, and spent at least a minute each hugging you hello. After then, you trekked through the familiar home, up to the room you always claimed as your own, and you pretended not to feel dramatically sad. And for the next week, you sat around the fireside with your siblings, and laughed at their dumb jokes. You swam in the lake all alone. And you listened to George's parents yammer on about how proud they were of all his latest and most admirable achievements.

The last day of your visit, you sat alone in the sun room with a book, but only used it as a fan while you reminisced of all the times you'd sat doing the same before.

"I don't know why we come here when it's this hot." You sighed across the table full of left over breakfast food. Your family had migrated toward the back garden to play volleyball, but you couldn't be bothered trudging through the heat.

"I've always wanted to come in the autumn, watch the leaves change, make better use of all this firewood." You never did, because that's when school started and holidays were left to plan in for insufferable days like now.

George's mother was setting a pitcher of spiked punch on the table, something she made every year you'd been old enough to enjoy in her company.

"You know, it's so funny you say that." She grinned, shooting you a bright glance as she moved to pour you a drink.

"Our Geogre will be home this fall and he was asking about heading up to the cabin." She began. You used your book fan with a little more vigour.

"We, unfortunately, won't be able to make that happen of course, with his father's job and my plans of travelling before snowfall." She rambled, the ice in her drink clinking as she raised it to her lips. Your family's laughter rang muffled from beyond the glass wall of windows that made up the breakfast nook. And the heat, like a blanket over you. Like a pool you stayed trapped drowning in.

"You know- you kids should come here on your own! You're plenty old enough now to handle that responsibility and you always were such good friends. I bet Georgie would just love that." His mother's smile was audible in her tone and beaming from her face. You tried not to gawk at her, not to scrabble to sit straight. You casually lowered your leg from the arm of the chair and looked to the woman with a turn of your head.

"Oh I don't know, do ya think-"

"Yes, yes!" She interrupted with a furrowed brow like this was very serious. "I'm meant to call him later. I'll pass the idea along for you, love."

With a soft grin, her mind was made up. You shrugged, hoping it would make her believe you wouldn't be let down either way. But you'd never wanted anything more.

///

She got through to George, and apparently, according to his mother, he very excitedly accepted the plans. You weren't too sure that was entirely true, but you couldn't help but do a little happy dance behind the closed doors of your cabin bedroom. It was always as you left it, green quilt, matching rug, and the few framed albums you hung to make up for the bland wallpaper.

You left it, thrilled by the thought of returning in two months, and stayed glued to your phone till then. Geogre was meant to text you when the time crept nearer for your roughly made plans to become a little more organized.

You weren't sure what you were so excited for. He'd probably bring a girl, or a least mention one. There was no way he didn't have his pick of dozens vying for his attention. Still, the idea of spending a weekend in the cabin in such close quarters with your old crush was thrilling.

///

He texted you a month before you ended up planning to stay, and your exchange was jarringly short. George shot you a date and time. You agreed. Then he asked if you minded if a couple of his friends tagged along. And of course, you didn't. And that was that.

The summer dragged on, and at the first sign of autumn in the air you practically had all your bags packed.

When the time came, you gave your family quick goodbyes and arrived to the cabin a couple of hours early. The air was crisp, and the lake looked cold from your safe distance away. You breezed through the thin fog and smiled to yourself when you stepped into the place.

Everything was just how you'd left it. There were even still a few notes tapped to the refrigerator. You moved through the wooden structure and noticed how high the ceilings were for the first time in a while. And after washing a few sheets, and sorting out some of the food you'd brought for dinner, your solitude was interrupted.

There was a rattle at the door, and when it opened your heart stopped. He was here. George was all grown up. You hadn't seen him since the last time he came out here with the lot of you, the summer after he graduated. Years had passed, and now his hair was a little longer. He was a little leaner, a little taller, maybe. His nose was reddened by the cold but his smile was familiar. You tried not to gape at him and the way he seemed like an actual supermodel while he rested his bag by the door and looked to you, his grin growing wider.

"Hello, stranger." You smiled.

"Y/n!" He called with outstretched arms. You abandoned your place at the stove to accept his embrace and prayed he wouldn't be able to feel your quickened heartbeat.

"George." You beamed. Because he was your friend. At least, he had been once. His smile remained as he wrapped a strong arm around your middle and mumbled a hello right in your ear.

"Where are all your friends, then?" You cleared your throat, trying everything to keep your cool. Did he really have to speak so low in your ear? This weekend might prove to be incredibly awkward...

"Ah, yeah, one cancelled and the other might just as well. He said he'd keep me updated." George winced, running a hand across the back of his neck. "Hope you don't mind boring old me?"

"Of course not." You produced a chuckle. "I'm just making dinner."

And just like that, it felt like old times. George took over the kitchen for a bit, while you bickered over spices and seasonings. And in between stirring up an evening meal, George tucked his bags away in the room he'd always stayed in, and came back to help you set the table.

Conversation never lost its steady pace. George asked you about your budding life after highschool. He asked what you were doing for money and what you dreamed of doing for good. He laughed at some of your best stories and started to trade some of his own.

You'd always felt a bit intimidated by George, but worse now than ever before. He was musing about Hollywood and rambling about his life on movie sets. You nodded along, and watched George's pretty structured face light up as he spoke of his dreams and how some of them had come true.

When you'd finished dinner, your nerves really started up. Here the two of you were, all alone for the first time, maybe ever. There was always someone else near by in your knowing each other. Whether it be here, back home, or at school. You weren't sure how to handle all the empty space, so to occupy your time, you started a fire in the den. It was a cozy little room where everyone usually spent movie nights curled up on the small sofa. You liked to come here to read, when the sun shone brightly through the picture windows.

But it was dark now, and the fire was small. So you stuck nearby to help make it grow and wondered why you and Geogre were here. You wondered if his friend would ever show. You wondered if he'd ever really invited anyone at all.

"I brought beer, but there was some rum stashed away," George spoke himself into the room, holding a bottle and a glass in hand. He held each out to you, offering you take your pick. You picked the rum and thanked him for thinking you might've wanted a choice.

"I think I know you pretty well after all this time." George grinned, sitting on the floor in front of the fire. You were stood there, watching the flames flicker higher, and it took an internal debate for you to sit at his side. Were you making things weird or had they been weird on their own? Just moments ago you were mulling over how normal everything felt. Yeah, must'a just been you.

"I dunno," You huffed as you crossed your legs. "I've changed a lot since the days we used to tolerate each others company."

"Tolerate?" George chuckled. "We both know half our stays in this cabin were made most enjoyable by all the times we band together. We always had such fun."

"We did. Do you think we're too old now to have fun, this time around?" You asked, taking a sip of the rum he offered you. George stalled for a beat, like he was really considering the answer to your question. And then he looked at you and shook his head.

"I hope not." His lithe grin made your throat go dry. So you finished off your rum and stood for a refill. When you settled back in the den, George was halfway through his beer, and you got to talking about life again. He told you the scariest stories of his time away, and you reminisced about some of the traumas of life you and Geogre had been caught up in together when he was only one house away. George went for another beer, and you stayed watching the fire steadily burn.

He returned in silence and the quiet lingered for a long while, with both of you fixated not the flames.

"Remember when you said you'd let me stow away in your luggage when you left, so I could skip out on my physics finale?" You laughed into your drink. You felt George's eyes turn to search for your own, but you were still too deep in thought. "I failed that quiz, George. You were supposed to be my way out of this town."

"Hmm." George took a swig of his beer as you finished your second glass of rum. "Maybe that's why I've come back."

"That's rich." You chuckled and pointed a look to George. You couldn't hold back your nervous breaths of laughter now. Because he was watching you. His sea blue eyes seemed to search your face. You never recalled a time he looked at you with such undivided attention.

"What's so funny?" George rose a pale brow, taking another sip of beer. And as the answer formed on your lips, you blamed the rum entirely for your lack of critical thinking.

"I used to have the biggest crush on you." You admitted, turning a glance to George. His gaze had yet to break from your face, but you swore his smile grew ever so slightly. He furrowed his brow and shot you a sidelong look, like he didn't believe what you were saying.

"I did!" You laughed, the voice in your head reprimanding you for being so bold, as the words kept pouring out of your mouth. "You were my older, smoking hot neighbour boy. It was all very cliche but true." You shrugged. A blush burnt your cheeks and your mind suddenly caught up with your actions and you'd started to regret everything that had just transpired.

You mumbled a weary curse as you ducked your head away, hoping George wouldn't go on embarrassing you too much about this. You really hadn't planned to out yourself on the first night of your staying here with him. You hadn't planned to ever tell him that.

But George wasn't saying anything. He was just looking at you, like he had been. Like he was trying to figure you out. His eyes travelled from your face to search the reset of you. You watched George's gaze roam across your build while you tried not to combust in a self conscious worry. But the strange tension was too much not to break.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" You feared, hiding your bashful grin by lifting the nearly empty glass of rum to your lips.

"Because you're beautiful." George grinned, laughing a little like this was some big obvious fact.

"You're just tipsy." You shook your head, pointing to his empty bottle of beer and its half full replacement.

"No, you're just beautiful. You always have been." His tone grew more serious. You dared to catch his eye. The flames from a foot away were reflected in his gaze, and something else too. His eyes flicked away from yours to land on your lips. And his parted ever so slightly. If you hadn't dared to glimpse at his mouth, you wouldn't have noticed the way his jaw slacked.

His eye caught yours again and you realized he was moving closer. George was leaning in and your heart was beating a mile a minute and the fire seemed hotter than the dozen summers you'd wasted away here before.

His lips brushed yours before anything, and neither of you moved for a moment. His warm breath ghosted across your face and all your dreams seemed to suddenly come true as his mouth closed against yours.

Slowly, your lips started moving together. But they moved in perfect time, like they were made for it and waiting for this day to come true. George kissed you with a little more intent, as you kissed him back like you'd never get the chance to again. Because you had never once believed anything like this would happen with George. Maybe he was just tipsy. Or lonely. Or bored. You didn't care. You started to believe he had at least a little bit of actual interest in you, with the way he leaned closer and pressed his grip into your side. His tongue brushed against yours as his fingers started creeping closer to your chest. You wondered if he could feel your heart beating like a drum, and if his hand would ever reach its destination. You kissed him hard as encouragement, and he let out the sweetest whimper that would have made your eyes roll if they were open.

And then there was a knock at the door.

"Shit." You let out another nervous laugh, pulling away and catching your breath. You thought George's friends had all cancelled.

"I'm- I'm sorry." George shook his head, swiping hand at his lips and furrowing a brow at another knock on the door.

"Don't be?" You searched George's eyes for a moment and hoped he knew what you were asking. You hoped he watched as you hurried away. Had that really just happened? Had you just been bold enough to do the thing you'd wished of doing since sometime in high school? Was all the gentle passion in his kissing you back fueled by the drinks? Or had he really meant it?

The knocking kept on as you drifted closer. Geeze, for someone who wasn't sure about coming, they sure seemed excited to be here in the middle of the night. You adjusted yourself on the way to unlock the door, and tried not to blanch when you saw who was on the other side.

"Hi kids!" George's mother beamed, a bag in her arms. "My trip got cancelled and your folks weren't busy so we figured we'd come surprise you!"

The group of parents shuffled through the door. Your father toted a bottle of whiskey and your mother held a stack of films in her grasp. They each hugged you, and you scrambled to steady your tone.

"What a treat." You laughed through your teeth. The change in the pace of your evening could have given you whiplash.

"Oh, it's just like old times!" George's mother squealed, finding her son shuffling toward the kitchen to find what all the commotion was about.

"I suppose so." He grinned, accepting his mothers embrace and nodding as she explained that his father was too busy with work to crash the party. With all the tender sweetness you'd fallen for over the years, George said he understood but greeted his mother with kindness all the while. And as your parents rushed to pass hugs his way, George caught your eye. You wanted nothing more than to ask about the question in his gaze. But you feared your weekend with George wouldn't be as you'd once dreamed, like always.

///

You were glad to sit around the dying fire with your family. His mother's laugh was music to your ears. Your father's jokes had George doubled over with laughter. Your mother mused over and over about how glad she was for this surprise getaway.

And you couldn't be too upset, because you relished every moment you got to spend like this. Usually, this cabin was an escape, a place you could come without a care in the world. But now, there was a nagging little worry tumbling around your head, as everyone sat dragging the night on. Loose plans for the next day were made, talk of enjoying nature and making use of the big kitchen. You said something about sleeping in, because that was a rare occasion in your life these days. And here was a place where your wishes were supposed to be granted.

Your mother was the first to head to bed. The other adults decided to as well, but not before recruiting George to help clean up the kitchen neither of you had been very worried about taking total care of earlier in the evening.

You trudged up the stairs and took your turn in the shower, after wishing your mother a lovely night's sleep. She kept walking to the end of the hall, where she and your father enjoyed the best view just overtop of the forest of trees all around you.

While you washed up for the evening, your mind raced in every direction. What had just happened? And what was going to happen now? You'd been through all sorts of unexpected events with George, growing up. But never anything remotely close to... whatever this was. So far, this wasn't at all how you'd envisioned your long-awaited autumn visit in the countryside.

George's mother was soon making her way to bed too. She passed by as you opened the bathroom door and paused to give you a kiss on the cheek. You wished her goodnight and started your creep toward your own room. Before you could get there, George was walking with your father up the stairs, sharing chatter about a sports game from last year.

"Alright well, I'm off to clean up before bed." Your father noted, ruffling your hair on his way past. "Unless you need in here, George." Your father spun and pointed. There was another half bath downstairs, but the one on the second floor was the only one completed with a big shower and a separate tub.

"Ah, just holler when you're finished and I'll have a turn." George nodded as your father spun back toward the loo wishing you goodnight. You caught George's eye as you started back to your room, and prayed the creaking of the floorboard behind you were his footsteps and not just another one of your daydreams.

Sure, and strangely enough, a set of fingers curled around your wrist before you passed through your doorway.

"I believe we have some unfinished business." His voice muttered over your shoulder. Holy shit. How was this happening?

You didn't have time to waste questioning any longer. You only pulled George into the room you'd come to call your own, and shut the door with a gentle click that wouldn't cause any unwanted attention. No sooner than you had, George was on you.

His lips captured yours in a flash, like you'd been lost at sea and were only just being reunited. You threw your arms around his neck and barely held back a shocked giggle when George pulled you flush against him. You could have spent forever this way, in George's strong embrace, sharing the same breath.

He kissed you dizzy and spun you toward the wall. His hands found your chest at long last and he sighed against your mouth as you pulled him closer best you could. His hips pressed into yours and his hand trailed down your front, till his fingers stalled at the button of your sleep shorts.

"Can I?" He asked in a husky breath, looking right at you. You raised a brow, and gave him a nod, only just attempting to catch your breath. You could hardly believe it. But you'd never been more sure. George kept an eye on you for a beat, as you pressed your teeth to your lower lip. And when his hand started to move, you couldn't help but smile.

"Do you have any idea how badly I've always wanted to do this?" George asked, breathing in your ear as his hand disappeared below the fabric of your shorts. "For how long I've dreamed of having my way with you?" A shiver shot through you as he nipped at your neck. It was all very overwhelming. His word. His lips. His fingers, steadily starting to trace all the right places.

"Holy shit, George." You whined, gripping his shoulder for support from melting into a puddle on the floor.

"What? Am I doing alright?" He asked in a snide way, keeping his mouth pressed below your ear, and pressing his fingers against you with more vigour. Your breath caught at the feeling and George hummed happily against your throat. His fingers travelled further, deeper, till there was no place left for them to go. And when he set his digits into motion, you couldn't help but let out a noise, a small broken cry that tore George's focus from your neck right to you. His fingers stopped moving and his free hand reached your jaw. He held your face in his grasp and seemed to stall a question on his lips. Then with a breath, George asked,

"You're not gonna keep quiet are you?" At the same moment he'd decided your reaction, his fingers started moving again, and his hand that held your jaw moved to cover your mouth.

"Still try, darling, this cabin isn't very big you know?" George grinned, putting his fingers to good use. Your eyes rolled back, and tried as you might, another cry escaped your throat when George picked up his pace. His one hand stayed firm over your mouth as he worked you up and whispered sinful encouragement in your ear. When you could barely feel the floor under your feet, a noise came from the hall. A knock on a distant door.

You groaned as George stalled, and chuckled at your disappointment. His free hand slid down to your throat and his fingers gently curled around there as his eyes watched yours. From behind your door and down the way you heard your father.

"George! Showers free. And don't forget to see your alarm. We're still hiking at dawn!"

You could have cried, really, when you realized your night of fun was halted till further notice. George slipped his fingers from your shorts as you sucked in a breath and let it out like a sigh.

"Don't worry love," George cooed. "I plan on taking good care of you... eventually." The fingers he'd been using found their way to your mouth. You watched his pretty blue eyes flutter as you wrapped your lips and swirled your tongue around his knuckles. You swore he almost reconsidered his leave. But then George straightened and backed away with a clenched jaw and a smile on his lips.

"Get some rest. We're hiking in the morning!" He announced with a wink as he reached for the handle of your door.

"Oh, fuck you." You grinned, feeling empty and full of fire all at once.

"With any luck." George said, before shutting the door behind him.

///

"It's too high!" You worried, searching for a broad rock to step down onto. You and your family had found yourselves at the top of the trail that wound through the forest. But had decided to take a different route back down, around the lake.

"Here look, step there." George spoke up, from the bottom of the path that was broken up. He pointed to a patch of dirt you envisioned crumbling the moment you relied on it. Your mother tutted, and moved past you to take George's advice. Your lovely neighbour extended his hand to your mother who managed her way to safety with his help. Your father followed, helping George's mother, until you were the last one left.

They all stared up at you as you bit your nails and mulled over your game plan.

"Right- we're walkin' on. Get her off, George." Your father waved and turned to follow your mother and George's, who were already ahead gossiping about some tv show. You struggled to hide your blush as Geogre shifted his weight and grinned up to you.

"Do you trust me?" He asked.

"Obviously." You pointed. George reached out, and you held your breath, and stepped where everyone else had. George's hand was strong, but your prediction came true. As you balanced your weight on the patch of dirt, it began to give way. But George was there. He swept you away with ease and balanced you on both feet on the same level of ground as him.

"Did you just want me to save you all along?" George mused, keeping his arms snug around you as you stood.

"Come on." You bit back a smile and pushed George to lead the way, noticing your folks posed for a self at the opening of a man-made bridge.

You all walked on, till you spotted a weather-worn gazebo near the opening of the lake. The sun was unusually bright for the seasons, though a chill balanced in the air. Your gang stalled to rest in the small enclosure and laughed about the adventure you'd been on, and how none of you had ever realized this little nook was out here in all the years you'd been staying right around the bend.

George's mother was the first to head in, saying something about a midday nap. You didn't blame her. You all really had risen with the sun to enjoy the trails before a late lunch. Your mother was next to leave, mentioning just that. Her plans to make a big ridiculous afternoon meal that would likely count as some kind of dinner, too. Your father followed after her, paranoid about the trek from out of the woods alone.

George stayed and shot you a look as you watched everyone walk away, and turn around the lake. And for a moment, you just talked. Like how you always used too. About life and death and everything in between. All while each pause between topics grew long and heavy. Soon, you rose from the bench, tired of sitting, but excited to find yourself lingering out here in the sole company of the man you'd been dreaming of keeping all to yourself.

"Do you prefer it here in the summer, or now?" You wondered aloud, because you really wanted to know. The area you'd come to know so well seemed like a different world in the cold.

George followed your ambling, back down the skinny trail from where you'd just come. He waited to respond until he stepped to face you and stalled your meander.

"Now." George smiled, searching your eyes and pushing his nose against yours. The action made your heart flutter and your fists curl in the pockets of your jacket. Then he kissed you so tenderly, like you'd kissed thousands of times before and he was used to the sensation. You, however, were still dazzled by it. Your hands flew up and clung to the jacket he'd left unzipped. You kissed him back like this was your last chance to prove how badly you'd always wanted too. At your fervour, George snaked his arms around you. One of his hands tangled in your hair as his other trailed to your backside.

You had no excuse to hold back your pleased sighs, as George pressed against you, digging his fingers into your thigh and pulling it nearer to his hip. Your own hands started to wander, right between his legs. George let out a groan as you pressed your palm against his tight jeans, and you thought of doing it again just to hear his reaction. But you had something better in mind.

You broke your kiss and grabbed both of George's hands. He watched as you dragged him a little deeper into the green, and fell against a wide tree when you pushed his toward it.

When you started to fiddle with his belt buckle and bend your knees, George flushed and gapped at you.

"Here?" He asked with a nervous grin, looking much more innocent and shy than he'd appeared last night. Maybe ever.

"Would you rather trade bakewell recipes, George?" You asked with a snicker, sitting back against your heels and peering up to him. "We really don't have to, though." You spoke again with a serious nod, making sure he knew you really didn't want to do anything he didn't want to. But damn, you really wanted this.

"I'd really like if we did." George swallowed, and your grin stretched back to life. "I was just surprised is all."

"Why? Don't you think I'd like to show you as good a time as you started to show me last night?" You unzipped his trousers and kept your gaze fixed to George.

"I promise to make it up to you." He breathed as you started to pull at his boxers.

"You already are." You assured, just before the time for talk had ceased. Your mouth had better things to do.

When George lost his fingers in your hair, and tugged, you were motivated to deepen your interaction. Then you got to hear the way George whined and hissed and cursed your name under his breath. Even if you could reach your free hand to his lips, you couldn't dream of keeping George quiet. His sounds were the sweetest encouragement you'd ever known.

You stayed on your knees until your efforts paid off. Then you helped George pull his trousers back in shape as you rose to meet him, and were pleasantly surprised when he grabbed your face and kissed you. But when his hand started to trail below your waste you broke your kiss and shook your head.

"We don't have time." You sighed, brushing back some of George's unkempt blonde waves.

"But-" His perfect pale brows furrowed and his thumb brushed your cheek.

"It's okay. We'd better get going." You nodded. George nodded too, but then stole another quick kiss. It made you wonder what this was about. It made you wonder what George thought of you, and what he thought of you with him. You didn't let yourself wonder long. The sky was starting to darken with clouds. So you brushed the dirt from your knees and let George lead the way back to the cabin, biting back your broad grin every time he turned to make sure you were close behind.

///

The next morning was spent lazing about the breakfast table as a drizzle locked you all in. Your parents were each still in the kitchen, arguing over cinnamon rolls and other breakfast treats.

"I always wanted to come here to watch the leaves change." You piped up, setting a steaming coffee mug to the side, with your gaze stuck out the rain covered window. George sat by your side, with his head in the crook of his elbow on the table.

"We must have come too early in the year." You sighed, searching for a glimpse of orange or yellow in the distance. All you saw was brown and green against a dull grey sky.

"Well," George spoke up, quietly so. You lowered your eyes to find his, and fixated on his small grin. "That just means we'll have to come back."

"Yeah?" You hesitated to ask. What had he meant? Why had he said so? George only rested his hand on your thigh below the table, tracing patterns on your knee with his thumb. You kept your gaze on him and realized you had fallen hard and fast.

You'd always had it bad for George, but with all this new and very exciting attention he'd been giving you, it was game over. You'd thought of nothing but George each night you fell asleep one room over. Your heart practically leapt out of your rib cage every time you caught his eye across the room, since the beginning of the weekend.

But you didn't understand it. Neither of you talked about what you'd done or mentioned doing anything quite like it again. You just waited up in empty halls and hoped he'd come around the corner in the least suspicious amount of time possible.

But today was hard. Today you couldn't sneak out in the woods, or around the corner. You were trapped in by rain, and if you and George snuck behind closed doors there wouldn't be a question as to why, and that would be utterly embarrassing.

So you sat across from George as your father rallied everyone around an old tattered board game. You caught George's eye as your parents bickered over game rule, and wondered what he was thinking as his pretty blue gaze locked on yours.

When you followed your mother's instructions to go and find a stack of movies in her room, George's mother shuffled off to go make snacks. So your favourite pretty blonde said something about taking a shower, and followed as you trekked up the stairs. But no sooner than you found the stack of movies, and George lingered outside of the bathroom did your father spin into the hall in search of his glasses.

You and George only got to share a look before he shut the bathroom door, and your father recruited you to help in his hunt.

As you all curled up for a movie marathon, Geogre helped you pour everyone a drink. While he reached for a set of glasses, he sneaked past you with one hand grazing your lower back for as long as he could get away with.

And when your parents took residence on the love seat and his mother kicked back in the chair, you and George were left to make the floor comfortable. You dumped all the extra blankets in front of the coffee table and sat a few inches away from George while some romcom played on. It was almost painful, how close he was without being able to reach out. What a strange turn of events.

His mother fell fast asleep by the second film, and your parent's dozed off by the third.

And as the last film played on, you felt George's hand creeping closer to yours. His fingers fit between your own, and his thumb brushed against your knuckles every now and again, as you sat holding hands.

You hadn't really seen that coming. You hadn't known what to expect of this whole thing with George, but an innocent lasting touch wasn't it. All the questions you'd always wondered were louder and scarier as the movie dragged on.

And when it was over, George walked you up the stairs. You kept quiet as not to wake your parents, and watched as he moved in the dark. When he stalled in the doorway of your room, you gazed up to him with a pushed in brow. Then he kissed you. Just a gentle, lingering peck. He left you in your doorway with that, and you stayed up staring at your ceiling wondering why.

///

Your parents left the next morning. They hadn't planned too. But your father got a call from work and since they'd all arrived as a group they decided to leave that way. You had awoken early and found yourself staring at the pages of a book when your mother bustled down the stairs to let you know.

"We'll see you kids at the start of the week!" George's mother waved on her way out of the door. She hoped you'd both enjoy the last day of the weekend in the cozy little place you'd always come back to.

Your parents scrambled to pack their things and followed her out of the door in a dazed rush, rambling about how they wished they didn't have to leave as they headed to the door.

Just like that the cabin was quiet, more so than you'd ever noticed, even when you'd been the only one creeping through the halls. You had no idea what to expect. You didn't want to get your hopes up. And you didn't want to make this already strange situation even weirder. So you took to doing the dishes at the sound of your parents peeling out of the gravel drive. You scrubbed every plate and focused on every soap bubble to stall time as you thought up what to say.

One of you had to say something, right?

When the staircase finally creaked, you'd finished the leftover dishes and were nearly done sorting the last of them away. George stretched into the room, looking around to realize the cabin was missing your surprise guests.

"Dad got called into work. You just missed telling everyone goodbye." You shrugged, meeting George's eye for a moment before you spun to put the last dish away. You listened as he softly floated toward the space you occupied yourself.

"So I finally get you all to myself then?" George seemed to really ask. He looked tired, still. But there was a gentle smile on his face, some kind of hopeful glaze painted over his features. George reached out to you, both of his hands softly holding your face. He peered at you, searching your features as his thumb traced your bottom lip.

"You really wanna spend the rest of this weekend with me?" You wondered, ducking your head as a twinge of fear started to take hold. But Geogre straightened your gaze once more, he made you look at him as he chose his words.

"I'd like to spend much longer than just this weekend with you," He spoke gently like every word was precious. You couldn't possibly think of what to say. You could only smile. You grinned without holding back and watched as George shut his eyes and kissed you.

You kissed him back and decided the pouring rain was cause enough to start a fire. George trailed behind you on your mission to throw a few logs in the fireplace. When you turned from sparking a flame, you watched George settle onto the floor that was still a mess with blankets and pillows from last night's movie marathon. He reached up to you, fingers moving from their latch on your wrist to press into your sides as he pulled you right into his lap.

Just like that his arms were around you and his mouth opened against yours. The fire was nice, but the warmth coming from George was heavenly. You moved your kisses to his neck, relishing the way his pulse beat under your touch. You trailed your lips back across his jaw until you were kissing him again, and dissolving in his strong hold.

You held his face in your hands as your mouths moved together, and only released your grasp to raise your hands over your head as George lifted your sweater up and away. His kisses trailed across your exposed skin, to the swell of your breasts, while his fingers managed to unclasp your bra. With your knees on either side of his hips, you rocked against George, feeling more desperate for his touch than ever.

"Are you sad your friends ditch you?" You asked in a breath with a smile and George was busy pressing his tongue to your skin. You felt him smile, and the warmth of a chuckle escape him.

"Are you glad our parents came and ruined our chances of spending the whole weekend this way?" George shot back, as you pulled his shirt away. You rolled your eyes and pushed George back against a stack of pillows, reaching for his belt. You laughed as he kicked his trousers away and pulled you down for a kiss, like he couldn't fathom parting from you for a second.

You spent a while wrapped up in his tangled limbs- kissing him, trailing your fingers against his burning skin, rocking against each other while the last of your layers kept you from doing what you really wanted.

"You know, I always had a crush on you, too." George propped himself up on both elbows as you'd started to pull his boxers away. You paused your mission for a moment to look at him. His half-lidded gaze and the mess of his hair. The marks starting to darken on near his throat, from you. He was more beautiful each new time you caught a glimpse, it seemed.

"Sentiment not required, but appreciated." You grinned as George sat up, free of the last of his clothes, reaching to free you of your own with his sea blue eyes on yours all the while.

"I did." He rose a brow, and something about his confirming so made your heartache, as it already beat like a drum. You brushed back his tousled waves and searched George's face for approval. He blinked up at you, totally enraptured. You could have stayed in this paused state forever and you swore he might have been content, too. But you couldn't wait any longer. You'd waited long enough.

When you lowered yourself into George's lap, you watched his eyes close and his jaw slack. A sigh escaped his lips, like he was totally relieved. And not just by the pressure you'd both felt now, but by the build-up of this whole weekend. Like something from very deep within him was finally settled. You might have laughed a little at that state of him if you weren't feeling the same. You'd never felt so safe. A strange word for a time like now, but the only word that seemed to fit.

Neither of you moved for a while. At first, you'd focused on settling into the feeling. Then you became totally distracted, brushing back George's hair and peppering his face with kisses. His hands stayed loose around your sides and his nose nudged your own in a way that made your heart sing.

"As much as I love this, I really would like if you moved a little, dove." George cooed in your ear and kneaded his fingers into your hips hoping you'd get the hint.

So you did what he said, and rolled against him. George kept his grip firm as he let out one of those melodious groans of his. You picked up the pace then, not daring to hold back your own hums as George's eyes opened to find yours.

You shared another kiss as you found your rhythm, but couldn't keep it up for long. Your lips parted but lingered close to his when you couldn't hold back a broken cry.

George wrapped an arm around your middle and moved swiftly to lay you down. You watched as he loomed over you and searched your features like he did the first night here. You were in the same place as you had been when you confessed your stupid crush. And you were in the same spot you had been when he kissed you for the first time. And when he closed the distance between you once more, it felt better than ever.

You pressed your heels into his back and tried to tell him how fucking great he was at this, but incoherent mumbles were all you could manage.

"That good, huh?" George strained, barely getting the words out himself. But the little laugh that followed his statement seemed easy and sweet. As if you weren't feeling enough, your heart threatened to burst. Everything felt near bursting, actually.

"It's okay, baby." His saccharine voice rang in your ear as he somehow pushed you deeper into the mess of blankets. "It's just you and me now, and you feel so fucking good. You can let go now, love. I wanna feel you to let go."

He could have kept up talking that way and you'd fall to pieces in no time. But when his hand travelled below your stomach you nearly k.o'ed. Between the things he spoke just to you, the way he paused talking to curse a little, and the rhythm of his hips against yours, it didn't take long until you came undone. He kept you pinned in place until you nearly couldn't see straight until it seemed he couldn't either. When it was all said and done, neither of you moved for a moment. You were less irked by the fact you could have been doing that all weekend, and more moonstruck by the reality that it'd happened at all.

///

It wasn't long before you decided to get cleaned up, but it took awhile to get to the bathroom. George stopped you in the hallway to do everything over again, somehow better than the first time. He stopped you from finding clean clothes to pin you to the bed you'd called your own. You tangled your fingers in his hair as he made his way between your thighs, and made you forget all about doing anything else for the rest of the evening.

And when you finally made it to the bathroom, he followed you into the warm bath. But there, you only relaxed. The water soothed your aching muscles, and the whiskey your dad left behind was passed over the bubbles as you and George sat together till the water grew cold. You talked as you cleaned yourself up, about things you'd always talked about before. You watched as George changed into a pair of joggers you recognized from days gone by. You let him wrap you up in a towel and hold you close in the steam-filled bathroom, and you decided it was paradise.

Your night went on like normal. Like most nights had, in the cabin. You made dinner, and joked about the time your siblings nearly burnt the place down making cookies during a heatwave. And after you ate, you left the dishes for another day, like always. Then you followed George to the den, and watched as he turned the telly on to some slasher marathon. Your autumn dreams were alive and well, as you curled up on the sofa at his side.

You stayed happily tucked against him, one arm and leg across his frame. One of his strong arms nearly pulled you on top of him in an effort to cuddle close as possible. You nuzzled your face into his neck when something especially upsetting flashed across the screen. And eventually, the comfort of his secure hand splayed across your head, and his other arm holding you firmly in place, sent you into the most peaceful sleep you must have ever slipped into.

///

"Wake up, love."

Your eyes were heavy, and your limbs ached. The blankets felt so warm in the morning cold, and George's breath tickled your ear.

"My darling, wake up." He said again, tracing a finger along your jaw as your eyes fluttered open.

"M'up." You sighed, focusing on George's pretty face, his brilliant blue eyes and the easy smile on his full lips. You realized he wasn't curled close, but kneeling at your side like he'd been up for a while now.

"Come and see." His smile widened as he grabbed your hand and tugged you to stand. You pushed in your brows and only sat up so quickly because of George's unusual excitement. He kept your hand in his and dragged you across the room to the fog tinted windows. What time was it? George moved you to the clearest view, and snaked his arms around your middle from behind.

You rubbed your eyes and looked. And past the mist, you saw the trees. Among the usual green and grey, you saw spots of dark red and orange starting to appear. The further you looked the more colours you noticed, and then you realized George had noticed before you.

"Now we know." He mumbled in your ear, as you tore your gaze from the stunning view to look over your shoulder. George really did get prettier with every glance. And now you knew, indeed. You knew how he felt, and you knew you'd get to go home with him as more than neighbours. You knew the perfect time to come back to this cabin, too, when the colours were brightest and the fire's warmth would be most coveted. And you knew George would come back with you. The only thing you weren't sure of was which room you'd stay in together, in all the years to come.

───※ ·❆· ※───

#george mackay #george mackay fanfic #george mackay imagine #george mackay x reader

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honeymoonjin · 5 years ago

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𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: jimin x reader || 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 25k || 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚜: fluff, angst, smut

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: you weren’t meant to have a roommate in your cabin deep in the amazon rainforest, but you find you can’t say no to the shy young college graduate that’s come to study the native butterflies.

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: cursing, death of a minor character (butterfly), explicit sexual content, oral (m receiving), praise, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, subby jimin, extremely soft smut

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It’s a day off.

That doesn’t mean you sleep in, though. You don’t know of a single person on the reserve that has been able to stay unconscious past sunrise without medical intervention. The chirps and calls of birds, buzzing of insects and drone of cicadas begins the moment the sun rises, sometimes even earlier, and while the cover of towering canopies filters out most of the light in the dense rainforest, the lodge camp is on an open meadow, and so you can’t avoid the heat that quickly sets in.

You’re happy to be up early, though, as it’s become a comfortable habit to make your way through your morning routine at your own pace, finally settling on your front porch with a cup of tea, bare toes poking out the cover of shadow from the lodge and into the bright pool of sunlight that warms the grass below.

Living in the middle of the Amazon rainforest wasn’t exactly something you had really planned ahead for as a young woman, but after falling in love with the place on a university trip, and then keeping an ear open for job opportunities, you had managed to land a job as a tour guide, being able to speak languages that their other employees couldn’t.

It’s a busy time of year at the Cuyabeno Lodge. Both local Ecuadorians and international tourists tended to avoid the rainier months, and after a particularly long wet season, it seemed all the bookings had been bottle-necked into one month now that the days were simply humid. Barely six in the morning, guests already roamed over the camp, some socialising over breakfast, others packing for day hikes in clumps spearheaded by your colleagues.

You take a deep draw from your mug, still steaming lightly, and feel the warm liquid warm your throat and chest, waking you up fully and putting you in a good mood. Most days, you’d crane your head down and watch the hard-working streams of leafcutter ants trail through blades of grass just taller than them, like small currents winding away towards the nearest meal. Their quiet determination and coordination was strangely fascinating to you, even after your several months living in their tropical habitat, but they aren’t what catch your attention today.

Across the wide expanse of open campground, two figures argue back and forth, one you recognise as your boss, the other a stranger lugging around three bulky suitcases and flapping a rolled-up map in confusion or desperation. You hum with curiosity, squinting at the figures as you finish off the dregs of your tea. They’re really too far for you to make out detail. All you can see of this frazzled man is the loose white tee and mussed-up blonde hair as he converses emphatically with the native Ecuadorian man that runs the lodge.

So distracted by the strange man, you don’t notice your boss turning and pointing to you until their figures start to grow in your vision as they approach. Your eyes widen and reflexively you down the last of your drink, placing the empty mug beside you on the wooden porch and staring at them hurrying over, both helping to lug over the excess baggage.

You realise the problem once they’re close enough to be in earshot. While the passionate Spanish and melodic Korean have similar phonetic sounds, it’s clear the two men are speaking completely different languages. You even hear your boss try some English - “we can talk to her, just a moment” - but it’s drowned out over the other man’s frantic explanations.

“Y/n, Y/n,” your boss greets with a tone of desperation colouring his local Spanish, “can you please help me speak to this man? We’ve had a booking error.”

Your eyes lift in surprise and you turn back to the stranger. It’s humid already, your skin warm even under the shade, but the sight of him sends a shiver down your spine. His hair isn’t totally blonde, slightly honeyed like it’s been dyed, and the warm sun sets it alight, framing the radiant skin of his face, which is angular on his jaw and nose yet soft on his cheeks and mouth, a full pout delicately pink. He’s beautiful.

You realise you’ve been staring directly at him a little too long as his cheeks colour the same shade as his lips, delicately coughing to break you from the trancelike state you found yourself in. You apologise hastily in your native language before switching to Korean when his eyebrow twitches in confusion. “I’m sorry,” you repeat in Korean, “I didn’t mean to be rude. My name’s Y/n.”

He smiles shyly, resting a hand over his forehead to block out any stray rays of light getting in his eyes. Doing this casts his face into shadow, and you can see now the warm, puppy-like brown of his irises, only half-visible as he scrunches up his cheeks. “Nice to meet you,” he greets, and you marvel at the melodic quality of his voice now that he speaks alone. It’s all soft tones, lilting even as his cheeks redden. “I’m Park Jimin. I, uh, I think they might have double-booked the room… I’m meant to be staying here,” he gestures behind you to your cabin and you blink a few times.

“Oh.” You turn promptly to your boss beside him; a stout middle-aged man who’s pretending to follow along the conversation, nodding in faux understanding even as his eyes glaze over. “Angelo,” you address, switching to the colloquial Spanish you’d grown accustomed to, “he’s saying you booked out my room.” Maybe not in those words, but still.

Angelo’s face crumples sheepishly. “About that… There’s a chance that we forgot to take your cabin off the booking website when you permanently moved it. It’s, uh, actually quite good luck that nobody has booked it in until now.” His voice trails up at the end like a question as he splays his palms out.

Awfully fond of the older man over your years here, you fight the twitch of your lips. “Good luck? This poor guy came all the way from South Korea only for his room to be already occupied. What; are you gonna just send him home?”

Your boss blinks slowly, lips pursed as he considers. “Well… That room is technically meant for two…” He trails off meaningfully with a shrug.

Your stare goes hard. “Angelo.” You force yourself not to glance at the man standing beside your boss. It doesn’t stop you from making out the concern on his face, and you feel your jaw stiffen. “The agreement when I moved here was that I got my own space. Why can’t he stay somewhere else?”

He sighs, rubbing his weathered face. “That’s selfish, Y/n-”

“I’m selfish, then. I’m telling you, I don’t wanna share my space.”

“And I’m telling you that you don’t have a choice. It’s only temporary. He stays.”

Before you can protest further, Angelo shows you his back, rushing away the way he came. You go limp with resignation, leaning back against one of the wooden posts on the veranda.

There’s no excuse for you to avoid his gaze now, so you reluctantly tip your head towards him. He’s shifting his weight back and forth nervously, pillowed lips pressed together and eyes downcast. Against your will, some of the anger slips from you, relaxing the tension in your jaw and the hardness from your voice. “Guess you’re rooming with me,” you murmur in Korean, snapping his attention back to you.

His eyes dance worriedly over your face. “I h-hope it’s not too much bother. I didn’t mean to make things difficult.” Jimin scratches at his exposed collarbone, leaving red lines on the almond skin. He speaks so softly, like a child in trouble. “I can sleep on the floor if I need to. All I really need is one room to set up my equipment.”

You frown, eyes darting to the three heavy suitcases behind him, as well as the bulky backpack slung over one shoulder. “Equipment?” As your eyes wander, they’re drawn to the pockets of people beginning to cluster behind him, the staff and locals whispering back and forth with eyes locked on Jimin’s silhouette. Pushing off the post, you pick up your mug and stand up straight again. “Actually, let’s talk inside. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

He doesn’t, but you don’t fancy giving the gathering crowd more time to ogle the mysterious man seemingly moving in to your private accommodations. Not even 9am and your day was already shaping up to be a disaster.

"It's a nice place," Jimin offers up weakly as you reach for the lightest suitcase, figuring you should probably help at least a little.

You grunt in confirmation, leading him - as he waddles with two larger pieces of luggage and the backpack - down the short hallway to the room across from yours. You'd been using it as a sort of living room; it had a single bed that you'd repurposed as a couch, a cheap projector that you used to stream Netflix onto the opposite wall as a makeshift television, and a couple bookshelves of novels, Spanish textbooks, and knick knacks you'd acquired over the past two years or so.

Jimin doesn't make it through the doorway as is. Instead, he stops and shuffles each piece in one-by-one, the final, largest hardshell suitcase dragging noisily along the doorframe as it barely squeezes in. He straightens up with a huff of exertion and lifts the edge of his white shirt, dabbing the sweat off his face.

You blink, staring at the smooth, flat planes of his stomach as he hunches over self-consciously. He makes the motion quick, clearly shy of revealing skin to a near-stranger. However, long after his shirt falls back in place, your mind is still replaying the sight of his pale caramel skin taut over his hip bones, and the thin trail of golden, almost translucent hair that leads from his belly button down past the button of his jeans.

Jimin coughs in discomfort and you swallow hard, forcing the image out of your mind for now. “Um,” you start, cringing at the way your voice wavers, “anyway; this is your room. I can move out my stuff for you.”

He nods, still awkwardly hovering in the doorway, hunched behind the suitcases like he’s trying to keep a barrier of protection between the two of you.

Like a final wisp of smoke from a blown-out candle, the last of your irritation distinguishes, and you sink down onto the edge of the bed. “It’s not you,” you explain softly, face crumpled into an apologetic frown. “I was angry at the situation, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.”

His eyes dance around the room, before finally jumping up to yours, a tentative smile playing at his plush lips. “It’s okay,” he shrugs simply, “I invaded your territory without warning; it’s only natural for you to react defensively.”

You blink. “Uh…” The silence you trail off into is stiff, but you find yourself at a loss for words. “Sorry, you never got the chance to tell me; what is it you do exactly?”

He shuffles out from behind the nearest suitcase with glittering eyes. “I’m a lepidopterist,” he announces proudly, before correcting, “well- not yet, I guess. I’m here to do research for my thesis.”

You mouth the unfamiliar word, frowning. “But we don’t have leopards in Ecuador.”

He grins, then, and your heart stutters unevenly in your chest at the way it lights up his whole face. “A lepidopterist studies butterflies and moths. I’m here to study the life cycle of a specific butterfly that’s found in this type of habitat.” His expression turns sheepish. “I know most people find it silly, or- or girly that I want to study butterflies for a living, but they’re really special. Special to me.” He glances down, then, gripping self-consciously at the strap of his backpack. “Anyway… I don’t mean to ramble, you probably have stuff to do-”

“I’d love to see them some time, if you wanna show me,” you blurt. “The butterflies, I mean. See what all the hype is about.”

His eyes crinkle at your interruption, cheeks warming candy pink. You fight a blush of your own, again overcome by how radiant he is. “Of course! Though- Don’t you live here? Surely you’ve seen them before. The one I’m studying, the longwing erato, it’s said to be pretty abundant in these parts.”

“I mean, sure, I’ve seen butterflies around,” you shrug. “But I haven’t seen Park Jimin’s butterflies.”

He lets out a flattered laugh, soft and tinkling. “Oh, they’re not my- I just-” He breaks off with another giggle, cheats heating up even further, biting desperately on his bottom lip to suppress a shy grin.

As much as you love seeing him all flustered, it’s his first day, so you cut him some slack. Standing up, you snake past the scattered suitcases and pat him on the shoulder. He ducks out of the doorway to let you pass, mouth dropping into a shocked oh shape at your sudden movement, but you just throw a playful warning glare at him as you pass into the hallway. “I have one rule,” you declare firmly.

He stays silent for a moment, waiting for you to continue. You simply lift your chin and stare, waiting for him to ask. It’s Jimin that breaks first, but that doesn’t surprise you. “Uh, which is?”

“No bugs in the house. As pretty as butterflies are, you keep them outside, got it?”

He smiles softly, but you can see a cheeky glimmer in his eyes. “Butterflies aren’t actually bugs, they’re lepidoptera.”

You flatten your glare. “You aren’t a bug either but if you break my rules, I’ll chuck you out.”

He baulks, eyes widening innocently. “I, uh… I don’t know if you’re joking or not,” he admits in a small voice.

“Good.” You throw him one last satisfied smile, and leave.

You manage to occupy yourself for the rest of the day outside of your now-shared hut, wanting to give him some space to settle in. Though you successfully keep your eyes away, pitching in on some errands that needed doing throughout the campsite, you couldn’t stop your mind from lingering on the gentle, unsure young man that was now going to be staying with you.

In fact, you’d ran over those fifteen or so minutes together so many times that when you finally came home, feet aching and stomach grumbling, it almost came as a surprise to you to see him wandering around and greeting you as you entered. Like a reminder that it wasn’t a movie you had seen, that he was a real thing that happened that morning.

“Hungry?”

“Huh?” You blink, very nearly tripping on the lip of your own front door as your eyes fall downwards, to the coffee table in the main room. The haphazard mess of snacks, remotes, and other knick knacks had been neatly placed on the floor beside the couch, and instead the square wooden table was laden with food, the quantity of which you hadn’t seen in this hut the entire time you’d been here. “Oh my god, what is all this?”

Running a hand through his hair anxiously, he shrugs. “I packed myself a bunch of food from home in case I got homesick.”

You tip your head to the side with a frown. “You’re homesick already?”

He lets out a breathy laugh, sheepish. You swallow down the way your stomach flips, not quite hunger. “No. Well- a little bit, but no, I just… I thought you maybe hadn’t had Korean food in a while, so we could, um, have some?” He breaks off, shifting uncomfortably as he holds a bowl of steamed rice in one hand and fiddles with the hem of his shirt with the other.

As you stare down at the aromatic offerings, it hits you with a belt of clarity. Just like you gave him space today, this was his olive branch to you. A way of starting off on the right food. You smile warmly. “I’d love to. That’s so sweet, Jimin. Do you need any help?”

Unfiltered relief glitters in his eyes and he shakes his head, slipping gracefully onto the floor, cross-legged. “It’s all ready,” he explains simply, “come sit.”

“It smells amazing,” you groan, stomach growling embarrassingly loud, “you must be an amazing cook to have whipped this up in that tiny kitchen.”

He glances over to the corner in question, barely a few cupboards, a refrigerator and some table top appliances. Looking back, he chuckles, lips pursed into a cheeky grin. He uses his chopsticks - the type of cheap wooden ones you’d receive at a takeout place - to point to the various dishes. “Ramen, microwave rice, Ottogi microwave soup, microwave jjajjang, and packet kimchi.”

“Ah,” you hum in understanding, reaching for the spare sleeve of chopsticks, “very traditional.”

Jimin quirks a smile, focussed below as he serves himself a helping of rice. You take the opportunity to look over him again, closer in the intimacy of your hut. The radiant daylight has given way to a burnt umber, a sunset glow like hot coals on the horizon. It casts a softness onto his face, a gentle warmth that spreads across the fullness of his cheeks and the honeyed blonde of his hair.

As he hunches over the table, his baggy white t-shirt exposes more skin than you think he realises. The short sleeves ruck up as his chopstick-bearing arms dip into various bowls across the table, revealing shallow slopes of muscle, and the hemline dangles low, bare chest hidden not by fabric but by shadow.

You mulishly redirect your attention to the steaming banquet in front of you, all the staples of your college days. “So,” you start, wishing for anything to distract you from the extremely good-looking figure across from you, “Mister Leopard Optimist, what’s first on the agenda?”

“Lepidopterist,” he corrects with an encouraging smile, and your heart swells at his pureness. “Well, first I need to get a sample group. I think I’ll spend tomorrow setting up properly and then around dusk we can go find some specimens.”

You blink in surprise. “We?”

Jimin’s warmth dissipates into pouted confusion, eyes round as he swallows the mouthful he had taken with poor timing. “You, uh- sorry, you said earlier you were interested. I shouldn’t have assumed…”

“It’s fine, you assumed correctly. We’ll be like the dream team,” you assure, wiggling your eyebrows at him playfully. “You, the leper doctorist, and me, your loyal side kick. Those butterflies will be toast. You’ll have specimens out your ears in no time!”

Even with the golden rays of sunlight, he looks paler than a ghost, choking on his own breath. “We don’t hurt the butterflies,” he corrects hastily, waving his chopsticks in alarm, “we just take note of them so we can study them over time!” He sits back, setting his chopsticks down with a dull clatter. “And it’s lepidopterist,” he adds gently, even as a concerned pout dimples his lips.

You muffle your grin with a sip of water. “Lepidopterist,” you repeat softly, if not a little cheekily. “I’m just messing with you, Jiminie. We’ll be the dream team of…studying them over time. Hm. Doesn’t have the same ring to it. I’ll come up with a cooler name for us.”

After you finish speaking, the room settles into an unanticipated silence, and you look up from your bowl. Jimin’s spluttering silently, cheeks and the tip of his nose a violent pink as he holds his eyes so wide you can see a ring of white all the way around. His mouth dangles open until he forces a swallow to close it, clearing his throat in short, self-conscious bursts.

You’re taken aback by his strong reaction. “Did I say something? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” You trail off. Offend you? Upset you? Did he think you were making fun of him?

“W-what did you call me?” he asks in a small voice, settling down his chopsticks in his empty bowl so that he can wring his fingers together.

“Um.” You have to think back, and your eyebrows lift in realisation. “Oh. Jiminie. That was too familiar, wasn’t it? We’ve only just met. I’m sorry.”

But his face is a strange mix of relief and confusion, shaking his head with enough emphasis to gently rustle the honey blonde locks of his hair. “No, Jiminie is okay. I, uh, misheard. It’s okay; don’t worry about it. Have you tried some of the stew? Here, let me…”

You let his abrupt topic change slide, accepting another serving of food, but you can’t help but linger on the thought well into the night: what did he think you were calling him?

Jimin doesn’t mention your late-night expedition until just before dusk, but that doesn’t mean it slips your mind.

On the contrary, you find it hard to concentrate on anything else. He leaves his bedroom door open, and every time you walk past you see him deeply focussed on set-up. Out of those three massive suitcases come electronics, fresh logbooks, blueprint papers, drawing tools, worn textbooks, and, rather confusingly, a framed photo of two chubby-faced children, grinning at each other in matching school uniforms.

You spend a concerningly long portion of your morning conspicuously hovering around the hut, sneaking glimpses of the way the pink tip of Jimin’s tongue sticks out when he focuses, or the strain of fine muscle beneath the grey striped t-shirt he donned that morning, making miniscule grunts of exertion as he wrestles out heavy tomes, stacking them with care on the shelves of the bookcase you had emptied out for him. By the time you break out of your ruling curiosity, it’s nearing midday, and you dash out of the house before Jimin breaks for lunch and wonders why you’re still here.

It’s a beautifully glittering Saturday in the Cuyabeno Reserve, which means that you’ll probably see half of the campers leaving for a day trip to Quito for shopping or activities (or decent Wi-Fi), leaving behind a steady number wanting to go on tours. You didn’t typically work Saturdays, but all the tour guides were encouraged to help out in busy times, or take initiative and offer them to any tourists awkwardly milling about. As you slip out from the shade of your hut and into the warm bath of Amazonian sunshine, you figure a tour might just be a good way to get one Park Jimin out of your head for a few hours.

The best thing about your job was the freedom. Even as you know the paid tours like the back of your hand, you’ve always been welcome to forge your own path in the rainforest, adjusting duration, location and information depending on your customers. In just fifteen minutes, you’d managed to gather a handful of couples, eight people in total. The group was primarily dominated by English speakers – several young Americans and Canadians, an elderly couple from Australia, as well as a set of parents from the UK that had left their college-age kids at home while they took an anniversary holiday. Also accompanying you were two shy young men from Spain, who seemed to understand partially what you were saying in English, but nevertheless you made sure to tack on regular translations for them just to be sure.

From the moment you set out, picking up one of the high-vis flags from reception on your way, you knew exactly what type of tour you were going to do. It had been a paid tour last year on Valentine’s Day, one of your personal favourites, because the story of it was centred around the more romantic aspects of nature; toucans and parrots in colourful pinks and reds, monkeys that curled their tails into a heart when they intertwined with another (you’d yet to see it actually happen in front of a tour group, but the fact alone was often enough to make them coo) and finally a meadow just on the edge of the river that, because of the plants and flowers that grew there, became a hotspot for about twelve different species of butterflies.

You’d been able to lose yourself in the vibrancy of nature for the past hour and a half, stopping regularly for drink breaks, chatting with the different couples on your tour. It was always special to you hearing what brought them to Cuyabeno, and you were known amongst your colleagues for always running overtime on your tours because you just loved getting to know the people on your tour, and making their adventure into the rainforest special for them.

It wasn’t until your first boot fell down onto the lush grass of the meadow that you knew you fucked up in choosing this tour route. As the eight people behind you gasp and gush about the magical bank, you freeze, your mind exploding into a silver stream of jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin ji-

“Woah, there’s so many of them!”

Stepping forward to encourage the tourists to spill into the meadow, you look around you at the flurry of motion. On one side of the group are the looming trees from whence you emerged; opposite that, the murky jade green of the river, barely lapping at the narrow bank, but glittering a sharp silver below the early afternoon sun. And in between is where the real wonder lies.

Shifting and darting, the air is alive with the vibrant array of butterflies, abundant as falling snow. The group is awash with awe as some stay perfectly still, hoping for the small creatures to land upon them, while others stir their arms gently through the air, watching the butterflies part and eddy around them like fish in a stream.

This had always been the reason the Valentine’s tour was your favourite; almost every other route took you in the opposite direction, since the other side of the island was where most of the river’s inhabitants were. So many tourists wanted to see as many animals as possible with the least amount of walking, and the tip of the island where you stood now was a long walk from camp.

You’d even come here once or twice with solo travellers, since they had more patience than a hustling group, and the magic of it never got old. Just last Christmas your boss, Angelo, had gifted you tinkling windchimes for your hut; instead, you had taken them down here.

There wasn’t much of a breeze now, so the delicate notes of glass and ceramics were quiet in the background, but they added to the feel of peace and serenity that you could tell all of the tourists were feeling, no matter their age. The Northern Americans had formed a group, pointing out the different species and trying to count them off on their fingers. The elderly couple had a surprisingly modern Android phone out, using the man’s longer arms to take an extremely high-angled selfie. Closer to the lazy shallows of the river, one of the Spanish boys had picked a pale purple flower from the grass to offer to the other.

Surrounded by love and butterflies, you’d quite literally led yourself back to the thoughts of the one you had tried to distract yourself from.

Jimin. Jiminie.

You’re approached by the middle-aged parents, suggesting here might be a good place to break for snacks and a drink, and so you acquiesce, sinking down onto the pillowy grass of the meadow and wondering which of the graceful wings that danced in the sky belonged to a longwing erato.

You manage to spend the rest of your day on tours, making sure to go on those well-worn tracks far from the butterfly meadow, and by the time you turn in your reflective orange flag for the day, Jimin’s waiting on the porch with a backpack, a chunky flashlight, and a pair of binoculars dangling from a cord around his neck.

“Where were you?” he questions instead of a greeting, fiddling with the hem of his beige shorts.

You tilt your head in confusion, staring down at him. It occurs to you that he’s in your spot, the place you sat with your steaming mug every morning. In fact, as you stand over him, it’s like your roles are reversed from the first time you met. “I was working,” you reply simply.

“Oh.” He deflates a little, eyes staring past you at the now-silent campsite, all the lodgers having since returned to their huts for curfew. Only employees were allowed to be out after sunset most nights. The one exception was the occasional night-time tour, but given the additional risks involved, your boss jacked the price right up and there weren’t many takers. Jimin must’ve spoken with your boss to be allowed to roam around at night. He focuses back in on you, and perks up. “Are you ready, then?”

“To go butterfly hunting? Always.”

Rather than leading you to the meadow, Jimin consults an extremely detailed (and scribbled-on) map, forging into the forest along the centre of the island, instead of out either side towards the river. You follow along, marvelling at the new territory that even you haven’t really explored.

The two of you move in concentrated silence, Jimin methodically tying little cornflower blue ribbons to branches along the way. At one point, you slow to a stop, crouching as you make out two red flashes. Upon closer inspection, you recognise the lime-green body to belong to the red-eyed tree frog making its way down the wide trunk of a tree, clearly spooked by the light from Jimin’s flashlight.

You sigh in relief as it tucks itself away safely. Frogs, specifically tree frogs, were a good indicator for the type of habitat you were entering. The fact that it was a non-toxic species meant hopefully your companion wasn’t leading you into a pit of venomous and poisonous creatures. The island was pretty safe, for the most part, but you still had to exercise due caution, and it seemed Jimin was so focussed on his butterflies that he’d forgotten they weren’t the only ones in here.

A hushed whisper of your name and the returning of bright light is your only warning before an impatient hand slips into yours, tugging you up and deeper into the rainforest.

You’re too stunned to protest, simply letting Jimin lead you into the untamed wilderness. His palm is warm in yours, fingers interlocked. His hands are smaller than you expected, and even as he holds on tightly, so gentle. You can’t help but feel the care that emanates from him down to the smallest detail.

As the active hum of the rainforest’s creatures and the rustle of leaves and bushes surrounds you, you barely notice the slight incline of the ground beneath you, the only indicator being that over time your calves begin to ache slightly.

Every time you open your mouth to ask how far, or if you could take a break, you’re stopped by a soft squeeze to your hand. Even though he’s in front of you, looking ahead rather than back at you, he seems to know just when to reassure you.

The walk isn’t particularly challenging, nor is it too hot, but you find yourself short of breath anyway.

When the two of you finally come to a stop, he lets your hand go. The loss of pressure around your hand gives you a weird pang of disappointment, and you tuck your arms around yourself to make up for it.

“Do you know what the longwing erato looks like?” he asks in an excited whisper.

You shrug. “Long wings?”

His eyes crinkle before his smile joins them. “I mean, yes; they’re more of a stretched-out oval compared to the roughly squarish shapes that most butterflies have. They’re black, with one or more red stripes on each wing. Here; hold the flashlight and I’ll find some.”

He passes off his equipment to you and directs the beam of the flashlight to the lowest branches of the trees in front of you, still well above eye-level. Although you do your best to keep the light steady, you find yourself glancing over to Jimin, his mouth dangling unconsciously open as he puts all his focus into staring down the pair of binoculars he brought. His warm blonde hair has been pushed off his face with a stretchy fabric headband, exposing the smooth skin of his forehead and the furrowed arches of his brows, slightly darker than the rest of his hair.

“On the trees,” he mumbles, with a minute jerk of his elbow as a gesture.

You startle, correcting the slant of the torch beam that had slipped astray as you watched him. This time, you focus on the yellow moon of light that splays across the trunks of the trees instead of your companion. Flitting around, casting narrow shadows across the artificial rays, are various bugs and moths, the latter of which gradually migrate closer to you, seeking the source of the light. “Have you found them?” you question, upper arm starting to ache from being held up so long.

Jimin hums, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as he lowers the binoculars, pointing high up into the branches. “There,” he declares quietly with an excited grin, “on the right side, they’re all up against the bark.”

You squint, trying to search for the red stripes, but you can’t find anything. “That middle tree?”

“Here,” letting the binoculars fall back around his torso, he steps up beside you, reaching across to lift the flashlight higher. “Just past that skinny branch there.”

Your breath catches in your throat. He’s close enough that you can feel his body heat radiating through his thin shirt. Close enough for you to hear the resonance of his focussed breath. Though he’s holding the flashlight, your fingers overlap slightly and you can feel the pressure of his thumb on your knuckles and his fingertips touching the side of your hand. “I-” you break off to swallow past the dryness in your throat, “I still don’t see them.”

Jimin lets out a laugh, barely more than breath. He tilts his head closer, so that your temples almost touch. Feeling the soft locks of his hair on your skin, your eyes widen and you suck in a breath unconsciously. With a hand on the flashlight still, he has to wrap the other around your shoulders, pointing in your line of sight. “Just focus,” he instructs gently. “Right side of the middle tree, see that tree frog? The brown one?”

You make a noise of agreement once you locate the slowly moving creature, higher up than you had been looking. “I see it.”

“Good.” Jimin’s warm tone of approval sends something rushing through you. In the moment of quiet, you become aware of the minute movement of Jimin’s thumb, rubbing against your knuckles. Your fingers tense on the metal of the flashlight, but Jimin doesn’t seem to notice, simply bring his other hand up higher, pointing further up the trunk. “They’re up here, see? Follow the tree up until you see the black patch. It looks like it’s moving. Can you see it?”

Your eyes widen. “I see it,” you breathe.

You feel rather than see the smile that puffs up his cheeks. “That’s them,” he says warmly, voice echoing in your air, quiet enough that it’s just for you. “Longwing erato. Must be at least fifty of them, all gathered up. You can even see some of the stripes when they shift around. Lift up your flashlight a bit, it won’t bother them, don’t worry.”

The two of you stay there, Jimin’s arms on either side of you, for an unreadable amount of time. With nothing but the warmth of his body and the vague drone of the various bugs and nocturnal critters to join you, it could be moments or it could be half an hour.

Either way, there reaches a point where a breeze in the air sends a shiver down your spine, and you think it might be time to go. Turning towards Jimin to let him know, you’re caught off-guard when he turns at the same time.

Your noses brush, and then you feel the silken touch of his lips on yours. Eye-to-eye, you stare at each other for a second that feels like eternity, before you finally come to your senses and jump back, inadvertently leaving him with the flashlight as you tear your hand away from his.

“I- Uh- Sorry, I-” Jimin seems unable to do anything but stammer, in a normal voice that seems harshly loud after the hush you’d been in.

“It’s okay,” you reply back, but your voice falls flat, just as unconvincing to you as it must be to him. “It was just an accident. Just a mistake.”

Cast in shadow as the beam of the flashlight points downwards, you can still see clear as day how his whole face changes at that, flinching like he’s been hit. Stumbling around with a stricken expression, he glances once at the flashlight in his hand, darts his eyes to you before looking over to the direction of forest you’d come from and finally back to the flashlight.

Your blood runs iron cold with dread. “Jiminie, don’t-”

Like something snaps, Jimin hesitates no longer, turning and dashing into the trees. You start after him for a few jogged steps, watching the frenzied beam shoot through the rainforest like a laser, getting smaller and smaller as the noise of his exit slowly fades away, leaving you marooned in a black ocean.

Those pastel pink ribbons are your saviours that night. It’s hard to pick them out when the shadows penetrate the rainforest so deeply. You squint before every step to watch out for animals or other living inhabitants that might be dangerous, and it’s probably nothing more than sheer luck that you manage to peek the slips of fabric on the branches regularly enough to lead you back to camp.

On the grounds themselves, you see lights on, not just the safety ones that illuminate the way to the toilets and kitchens, but also the warmer yellow tones that you recognise to be emanating from your hut itself. Jimin.

Even as you feel a tugging in your heart to go, you also find yourself unable to step closer. Jimin left you. He wouldn’t want you to approach him. Either you’d disgusted him or offended him or both, enough so that he literally ran from you, and the last thing you could handle right now was confrontation.

Instead, you inch around the outskirts, finding a familiar beaten path that leads to one of your favourite places on the island: an old, relatively abandoned lookout tower.

Tourists weren’t taken to this one, anymore, and all of your colleagues kept away too. A few months before you had begun working, they’d opened a new, sleeker, taller, safer lookout to compensate for the higher numbers of tourists they were getting. Sure, that one was great, and with a top made primarily of glass, it gave a gorgeous view.

But there was something… different about the older one that kept drawing you back. Perhaps it was the rustic feel; all dark woods, concrete and metal, fitted to one of the taller trunks for stability. It blended into the landscape. Over the years, as the trees had grown a bit taller, it no longer rose clean above the topiary, but nestled between branches, right in the midst of the foliage. It was a view you couldn’t get from above or below, and as you curl into the corner, back pressed against the ancient tree, you felt your blood pressure gradually decrease.

Unlike most places, you could be truly alone here. But never lonely. Quietly, you tuck your knees to your chest and watch as a margay cat slinks down a branch of a nearby tree, eyes glinting in the moonlight. This dense inside the topiary, it’s hard to make out much detail, but you can see the black leopard-like patches on its tan fur, the whiskers twitching as it sniffs your presence.

Shoulders hunched like it’s anticipating a loud noise, the wildcat appraises you, carefully winding around the trunk of a nearby tree to provide cover. Cute as it is, you wait until it leaps onto a further branch and disappears into the shadows before you lie down on your side and close your eyes.

Getting back to the camp takes a sizeable portion of your morning. Although the foliage had provided sufficient insulation, the nailed planks of the lookout turret were unforgiving, and you wake up the next morning with an unignorable twinge where your left shoulder meets your neck. Getting down the tight coiled staircase takes long enough; finding your way back to base while being unable to properly turn your head to look around you feels like an eternity.

It’s just as the ground below your feet evens out into well-trodden grass and you gingerly roll your shoulder for the nth time that you glance up to see the chaos that lies in front of you.

Countless tourists stand around, confused and gossiping, littered across the campground as your fellow employees rush and dart between them. Some of them are on bulky radio phones or walkie talkies, others packing what looks like expedition equipment.

But they only attract your attention for a moment. Like you’re magnetized, your eyes are immediately drawn to the two figures outside your hut. Standing with deep lines of concern on his tanned face is your boss, Angelo. Sat on the veranda beside him, wrapped in a blanket despite the early morning heat, is Jimin.

They haven’t seen you yet, no one has, and so you allow yourself a moment to silently observe them. Well. Observe him.

Jimin’s got his fists bundled up under his chin, pressing up his cheeks, yet he’s never looked more gaunt. His eyes are sunken and desolate, even as they glitter from deep wells of tears that redden his nose and soak patches in the blanket. Angelo’s hand is on his shoulder, offering him a tissue, muttering something, but Jimin simply stares ahead blankly, bottom lip trembling.

Jimin…

His head jerks up, eyes seeking you out, and you realize belatedly that you’d said his name aloud. But it doesn’t matter, because just the unfiltered relief on his face is enough to trigger your feet to move again, walking numbly towards him as your boss leaves him sitting there, rushing forward to greet you.

“Fucking hell, Y/n, you better have a damn good reason for terrifying the entire Lodge,” his rough colloquial Spanish rings out in a fevered hush, “we were just about to send search parties.”

You stand in shocked silence as he unhooks a walkie talkie from his waistband, quite literally calling off the horde of Cuyabeno employees gathering on the campsite. They, upon receiving the notice, glance over to you, showing varying degrees of relief and annoyance, and herd the guests back to their cabins.

“He’s been inconsolable all night, you know?”

Angelo’s voice whips your attention back, and you furrow your brows. “Huh?”

“Park Jimin,” your boss emphasizes with a scolding tone. “Bawling his eyes out, waking us all up at ass o’clock in the morning. Got half the team convinced you’d been eaten by a jaguar or something. Poor guy feels so guilty.”

“I was fine,” you defend, glancing past him at the sitting figure of the man in question, who looks so tiny perched on the edge of the veranda, red face poking out from the blanket.

“Well, how the fuck were we supposed to know that?”

Something snaps inside you, too wired up to hear the concern and relief that hides below Angelo’s façade of anger. You look away from Jimin, but stick a finger out to point at him while you glare at your boss. “He was the one that left me stranded! He was the one that ran away with the only flashlight we brought. He was the reason I spent the night sleeping in the rainforest. You tell me he’s feeling guilty? Well, he fucking should be.”

Behind Angelo, you see Jimin visibly flinch, stiffening and ducking his head so as to appear smaller. Though you had spoken in Spanish, your pointing and tone had probably left nothing to the imagination, and you lower your hand now, feeling a spike of regret.

The older Ecuadorian man just sighs, the fight leaving his body. “You could just talk, you know,” he offers up tiredly, “sort it out. Don’t let it fester. Maybe he just freaked out, saw a scary bug or something. You know how these city folk can get.” He purses his lips in consideration. “Then again, he is a bug scientist.”

“Lepidopterist,” you correct absentmindedly, eyes cast downward. “…I’m gonna go home, Angelo. Get ready for work. Sorry for worrying you,” you add, genuinely this time.

He lets you go without words, instead wrapping you into a fierce hug that lasts just long enough for your bones to begin to melt, anger slipping away.

With tired feet and a heavy heart, you make your way to the entrance of your hut, pausing in front of Jimin. Rather than jumping to greet you or apologise, he simply watches you balefully, eyes glossy with misery. You feel yourself break a little at the hurt in his gaze.

“I wanted to give you space,” you explain weakly. “I found a place to stay for the night. I didn’t think you’d worry so much.”

Jimin doesn’t reply, just sniffs and swallows and nods a little bit.

You let out a breathy noise, not quite light enough to be a laugh. “So… What time are we going butterfly-watching next?”

Brows furrowed strangely, he stays silent for so long you almost give up and walk past him. Eventually, though, his fists go lax and the thin blanket drops from around his shoulders, falling to the floor. He’s still in the t-shirt and shorts from last night. Somehow, this fact makes your eyes sting. “I think I’m just going to do it by myself from now on. Give you…space.”

For a moment, his lips wobble slightly, like he’s got something more to say, but then he just exhales with an air of finality, and focuses his gaze past you, to the distance.

Leaving him alone on the porch step hurts, but there’s nothing else for you to do.

In his defence, Jimin does exactly as he promises.

He gives you space.

Were it not for the closed door in the hallway and the weight in your heart, you could almost forget he was even there. Jimin doesn’t eat with you, instead sneaking out to take advantage of the thrice-daily buffets offered to guests. By the time you wake up in the morning and drink your ritual tea on the front porch, he’s come and gone. Occasionally you can hear him working, but not most days. In the evenings, you hear him pack his things and leave. You’re asleep before he returns.

You continue to go on tours, sticking to the ones far away from the butterfly meadow, but you can’t avoid butterflies themselves. They are, as Jimin pointed out earlier, abundant in this area, but you swear you didn’t notice them as much until these past few days. They flit around, drawing gasps and coos and camera clicks from your tour groups but leaving you with an uncomfortable twinge in your chest.

It’s an entire three weeks before you discover why he ran that fateful night.

Bad weather cancels a day of tours for you, and late into the morning you hear murmuring coming from Jimin’s room. You know you shouldn’t eavesdrop, but you can’t help the yearning you feel. The moment you consider tiptoeing up and pressing your ear to the door, it’s like your mind is made.

His voice is softer, sweeter, more playful than you’d ever heard directed at you, even before the strange falling-out. “…pretty, aren’t you? I know, I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. I’ll be gentle. Hm? Minnie’s here.”

Your stomach turns, and you rush away as quickly and silently as you came.

Of course. Of course a guy like him had a girlfriend. It’s not like he was obliged to tell you, and you shouldn’t have assumed he was single. Poor guy probably felt grossed out, probably thought you’d intentionally made a move. No wonder he freaked when you called him Jiminie too, if Minnie was her pet name for him or something.

It’s a relief when the next morning breaks out in sunshine. You don’t fancy being in that house longer than is strictly necessary.

“Can we talk?”

Jimin jumps when he opens the door to you waiting, blinking in shock. “I have to get going…” He’s somehow even paler than when he first came, probably from only ever leaving the house at night-time, and though his eyes are bright, they’re sunken.

You don’t move when he puts his head down and makes an attempt to step forward again. “Please, Jimin. I owe you an apology. Besides; there’s no reason for us to hide from each other and be miserable. Let’s just talk.”

He scratches at his collarbone past the neck of his t-shirt, which protrudes more than you swear it had when he arrived. “Yeah, okay. Come in, I guess.”

He raises a tired eyebrow at your sigh of unfiltered relief, simply ducking back into the safety of his room, hopping onto the single bed cross-legged.

You follow after. “Look, that night got out of hand, but I think I get now why you…” You trail off once you step fully into the room, mouth hanging open.

It’s messy like when he moved in, an organized and dedicated chaos, but there’s one key difference. Amongst the open textbooks, scribbled notes, and strewn stationery on his desk, one large object catches your eye.

An entire branch, dangling from rope taped to the ceiling. You couldn’t recognize the tree just by that alone, but after taking in the lush leaves and forked twigs, something inside you thinks it’s probably from that same tree, or at least the same type, that the longwing erato butterflies were on that night.

Of course, you wouldn’t need the branch itself to tell you that. What makes it clear as day is the ten-plus butterflies that flutter around the room, resting periodically on the branch itself.

Jimin ducks his neck, rubbing at his chest in self-comfort. “You wanted to talk?” he questions innocently.

You don’t let the joyous spike in your heart at him speaking to you distract from what’s in front of you. “I said no bugs in the house. Are you serious?”

“They’re not bugs,” he whines defensively. You stare in open-mouthed bewilderment as one, smaller than the rest but with thicker red bands on its wings, lands on the top of one of his pointer fingers, settling after a few moments. Jimin’s eyes warm, a smile tugging at his lips. “I didn’t want to bother you by coming and going all the time, so I just got them to come to me… I can take better care of them this way.”

With a conflicted frown, you push down your divided emotions on this statement in the hopes of pushing forth. “Anyway, I wanted to say that I get now why you freaked out. I overheard you talking with your girlfriend the other day and-” You blink, cutting yourself off. The words you’d heard muffled behind his bedroom door I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. “You… Do you have a girlfriend, Jimin? Or a boyfriend?”

Jimin’s so startled it disrupts the butterfly from its perch, but he barely notices, eyes comically wide in shock. “Wh- y- Are you propositioning me?”

You splutter, realizing belatedly how poorly your statement was phrased. “No, I, sorry, I just wanted to ask because I thought I overheard you one day talking to someone on the phone. And I thought perhaps that was the reason you took off that night, because you thought I was making moves on you when you were taken.” His expression is unreadable, eyes glazed in what might be contemplation or might be annoyance, but you forge on with a deep breath. “So, whether you have a partner or not, I wanted to apologize, because that night was an accident. I wasn’t like, trying to make out with you on a butterfly hunt. That’s… yeah, that’s all I wanted to say.” His eyes drop from you wordlessly, and your heart stutters in concern. “You can say something now. Please.”

His shoulders fall slack; you hadn’t noticed how tense he was. “Y/n…” He gives a bittersweet sigh, lip tugging into a reluctant smile. “Well, first of all, it was not a butterfly hunt. Secondly… I haven’t been fair to you. I should apologize too. Could you sit?”

He shuffles sideways on the bed, patting the rumpled sheets beside him. You hop on, and it’s not until an awkward silence threatens to descend that he finally speaks up again.

“Listen, I wanna be clear. I don’t have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend or anything. I wasn’t talking on the phone that day. I’m sorry for running when we went out that night, I really am. And it wasn’t because of you that I freaked- well, it was because of you, but not in a bad way.” He lets out a pained breath, staring doggedly ahead at the smattering of butterflies roaming the hanging branch. Even as he avoids your gaze, he subtly turns his torso inwards towards you, the shyest olive branch. “The truth is, I freaked because I really like you. And I… This is gonna make me sound like an asshole, but I didn’t want to let myself get distracted. I have to put this research first. I figured if I just avoided you, I’d get over it, but-” He waves his hand in the air helplessly. “That hasn’t been working out so well,” he admits in a defeated voice. With a final sigh, he falls silent.

You stay quiet for a few more moments, letting his words process in your mind. He actually liked you? The discomforting tug in your chest eases as the thought, the ache of your heart soothing into a warm thrum. But he had to put his work first. Of course. “I get it,” you say finally.

Jimin perks up, finally looking over at you with vulnerable eyes. “You…do?”

You crack a light smile at his stammering of such a short sentence, but then a wider beam takes over. Even if he wanted to never even touch you for fear of getting ‘distracted’, this was enough. Just seeing his face, hearing the notes of his voice, his expression light up in hope; if nothing else, this was enough. “Yeah,” you reiterate with crinkled eyes, “I mean, let’s look at this rationally. You’ve been studying in uni for how long? Paying fees, buying textbooks, studying hard. And now you’re doing a thesis, which you had to uproot your life and fly out to another country for. I bet that was expensive, too. And on top of all that, it’s clear how much it all means to you. You just met me because I happened to be staying in the hut you’d booked. I don’t wanna get in your way, Jimin. This work makes you happy.”

“You-” Jimin cuts himself off, clearing his throat noisily, shaking his head at himself cutely. “Um, I really appreciate that. Now I feel silly I didn’t just tell you that three weeks ago. You know how hard it’s been sneaking showers at the crack of dawn? Those campsite bathrooms don’t even have mirrors. I’ve become an expert at shaving by memory.” He sends you a small smile then, small but genuine, and on his lap his fingers stretch out shyly, before falling back into a loose fist.

Not wanting to disrupt the cheery mood, you reach over to shove at his shoulder playfully. “Well then, how about instead of distracting you, I help you? I’ll be your official sidekick. Or assistant, whatever it’s called.”

“Is that so?” Jimin retorts with glimmering eyes. Like it’s sensed the warm ambience returning to the two of you, a lone butterfly has flown over, settling itself between waves of honey blonde, off-center so that Jimin has to strain his eyes over to make it out. “Hey, Molly,” he mumbles so softly his lips barely move, but, right beside him, you hear it.

“You name them?” you question in confusion, but he doesn’t get the chance to answer before it hits you. “Oh my god. You were talking to the butterflies, weren’t you?”

Jimin stiffens up defensively, but takes care to do it slowly enough that the black-and-red butterfly in his hair, Molly apparently, doesn’t get disturbed. “Makes things grow better,” he mutters through a pout, cheeks glowing an embarrassed pink. “And they have personalities too, you know? Just like dogs or cats.”

You observe the way he leans back away from you, braced like he’s expecting backlash or humiliation. Instead, you nod slowly. “So, what’s Molly’s personality?”

He goes stock still in surprise. “Molly?” After you nod again, he relaxes slowly, fiddling with his hands in his lap even as his face warms. “Molly’s a sweetheart,” he reveals tentatively. “She likes keeping me company more than the others, and when I need to take notes on her wing growth she sits so nicely.”

Your eyes widen in wonder. “Woah, that’s incredible,” you breathe.

He tilts his head to the side. Molly settles herself in deeper, batting her wings a couple times but staying there. It makes you quirk a smile even as Jimin sends you a look of confusion. “What’s incredible?”

“Jimin, these are wild creatures,” you elaborate, “I don’t think we’ve had any researchers stay here before, certainly none specifically for them, and you’ve only been here three weeks yet already they trust you. Do you have any idea how amazing that is?” Do you have any idea how amazing you are? You bite your tongue to stop the words.

He gives his head the smallest shake, wary of the resting butterfly on his head. “All I did was talk to them. Be gentle with them. Look-”

You gasp when suddenly warmth envelops your palm, Jimin softly interlocking your fingers. He stands slowly, then tugs at your hand for you to follow. You do so in an almost religious silence, the hush that speaks louder than words. His fingers, although short, fit with yours perfectly, and as the two of you make your way to the hanging branch he squeezes gently in reassurance.

Licking his lips to wet them, he turns you and holds your connected hands in the air. “If you’re calm and quiet, they’ll trust you too.”

Barely breathing, you nod and stare wide-eyed as he gradually moves your hands closer to the branch. Once the back of your knuckles brush a leaf, he pauses there. “Lift one finger up in the air,” he instructs softly, “like a landing post.” You do as he asks and wait for approval, but his eyes aren’t on you. Rather, they focus on the three butterflies that huddle on a nearby leaf, one of which looks all but asleep to you. “There’s Yoyomi, Kong, and Mickey,” he utters. “Kong is a drama queen, he acts like he hates affection, that’s why he’s gone so still, but one of the others might come over.”

The two of you wait with baited breath and clasped hands as the smaller one of the three alights, fluttering around before delicately landing on the pad of your finger. Your heart stops with the lightest pressure of its legs on your skin, barely more than a tickle.

“See?” Jimin whispers, eyes glittering. “That’s little Yoyomi. Say hi.”

Your finger threatens to falter. You feel stupid talking to a bug, but hasn’t Jimin proved that it’s making a difference? And besides, you can’t let him down after he’s chosen to be so vulnerable with you. You can’t say no to him. “Um. Hi, Yoyomi. You’re very beautiful.” With the warmth of Jimin’s hand on yours, you’re certain he can feel the way your pulse throbs in your wrist, heart racing as Yoyomi’s wings, red at the tip instead of down the middle, give a welcoming flutter.

“Very beautiful,” you hear Jimin repeat in the softest tone.

Your gaze lifts to him, where, instead of looking down at Yoyomi, his eyes are on you. You swallow the euphoria that rises in your chest. “I… I hope you’re not getting distracted,” you say awkwardly.

His lip twitches down. “Sorry.” He lets go of your hand suddenly, giving Yoyomi a fright and sending her off, landing back on the branch with Kong and Mickey. You lower your own arm, feeling the tip of your finger tingle strangely, missing that delicate weight. Missing his touch even more. “I’ll be good. I’ll focus on them.”

You smile reassuringly, past the regret that builds deep in your stomach. “We can have a clean slate, yeah? Like a butterfly kicks off its cocoon, we can get rid of the negative energy and go back to being friends. A fresh start.”

The tension leaves Jimin’s face, replaced by pursed lips as he suppresses a reluctant smile. “You really know nothing about butterflies, don’t you?”

You back up closer to the door, resting your head playfully on the doorframe. “I have a very neglectful teacher.”

He lets out a laugh then, tinkling and giggly, and you feel your heart soar. “Oh, is that so? Well, our first lesson is 9am sharp. And I will be taking attendance,” he adds with faux sternness.

You nod, playing along, feeling so light you could float. “I’ll be there.”

“Mm, I’d say 38 millimeters. No; put down 37 and a half.”

“Aye aye, captain,” you cheer, carefully noting down the measurements.

Jimin tuts, eyes remaining trained on the gently batting wings of Una, another one of the older butterflies. “I said not to call me that. Okay, and it looks like the stripe is the same as last week. Have you got it?”

You bite down on the inside of your lip. “I do, master.”

Jimin splutters. “Stop,” he whines petulantly, “look, you made me give Una a fright. Una, it’s okay, don’t g-” He breaks off with a sigh. “It’ll take ages for her to work up the courage to come back over now… Stop teasing me. We’ll have to move on to Molly for now, okay?” He glances up at you warningly, pink lips still pressed in a pout.

You force your eyes not to linger, instead lifting your chin in a decisive nod. “Yes, chef.”

This time you’re rewarded with a full beam, Jimin’s eyes crinkling so much they just about shut completely, delicate hands pressing down on his cheeks in an effort to suppress. “Stop it! You’re making fun of me!”

“Well, who else can I make fun of?” you point out innocently. “When I called Kong an old man you made me sleep on the couch.”

Jimin’s mouth falls to a small o of shock. “That was a joke. You were the one that actually did it.”

Shrugging non-committedly, you doodle squiggles in the margins of Jimin’s notebook. “I take my job very seriously,” you defend, raising your eyebrows. “Which, speaking of, I wanted to ask. Are you free tonight?”

Jimin blinks, ducking his head back like he’s got whiplash. “Are you asking me out on a date?” he questions incredulously.

You put the book down, locking eyes with him. “I’m asking you out on an expedition,” you correct.

“Do I get to know where this expedition is going?”

“Absolutely not.”

He doesn’t hesitate for a second, brown eyes warm. “Deal.”

“That doesn’t look safe,” Jimin frowns, tugging at the hem of his light cotton shirt as he eyes the looming contraption.

“But you promised,” you retort, already with a foot on the base. You’d taken him to one of your favorite places on the island, your lookout tower. Of course, the last time you were here hadn’t been so fun, but as the sun sinks lower in the sky, you know it’s time to rewrite some better memories.

“I never agreed to this,” he retorts. He sucks in a breath through his teeth when you grab onto his forearm, tugging him up with you. Luckily, the stability of the tower, at least down on ground level, seems to suffice for him, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

“You promised to expe…dish with me,” you stammer.

“Expedish?”

“You know, go on an expedition? Expedite? Ex- Expedo-”

“Okay,” he cuts you off, stepping up onto the first stair that led upwards. “I’ll do it. Just stop making up words.”

You follow behind him dutifully, willing your eyes not to fall down to where his shorts stretch taut over his ass and thighs, calves flexing with every step higher. You attempt to distract yourself, simultaneously cursing and praising the fact you didn’t go in front of him. “I could say real words instead,” you offer helpfully, “like…barbecue. Lawnmower. Effervescence.”

Jimin gasps softly, in a playfully high tone. “Baby’s first words!”

You frown pettily, stomping your feet down on the steps so he can hear your dissatisfaction, but you can’t deny the way your breath hitches when he calls you baby. Dammit. “Just climb,” you mutter bitterly, quietly reveling in the triumphant peal of his laughter.

When the two of you reach the top, he’s panting, and you have to admit that you’re short of breath too. His eyes widen prettily as he takes in the view, holding onto the wooden slats around the border of the lookout to keep him stable as he rises onto his tiptoes.

Last time, the sun was well and truly set, but now the leaves are glowing in molten golds and oranges, the sky a pastel blanket over the island. The topiary is awash with activity, that unique window where nocturnal creatures stir and the rest settle.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes, and you’re inclined to agree, but it can’t match the beauty you see in him.

Straining to catch every last inch in sight, his body is stretched into a graceful curved line, enough that his shirt lifts to reveal a narrow strip of skin above his waistband. Much paler than the bronze caramel of his face and hands, it reminds you just how much sun he’s been getting these past few weeks now that he isn’t hiding himself away.

He looks much healthier, too, with the softness of his cheeks returned to full blush and eyes twinkling with wonder as he watches birds coast along the horizon line, monkeys navigate the trees with ease, and a few margay cats just like the ones you yourself had caught prowling that past night. He looks happy, and something warm unfurls in your chest at the thought that you’ve contributed to that joy.

You don’t process his eyes on you until he cracks a shy smile, raising a delicate brow. “Thinking hard or hardly thinking?” he teases softly.

“Just thinking,” you murmur, unwilling to part your gaze with him just yet. He doesn’t seem satisfied, tilting his head with imploring eyes. You relent, unable to deny him. “Cada vez que yo te veo y que te pienso siento que florezco.”

Jimin pouts cutely, falling back flat on his feet to stare you down fully. “Well, what does that mean?”

“It means you should learn Spanish,” you retort, ignoring the thudding beneath your ribs. “You do live in Ecuador, after all.”

“Only if you teach me,” he jokes lightly with a playful tip of his head. He takes a step closer, then, and his face changes, sobers up. “Thank you, Y/n. For taking me here, I mean.”

With the cramped space of the lookout, he’s now close enough that you can see each individual eyelash that curve delicately, the finest smile lines on his cheeks, the thinnest sheen of sweat on his temples. He’s close enough that you could easily reach out and k- “You’re welcome,” you blurt out, inhaling deep through your nose in the hopes of clearing your head. Instead, you just breathe in the delicate smell of orange blossoms that you’re beginning to associate with Jimin, perhaps something in his body wash or shampoo. Your eyes flutter around, unsure where is safe to land. His eyes, which bore so intensely into yours. Or his lips, which are pinker and plusher than usual as he nibbles softly at them. You stare stubbornly instead at the tip of his button nose, fingers curling at your sides with the effort to keep them to yourself

“It’s hard for you too, isn’t it?” he questions in the smallest voice, barely more than a velvet whisper.

Your eyes lift to him unsurely. “W-what? What’s hard for me too?”

His hand begins to lift up in the air in front of you, before it falters, and ultimately settles awkwardly on the railing. “Holding back,” he finally admits. “Not getting…distracted.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Distantly, you wonder what exactly he was reaching out to. “Impossible.”

Jimin’s head dips, eyes falling to the dusty wooden floor below you. “I’m sorry.”

A dissatisfied shiver runs down your spine. “I- you don’t have to apologise.”

He looks stricken. “No, I do, I just- I’m working it out. I’m thinking it through. I’m sorry.”

You fight your disappointed, struggling to maintain the cool composure of rationality that holds your tears at bay. “I understand,” you reassure, “this research is what means the most to you. You have to put it first.”

“That’s the problem, I don’t know if it’s-” He shudders then, a full-body tremble that’s only masked somewhat by the sudden step back he takes, almost tripping on an uneven plank. “I have to go,” he rushes out, one foot on the steps leading down before he freezes, forces himself to turn back to face you. “Are you… Are you ready to go? We can walk back together. If you want.”

You feel your knees go weak as you nod, biting on your bottom lip harshly to keep face. “I’m ready to go back if you are. I’m sorry, I thought taking you up here would be nice…”

His earnest look takes you off-guard. “I am so grateful, Y/n, it’s so beautiful up here. Thank you.”

A strange, detached feeling washes over you, like defeat, only softer. “You’re welcome,” you say again, though this time you don’t know if you mean it.

You let it go, for a while. Jimin’s happy, and that’s enough for you.

Slowly, you were getting better at recognising each of the regular visitors by the slightly different patches on their wings, or even simply how they behaved. It was a strange thing to get to know them like you would with a pet, realising they really did have unique personalities. And over time, you opened the rest of the doors of the hut, too, until it became commonplace to wake up from a flutter on your cheek, or to check for any resting butterflies on the couch before you sat down. It brought a sense of life to your abode that, in full honesty, you’d probably never truly felt before. But of course most of that led right back to Jimin.

Jimin, who no longer held himself back from chatting away softly to the butterflies like they were his friends. Jimin, who patiently explained the life cycle of the longwing erato for the nth time when you still got lost. Jimin, who did his best to stay professional but couldn’t hold back his warm smiles, gentle touches, and reassuring words. Jimin, who was overflowing with so much love for everything that you felt it grow within you too.

“Y/n?”

Jimin’s alarmed voice catches you off-guard from where you’d zoned out in the kitchen, milk warming to room temperature on the bench as you’d gotten too distracted to pour it into the bowl of waiting cereal. Cursing, you shove it back in the fridge and abandon your breakfast to rush down to the study.

He’s hunched over his desk, unaware of Molly nestled on his shoulder, as he focuses intensely on what’s in front of him.

“What’s going on?” you question, not wanting to approach the desk so suddenly just in case you startle him or whoever has his attention.

“Baby got his wing torn again. I think he’s been going to that patch of rosebushes behind the kitchen.”

You gasp, risking a couple steps forward silently. Your chest is taut with anxiety as you watch Jimin gently pin Baby onto a towel with an oval metal loop that keeps his wings still while allowing his small black body to move. He wriggles in the eye of the loop, but settles as a single pinkie finger strokes his wings with the lightest pressure. Baby, as his name suggests, is the youngest of your little ragtag bunch at only 8 days old. Jimin wasn’t sure, but he believed Molly might be the mother. Most of the females laid a few eggs every day, but only a few over the month and a half had actually chosen to come into the house. Baby, however, had shadowed Molly from the moment he’d first flown in.

“That’s the second time,” you murmur, rubbing at your shoulder in concern. “Will he be okay?”

Jimin hums, lips barely moving when he speaks in a soft register. “It’s a bigger tear than last time but it should be an easy fix. I just hope he learns this time. Can you get me the repair kit?”

You do as he says quickly but calmly so as not to disturb anyone. “Here. Do you need anything else?”

He doesn’t answer for a while, gnawing at his lip as he takes some contact adhesive and a small wooden dowel. “Um, no, but… Could you just stay?”

Your heart jumps in your chest; you curse that jolt of euphoria in a time like this. “Of course I can, Jiminie,” you reassure, pulling up a stool beside him and giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Of course I’ll stay.”

Later on, after Baby’s made a full recovery and Jimin has given him an extremely gentle scolding, the two of you decide to have a night in. Jimin exhausts the last of his Korean microwave meal supplies, you crack out a couple of old bottles of red wine you’d gotten for Christmas two years ago, and the two of you curl up on the couch in your pyjamas, talking about everything and nothing.

It’s shortly after midnight, once Jimin has long since jiggled the final drops of wine from the second bottle into his waiting mouth, and you’re feeling sleepy from carbs, that you ask him why he likes butterflies so much. For some reason, the thought had never really occurred to you in these past weeks.

“I mean,” you continue, voice loudened by the weak buzz of alcohol, “I get now that butterflies are super cool. But like, what made you even pay attention to them in the first place? It’s such a specific career.”

Jimin, who had significantly more of the wine than you, pats his own red cheeks in thought, smiling absentmindedly to push them out rounder. His eyes glaze over, but with how well he held his liquor, you think the faraway look is due to something else. “It’s silly,” he brushes off, tapping his pinkie fingers on the apples of his cheeks.

“Come on,” you whine, tipping your head to the side and widening your eyes pleadingly. “I bet it is just as cute as everything else about you.” Your brain screeches to a halt. Did you really just say that? Clearing your throat awkwardly, you reach for a half-empty glass of water, maybe his or maybe yours, and take a sip, willing your cheeks and ears to stop burning.

Jimin ducks his head with a flustered giggle, splaying his arms on the table to bury his face between dramatically. “Stop,” you hear him say, able to distinguish a pout in his voice even through the muffling. “It is silly. You’ll laugh at me.”

“I won’t ever laugh at you, Jiminie,” you say honestly, smile dropping. “I promise.”

With a deep sigh, he rises up again, locks of warm golden hair sticking up at odd angles like bedhead. Avoiding your gaze, he puckers his lips shyly, reddened where he’s nibbled at it. “It started back in primary school. My best friend loved butterflies, he wanted to be a lepidopterist even before we knew the word. Always talked about how beautiful they were and if he spent his life looking at beautiful things that he’d be happy forever.”

A thought occurs to you. “The one from that framed photo in your room?” you question.

Jimin looks up so fast he has to blink away the wobble of light-headedness that strikes him. “You’ve seen it?”

“The two little schoolboys, right?” you confirm. Once he nods, you grin, rushing to his room with the added aerodynamic rush that tipsiness gave you. The picture frame is on his little bedside table, and you gently carry it with you back to the lounge, dropping down heavily beside him on the floor instead of your perch on the couch. “So this is you and your friend?”

Jimin takes it with a fond, dopey smile. Both young, chubby kids are tan with crinkled eyes and black tufted hair, their matching uniforms and grins making them look thick as thieves. The shorter one with a perfectly round face made up primarily of his chipmunk cheeks and a button nose, clutches the straps of his backpack proudly. Jimin points at him. “That’s me,” he tells you, a chuckle in his voice, “I’m older than him yet he’s always been bigger than me. Unfair.” With a distant look, a quiet smile, Jimin brushes his thumb over the glass where the other boy stands, the cutest boxy smile revealing a set of pearly whites. “That’s Tae. I owe him everything.”

You look back and forth between him and the aged photograph, muffling a yawn that the late hour has triggered. “Are you guys still friends?”

Jimin sets the frame down, humming an affirmative. “He’s still back home.”

“Is he a lepidopterist too?”

A quick surprised glance to you to acknowledge you finally pronouncing his job title correctly, then he laughs warmly, shaking his head. “He’s an artist, can you believe it? Paints the most gorgeous things. Realistic ones, abstract ones, ones with only two or three colours. Has his own pseudonym and everything.” Jimin sends a grin to you, like an inside joke only you share. “He likes painting butterflies the most, though.”

“Do you miss him?” The moment the words are out of your mouth, you regret them. Jimin sobers up, and the moment is lost.

“Yeah,” he admits morosely. “But less than six weeks until I can go back home and see him again!”

Like instant karma, the realisation that he’ll be leaving shatters your good mood too. “Not long… Anyway, you do your research and go back and give it to your university? How does the thesis work?”

Jimin’s face sours with a bitter scoff. “Gah, it’s so confusing. There are so many stages, and reviews, and deadlines… I was a little late on sending in my first progress report, but it’ll be fine once I get the go-ahead. There’re meant to be every month, but I was a bit behind on typing all my notes up. There’s just so much to say, I don’t know how I can only mention some things and not others.”

You tip your head to the side, feeling the warm buzz of wine slip through your fingers, leaving you feeling heavy. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, tucking his legs so that he can rest his head on his knees. “I don’t know, like… Why should I get to say what’s relevant and what’s not? I write everything down, as much as possible, but for my report I had to try and choose what to cut for the word limit. Why is Kong’s feeding habits more important than Ronnie’s extra red stripe on his right wing? Why should I tell my supervisor that 87% of the female butterflies I’ve studied oviposit an average of two eggs a day but I don’t have room to tell her the joy the whole kaleidoscope had when Sophie finally laid her first eggs after a whole three weeks?” He leans back so that his head tips onto the couch seat, eyes upwards but unseeing, turned down in despair. “I could write a whole book on every single one of them, but all my supervisors want is data and generalisations. They want rules they can put into biology books and quote marks, they don’t really care about the stories. Taehyungie would understand.”

“I understand,” you feel the inexplicable need to say. “You’re such a good person, Jiminie.” Feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion hit you belatedly, you groan, pushing yourself up laboriously from the floor. “Aaand I think it’s time for me to hit the hay. Tonight was fun. Don’t worry about the mess; I’ll clean up tomorrow.”

“Have you forgotten we share this hut with the wildlife now?” Jimin asks with a quirked brow, laughing melodically when you groan again. “Don’t worry, you go to bed. I’ll clean up. Goodnight, Y/n.”

You should feel bad, you should tell him you’ll stay and help, but your bed is positively screaming your name. “Thank you! And for what it’s worth,” you add, “you’re the best leopard optimist I’ve ever met, Park Jimin.”

Though you don’t know it then, the radiant beam you receive is the last smile of his you’ll see for a while.

Seeing Jimin angry for the first time is the original red flag that something's up.

Waking up later than usual, you stretch languidly and pad down the hallway, already thirsty for your routine cup of tea, but Jimin's form hunched over stiffly in the kitchen causes you pause.

"Morning," you chime, but he doesn't even react, lids low and jaw tense as he stares intensely out the window. "I can make you a drink if you'd like?"

"Forget it," he spits, and you flinch. Six weeks together and you'd never heard that venom in his voice before.

"Did...Did something happen, Jiminie? Was it me, or...?"

His chest heaves in a shuddering breath, eyelashes fluttering miserably, before that stern fire returns. "No," he answers shortly. "It's me. It's this fucking thesis."

Your eyes fly wide, and suddenly concern and confusion turn to genuine alarm. Since when did Jimin swear? "The thesis?" You rack your brain, straining to recall your conversation last night. "Oh! The report, right? Did they finally get back to you?"

He lets out what sounds like a sob, lifting a hand to block it, and your heart melts, pulling him in for a hug. You can feel the stuttered way his heart is racing, as well as the way his whole body trembles with contained emotion as you tuck your chin on his shoulder, rubbing his back.

"Tell me," you coo, "tell me what happened. I promise it'll be okay."

"It won't," he assures, and like the shifting of winds, his body stiffens ironlike again, and he detaches you from him, crossing his arms with a hateful scowl. "She fucking rejected it. Told me to start again. Square one."

You're so shocked you don't even acknowledge the hurt of him pushing you away. "Holy shit, what? Can they even do that?"

Jimin scoffs darkly. "It was my fault, anyway. Meddling. Interfering with the research."

"How?" You think on it for a moment with furrowed brows. "Wait, you mean like, letting them in the house?"

"I mean everything, Y/n," he growls, voice growing louder with every word. "Letting them into the house, feeding them, fixing Baby's wing. She even told me off for giving them names, said it 'blurred the lines of scientific neutrality.' Now I have to start my three months of research again, with a different study group, no interfering. Halfway done, and now I'm-" He breaks off with an exhausted sigh. "Whatever. It's done now. At least you get your wish again. No bugs in the house."

You feel your heart sink. "Jiminie, that's not-"

"Please," he cuts you off, determinedly avoiding your gaze. "I messed everything up by meddling. I- I don't want to do it again. Let's just be roommates. Just call me Jimin, please. I'm sorry."

Against your will, tears well up in your eyes, not for yourself but for him. The pain that was written across his face. "I am so sorry," you manage to make out in a thick voice. "I'm sorry that you're stuck here with me and not Taehyung."

Jimin recoils violently, already pushing off the counter and making his way out of the kitchen. "Don't you dare speak to me about Taehyung."

He leaves, and the greater part of you knows he's taken your heart with him, just a broken void inside.

After a week of Jimin focussing fully on his work, you still end each day crying yourself to exhaustion. After two weeks, you notice your pants are a little too loose, and recall you'd forgotten to feed yourself most days. After the first month, you're taken aside by Angelo and told that you'd been receiving worse and worse feedback forms for your group tours. The truth is, seeing the wildlife, particularly the butterflies, makes you feel ill. You tell him you're just feeling under the weather and he suggests you take it easy for a few days. Those 'few days' seem to drag forever, your boss never asking you to come back in, so you wallow in your bedroom like a depressed ghost, wishing you could fade away.

Because it isn't just that Jimin's pushed you away. He's not even avoiding you, quite often curling up on the couch to pore over a textbook or type up notes periodically onto his old, bulky laptop. You see him almost every day, but he never says a word to you, and what really hurts is that he's burning out just like you are.

He's not happy. With sunken bags under his hollow eyes, he moves around in a lifeless mope, complimentary meals at the shared dining hall and kitchen the only thing keeping the plumpness in his cheeks. It tears you up inside to see him so miserable in the job he loves, the hut filled with negative space, emptiness where there should be flitting butterflies in the air and on every surface.

You don't know what he did with them. You'd gone to work that day and returned to find that all evidence of the butterflies having been removed. No Molly settling in your hair, no Kong acting like a tough guy, no sight of sweet little Baby and his slightly wonky wing. All you knew was that now he religiously checked the windows every night and morning to ensure they were closed.

Whether he realised it or not, you missed them too.

"It's been over a month," you say to him awkwardly one night after he comes back from dinner.

He pauses in the entryway, one foot in the air with a hand ready to take off his boot. "Yeah?"

"I just- Um, I was wondering if your one-month report came back okay."

He sighs delicately, and gives you a nod, finishing removing his footwear. "She gave me the go-ahead to continue, if that's what you're asking. Although she wasn't too happy that I needed more funding for another month and a half on-site."

"Don't pay," you blurt without thinking.

"Huh?"

You stammer, collecting your thoughts. "I- I mean, you don't- you don't have to pay. For the room. I can talk to Angelo. I don't mind having you here."

He pauses with socked feet, staring at you strangely, before his eyes clear and he shakes his head. "I don't want to be indebted to you."

You shrug. "It's not a debt to be repaid," you prompt, "it might not even work, I'm just saying I could always ask Angel-"

"And I don't want you to ask," Jimin cuts in, walking with thudded stomps to the kitchen, taking a water bottle from the fridge. "Just leave it alone, okay? It's the university's money anyway. Besides, I've already-" He cuts himself off, taking a swig from the cooled water.

"You've already what?"

He huffs, twisting back on the cap and levelling you a glare that has no energy to it. "I've already asked Angelo if I can change rooms if a hut frees up. So don't bother."

You go silent, shock and hurt swirling noiselessly through your veins.

His face crumples, stricken at your reaction and he gives a sniff before looking up at you one last time, ready to head to his room. "Goodnight."

You don't even spare him a reply, looking back down at the opened page of a book you'd been blankly staring at before he'd come in.

In your peripheral vision, you watch him wait for a moment, before his shoulders sag and he leaves in silence.

You don't realise you're crying until a fat drop lands on the page, blooming as it sinks in.

Willing your heart to let go, to forget, you bury yourself back into your work, taking on as many tours as possible and spending time with the kitchen and cleaning staff otherwise. It works for a long time, welcome distractions that occupy your mind and body, and you almost manage to convince yourself that it all was some distant event in the past, or a strangely realistic dream, that Jimin was just another roommate here for a job.

That progress shatters in a heartbeat when you come home to a familiar butterfly battering itself against the glass of the window beside the front door.

You falter, watching it silently as it repeatedly flies at the glass, dull thuds of impact, flaps of wings as it wriggled over the unyielding surface. "...Baby?"

Like it hears your voice, the butterfly stills, wonky wing slowing to a regular waving as it rests on the windowsill, turning to observe you.

"What are you doing?" you murmur in confusion, even as your heart leaps, the euphoria of meeting an old friend unexpectedly. You'd just about forgotten how naturally it felt to speak to them, but it all came back to you now. "What's going on?"

Baby flies over to you, hovering in front of your eyes before fluttering away, back the way you'd came. Hesitantly, you follow, and this seems to be the right thing to do as Baby continues to take periodical flights forward, checking you're following every single time.

Like a trail of breadcrumbs, Baby leads you to the back of the shared kitchen, to the set of untamed rose bushes that grow beneath the window. Hurriedly, Baby flutters to a leaf quite low to the ground and, checking around for people watching, you hunker down on your knees in the uneven dirt in front of the bush. "Baby, you know not to play here, you could get... Oh god."

These roses are a pale yellow, so it takes you no time to spot the weakly fluttering form lying on its back in the soil. It's been over a month since you've seen her, but you recognise her red patches like she'd never left. "Molly! What are you doing in there you poor thing?"

You feel a tickle on your inner wrist, Baby crawling down into the loose cup of your hand. With rising dread, you begin to piece the puzzle together. Baby, who already had a history of getting caught in the rose bushes, probably went in and got stuck. Molly, who'd always kept Baby near, would've gone in in a heartbeat to get him. But, judging by the way her left wing had a long tear running down towards her body, leaving it in two limp, barely-connected pieces, she'd been the one to hurt herself on the thorns this time.

"M-Molly," you call weakly, heart thudding in your chest in fear, "I'm gonna get you out, okay? Baby, come sit on my shoulder, I need my hands free."

Rather than risking injuring her more than she already was, you dig your fingers into the lush soil, lifting up the section of dirt with her on top, using both hands. Thorns leave red lines across your knuckles and cut nicks in your forearms, but you ignore the pain, focussed on gently extracting Molly safely from the bush, Baby restless on your shoulder, immediately fluttering down to rest on the soil beside his mother.

Rushing home, you knock on the door with your foot, just about cracking the wood - or your toes - in your urgency.

Jimin answers eventually, throwing you a weird look when he first seems the heap of dirt in your hands, before noticing what's on it. "Wha- Baby? Molly? Y/n, I'm not meant to- Oh god, what happened to her?"

You sniff, no hands free to wipe your nose which threatens to run. "Baby was outside when I got home, he led me to her. She got torn up in the rosebush."

He sucks in a breath, leaning closer to inspect her damaged wing. "I- We can't- I can't...meddle," he stammers, eyes shiny with unshed tears.

You furrow your brows in disbelief. "But- Jimin, you aren't even studying the original group anymore, why does it matter?"

He falters, taking a step back into the house, eyes on the doorframe instead of you or the butterflies in your hands. "If I make an exception now, I know I'll just keep doing it, and I can't afford to ruin my research again. Can you just- just take them away, please?"

Your mouth drops open, salt bursting on your tongue as tears slip in from the corners of your lips. "But Jimin, this is Molly!"

He lets out a sob, lips trembling violently as he scrubs the tears from his face and eyes with the back of his hand. "It's just a butterfly," he answers hollowly, voice cracking on the last word.

"You don't believe that," you accuse.

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, thick trails of tears dropping over his cheeks. "Just please go," he begs. Without a further word, he steps back, and the door shuts on you.

With no hands free to wipe your face, you sit on the porch with stinging eyes and snot on your upper lip, staring down at the two butterflies on the soil in your hands miserably.

"I'm so sorry," you make out with a raw voice, sniffing noisily. Baby bats his wings slowly in confusion, staring down at his mother, who grows weaker by the minute. How long had she lain there, unable to move, while Baby tried to get Jimin's attention? How much longer did she have? A new wave of sobs wracks your body, and you let it pull you under, feeling like this heartache is the least you deserve.

Though it takes hours, sun setting and shadows spreading over the grass of the campyard, you stay on that porch, trying to wipe your face on your shoulder so your tears and runny nose don't drip onto your friends. Your friends.

You couldn't save Molly, but you didn't want her or Baby to be alone.

She flutters her good wing for the last time shortly after midnight, judging by how high the moon is in the sky, an omniscient bystander tucked behind cloud.

Baby stays beside his mother for a while. Ten minutes, two hours, you don't know. Eventually, he crawls slowly over the dirt and onto your arm, like he doesn't have the energy to fly. With the lightest tickle of steps up your arm, he finally tucks himself in the hollow of your collarbone, a flutter of misery and solace. Your tears are silent now, but they never stop.

After an eternity, the door clicks open quietly. It's Jimin.

He stays quiet for a moment, eyes on you though you don't turn to look at him. "Is she gone?" he asks finally. You nod emotionlessly. "I'm sorry," he whispers into the pre-dawn air.

You swallow down the lump in your throat. "You lost the one you should've said sorry too hours ago."

He goes quiet at this. You almost expect him to turn around and go back inside with how long he goes without saying anything, but eventually he speaks up again. "I want to do something. I- It's too late now, but... I think the least I can do is give her a...proper burial."

You've been thinking about this yourself, for some time. Baby gives a curious flap of his wings. You sniff, tears finally drying up for now. "I know a place," you answer.

You walk in silence, leading the way.

At one point, Baby leaves your shoulder, flying back. You hear a solemn, "hey, buddy," followed by muffled sniffs and shaky breaths that sound like he's begun to cry. Wanting to give him some privacy, you don't turn around to check.

By the time you make it to the butterfly meadow, sun has broken over the horizon. Hot on your back, it casts long, thin shadows on the grass as you approach. "We're here," you say redundantly.

"I guess I'll- I'll dig a hole somewhere," he murmurs back, overtaking you.

Though he's grieving, you're surprised at his lack of reaction, until he steps in front of you and wipes his eyes clear of tears, hands slick with how much he's been crying. He could probably barely see to follow you. The moment he lowers his arm and looks up for a spot, he gasps quietly, eyes widening in awe.

A couple of days of rain recently had done the meadow well, and it's lush beneath your feet, a vibrant green that glints silver in the sunlight with morning dew. Sprinkled around are uncountable species of flowers, some recognisable like daisy patches and dandelions, the more colourful ones along the outskirts of the trees unfamiliar yet just as magical, pastel pinks and deep reds, pure whites and royal purples. But what's no doubt caught Jimin's eye, what he spins slowly around and strains his neck to see, are the darting kaleidoscopes of colour in the sky, at least a hundred butterflies all flitting around and basking in the unbroken sunlight.

"It's beautiful," Jimin breathes, "this is perfect, Y/n." He takes a deep breath, open mouth and lifted brows, trying to fight any further tears. There's a different glint in his eyes now. Not quite happiness, or content. Solace. Relief.

He picks a spot closer to the murky river, where the soil is damper and easier to lift. Once done, he helps you lay the heap of dirt, and Molly with it, into the shallow hole. Brushing off the dirt from your hands, you sit back on your knees, observing the way Jimin hesitates over the small pile of excavated soil beside the hole.

His hand hovers for a moment before he falters, looking up at you. Nestled in the honey blonde hair above his eyebrow is Baby, wings still. Like a cut directly into your heart, the thought strikes you that it's where Molly used to sit. "Should we...say something?" he asks tentatively.

Your heart melts. "I think that would be nice."

He swallows, nodding with distant eyes. "Um... Molly, you were the first butterfly that trusted me. Because of your friendliness, your family and friends grew to trust me too, and I'm so grateful that- I'm so-" Jimin's face crumples, and he buries it in his hands, voice muffled. "I'm so sorry that I betrayed your trust," he sobs, "I failed you and I failed Baby and I'm so so sorry."

Chest aching at the way Jimin looks so small curled up there in front of Molly's grave, you find yourself speaking too, to him just as much as Baby and Molly. "Molly, we were so lucky to know you. You brought light into both of our lives. I was truly happy in every moment spent with you, and now I know that you're in a better place, that you'll have eternal happiness. We'll try and keep positive and keep bright to honour you." Your eyes slip from Molly to the broken boy beside you. "And we'll take care of Baby for you. You did well, mama."

Jimin lets out a shaking sigh and nods, lifting his face up again. Even with red eyes and a running nose, he's beautiful. You take a breath and force yourself not to think about that now.

Silently, he fills in the dirt over Molly, covering her and leaving a patted-down patch of naked soil. There's a finality to it that leaves you short of breath, and the two of you sit wordlessly for a while, just watching the butterflies above flit around the sky, a gentle breeze flowing over your skin.

Once he's finished his quiet reflection, Jimin clears his throat, shifting so that his body faces you, although his gaze is still outward. "I'm not cut out for this," he says simply.

"The funeral?"

"No, I mean- everything. The thesis, the research. Scientific neutrality. I can't do it. It's too cruel."

You take the time to process this. "...What are you saying, Jimin?"

"Could you-" he starts in a strangled voice. His head ducks to look firmly at the ground, so all you can see is his mussed golden locks. "Could you go back to the way you said it before?"

"Huh?"

He fiddles with a blade of grass. "Jiminie," he whispers, and you hate the way your heart pangs when you hear it.

"Jiminie," you obey, "you don't mean you're going to give it up, right? Your thesis?"

He shrugs, head lifting reluctantly. "I can't do this for another two more months," he explains, "and I'm scared of what will happen when I have to- to leave."

You nod slowly. "Do you have to, though? Leave?"

Jimin nods, absentmindedly running a hand through his hair and letting out a wet chuckle when Baby, startled by the sudden shifting, flits over to you and rests petulantly on the crown of your head. He quickly sobers up, though. "Yeah. I have to go back, edit it, submit it, then defend it at my university. How am I meant to defend something I hate?"

"Could you..." You pause, catching up with your thoughts. "Could you change your thesis?"

Jimin lets out a sigh, plump lips turned down morosely. "And start from scratch again? Technically I could, sure, but I can't get past the scientific neutrality thing, Y/n."

An idea begins to bubble in the back of your mind, making you sit upright. "What if you didn't have to do either of those things?"

"What?"

"When you were taking care of the butterflies in the house, they were living longer, right? Because they were being fed and kept safe and given medical care." He shrugs, and you take it as an affirmative. "Then why couldn't you change your thesis to compare the longwing erato on its own versus it with your intervention? Your whole angle could be on like, conservation through human aid."

"I'd still have to start ove- Wait! This first month could serve as the 'before', and I can spend the next two months taking care of them to show the 'after.'" A smile stretches across his face, something you haven't seen in over a month, and it's positively healing. "Y/n, you're a genius! I would have to check with my supervisor, but... This could really work! And I wouldn't have to leave them alone anymore..."

Jimin's eyes dart to Baby, who's still comfy in your hair, then a change happens on his face, a realisation. "Y/n..." With bated breath, you lock your eyes with his, melting into the deep brown. "This- this whole situation has taught me something. That I'd rather make connections and prioritise feelings, even at the cost of what I'm supposed to do. I've lost someone very dear to me today, but the reality is, I lost her the moment I cleared all the butterflies out of the hut. And god, Y/n, I don't think I can bear to lose you too."

Your eyes widen, taken aback by the earnestness of his voice and the vulnerability in his face. "Jiminie..."

His eyes soften visibly at the way you call his name, his upper half leaning closer towards you, so that your faces are less than half a metre apart. Too far to touch, but close enough that you can make out every detail on his face, the way his eyebrows knit together and lift, the dark pink in your peripheral where he run his teeth over his bottom lip. "I've been so scared. So scared of the day I would have to leave you, that I'd tried to act like I didn't care, but I can't do it. If I have another two months here, I want to spend them at your side, not just under the same roof. I just... I have two questions. Firstly; what was it you said on the lookout tower that day? The Spanish sentence, I mean."

Feeling overwhelmed, your lips stretch into a fond smile when you recall it. "Cada vez que yo te veo y que te pienso, siento que florezco."

"That's it," he nods, "what does it mean?"

Somehow it feels less romantic in Korean, and you blush, having to fight to keep your eyes on him. "Every time I look at you or think about you I feel like I'm blooming."

A shy smile of wonder lights up his face. "You- even then, you liked me? I thought I was the only one then."

"You liked me too?" He nods sheepishly. "Since when?"

"The first time."

You give a confused head shake. "The first time what?"

"The first time I saw you," he reveals in a delicate voice.

Speechless, you just stare at him in shock for a moment, unsure how to respond. Finally, you clear your throat. "Wh-what's the second question?"

His voice drops to a lower register, honey like his hair. "Can I kiss you?"

Your breath catches. Instead of answering, you lean forward to close the distance, cupping his cheeks to guide his mouth to yours. Those lips, the ones you had spent hours fantasising about, felt like heaven against you, soft and warm and plush. Jimin goes still in surprise for a brief moment before he melts, the lightest vibration of a whimper tingling your lips. Belatedly, his hands lift to steady your hips and you sigh, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.

You can feel his round cheeks warming beneath your fingers, his nose pressing against the apple of your cheekbone, and a tickle on your scalp where Baby flutters. But beyond that, beyond the silk of his lips and the beautiful gasps he lets out, there's a rising wave of euphoria inside you, and you can't help but smile into the kiss, overjoyed.

Not breaking for a second, you shuffle forward, slipping one hand into his hair, which is softer than cotton, longer than it was when you came without a hairdresser nearby to tidy it up. Winding locks around your fingers, you tug lightly from the nape of his neck to tip his head a little further back.

Jimin whines, one hand flying up to grip onto your wrist and you pull back in concern. He follows your lips, eyes staying lidded as he sucks in breaths through his mouth.

"Are you-" you stutter, "was that too much? I'm sorry."

He blinks at last and gives you a bleary look, sucking his swollen bottom lip into his mouth. "It's okay, it's just- Maybe not the right time and place."

You sit back, head clearing. "Right, yeah, that's fair."

Jimin's eyes drop to the ground with a coy, but still shy smile. "I would very much like to do that again. Preferably a lot."

You go to laugh, but grimace when you feel the dried tears on your cheeks. Yeah, definitely not the. right time or place. "Let's go home," you say softly, standing up off the ground. "I don't know about you, but I think it's about time we opened up our windows again. So Baby and the others can come back home too."

Jimin beams up and you and nods. "Let's go home," he echoes simply.

"Morning, Jiminie," you coo, tilting your head up onto the back of the couch so he can press a soft kiss on your forehead.

"Good morning, baby," he returns, smiling against your skin before straightening up again. "Not going out on the porch today?"

You let out a dry two-beat laugh. Outside, the campground is basically a mudslide, tropical rain beating down, pattering on the roof noisily. "Did you shut the windows?"

He collapses onto the couch beside you with a sigh, arms already winding around your middle to snuggle in close. "...almost all the way, yes." At your look of reproach, Jimin elaborates. "And I put towels on the floor under the window sills."

Unable to stay mad at him, especially not when he throws a leg over your lap and tucks in like a koala, you laugh begrudgingly. "I guess that's the best I'm gonna get, huh? Lazy day today? All my tours have been cancelled and I can't imagine you'll get much done out there either."

With a hum of agreement, Jimin lifts his head, resting it on your shoulder to look up at you. "That means it's just the two of us," he states coyly.

"Mm, and about thirty flying bugs. Romantic."

Jimin's brows tug down sharply as he glares at you, though without any real malice. "They are too romantic, and you know they aren't technically bugs. I put some sugar water on my desk for them, we can just ignore them."

You pretend to ponder for a moment, his face so close you have to pull back to fully see it. "Fine, but to be clear the butterflies stay out during sex."

He sits up, an unreadable expression dulling his eyes.

In response, you widen yours. "Wait... You don't seriously want the butterflies around while we're having sex, right? Is that some kind of lepidopterist thing? Because if so, I am not-"

"It's not that," he blurts hastily, "it's just..."

You let all playful humour drop from your voice, leaving only concern. "Whatever it is, you can tell me, Jiminie. I didn't mean to upset you."

He slips his arms back from around your torso. Before you can mourn the loss of his body heat, he latches onto your arm and cuddles into your side, covering his face with your shoulder. You can feel just how hot his cheeks are, and reach out with your other hand to tenderly card your fingers through his hair, hoping to calm him down.

"You'll laugh at me," he mumbles, lips moving against your bare skin. You tut softly, assuring him otherwise, but still it takes him a few moments to work up the courage. "I haven't...done it before."

"That's it?" you question softly. Jimin just lets out a miserable whine. "Jiminie, that's no biggie. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pressure you or anything. We can just take things slow."

He sits himself up a little, then, propping his cheek on your shoulder to look you in the eye. You suppress the twitch of your lip as you see the way it pushes his plush lips out and crinkles his eye with the displacement of the flesh of his cheek. "I want to though," he protests in a pout. "Because I like kissing so much, and I like you so much. I'm just...I don't know if I'm ready yet."

You hum in thought, cupping his free cheek fondly. "Is there a reason you haven't had sex before, or has the opportunity just never really come up?"

He shrugs cutely, leaning into your touch. "Well...Taehyungie-" He breaks off, fixing you with an imploring look. "You can't tell him I told you this."

Your lips stretch into a grin at the thought that he's expecting the two of you to meet one day. "I promise I won't."

With a resounding nod, Jimin continues. "Well, Taehyungie and I have always lived together since we moved out for university. He was always more confident than me, and so he- he slept with a bunch of people. Which is like, good for him, you know, I'm not judging at all, but... I don't know, from what he told me and what I...heard, it just sounded really aggressive and, um, intense. I don't think I can be like that. I don't know if it's really my thing. So I- I just never really did it."

You furrow your brows, processing his words. "Jiminie, sex doesn't have to be like that. Some people like it like that, others don't. It can be as gentle as you want, you know that, right?"

With a whine, he pulls away from you and buries his face in his hands. "God, this is so embarrassing," he moans miserably, "I'm sorry, I'm such a wuss."

"No, stop that," you chastise, softly linking your hands around his delicate wrists and pulling them away from his face, gazing into his puppy brown eyes intensely. "I'm serious, Jiminie, there's nothing wrong with not wanting that. Besides, we... stop me if this is too far, but we don't have to go all the way."

He blinks, lips moving silently before he collects his thoughts. "Do you- what do you mean?"

"Well, instead of going straight to sex, we could do other stuff instead. I could go down on you, if you want. Baby steps, you know? We don't have to rush."

His hands fall down the length of your arm, dropping to your free hand where he fiddles unconsciously with your fingers. "Baby steps?" he echoes.

You beam and nod. "Yeah. But only if you want to, only if you're ready." You carefully detach yourself from him, standing up off the couch. "Just think about it, and when you've made a decision you can-" You cut yourself off when your arm is tugged back by two small hands. "Jiminie?"

"I want it," he confesses decidedly, "I'm ready." His eyes turn soft, and the pressure of his fingers wrapped around your wrist and hand weaken. "Just gentle?"

Your heart melts in an instant and you can't help but stare down at him in wonder. "How are you so perfect?" you breathe, bending down to press a single kiss across his lips. "I'll be gentle, I promise." You go to leave again, but his grip doesn't falter, keeping you rooted. Bottom lip sticking out, Jimin looks up at you with rounded eyes. "Right now?" you ask in surprise. He nods, stutteringly. "Here?"

This causes him to pause. "Maybe...the bed?"

"Whose bed?"

More deliberation. "Y-your bed."

"My bed it is." You lead him, connected by the hands that still latch onto your arm. Your room, unfortunately, is a bit messy, not having expected the turn of events, and you hastily pull up the duvet and pat out the wrinkles, gesturing awkwardly for him to lie down.

Doing so, he hops up and wriggles so that his head is on the pillows, staring directly at the ceiling with startled eyes like a patient in a doctor's office. It would make you laugh if you weren't so worried about him feeling comfortable. "Jiminie," you coo softly, "if you aren't comfortable-"

"Maybe some kissing first," he blurts suddenly, lifting his head off the pillow to look at you, eyes rounded and pleading.

You beam, lying down on your side next to him. "I can't say no to that."

A smile stretches across his lips, which you soon cover with your own, leaning down to press a light kiss against them. He sighs, already relaxing further as his eyes flutter shut, sinking into the pillows.

Fingers splayed across his jaw, you litter countless pecks on his mouth, never more than a brush of pressure, until the bed shakes a little with him kicking out his feet. You pull back, replacing your smile with a look of innocence. "Is that too much, Jiminie?"

He pouts, snaking the arm closest to you around your torso so that you can slip closer. "Don't tease me," he whines, lip and brow crumpling to obtain your sympathy, but avoiding your gaze with red cheeks. "I jus' want you to take care of me."

"Of course I will, Jiminie, I'm sorry," you say with a rueful smile. "But do tell me if it gets too much, okay? I want you to be happy."

He nods, pushing his head back onto the pillow, slightly on an angle to face you. "I will, I promise." His fingers find yours, tentatively intertwining your hands together, eyes low. "Can you kiss me again?"

You answer not with words but with a kiss, a proper one this time, lips pressing intently but still tenderly against his. A relieved sigh leaves his mouth, but it's swallowed up between you, Jimin tightening his arm around you so that your bodies fall flush against each other, one of your legs between his. With closed eyes, the feeling of him against you is even more magical; all plush lips, desperately grasping fingers and trembling body.

Even without a hand free to touch his face - one hand holding his and the other propping you up - you can feel the warmth of his cheeks, an overwhelmed blush that he can't seem to control, and the way he's responding to you triggers a heat inside you too. You deepen the kiss, parting your lips enough to let your tongue run down the seam of his mouth, Jimin letting out a surprised gasp that grants you entry. Though it had been just over three weeks since you'd first kissed him, it had always stayed very light, you waiting for him to make a move. Now, though, you realise that he's probably been waiting for you this whole time.

"'s this okay?" you check in, murmured against his lips.

Jimin shakily takes a breath, nodding in tiny jerks so as not to break the contact. "Ye- keep going," he pleads in a whisper.

Every time your tongue meets his, or swipes over the inner, more sensitive skin of his lips, he gasps, fingers flexing around yours. When adjusting your position, your leg brushes against his crotch and he shudders. He's hard.

Carefully monitoring his reaction even as you continue to move your mouth sweetly against his, you shift your leg again, brushing against the front of his shorts, fabric taut over the crotch. A throaty, keening whine leaves his lips, his mouth going slack. When he speaks, the tiniest puff of air is all that comes out, but you hear him still. "Please."

You let your hand go slack, pulling it down, but Jimin holds on tighter, refusing to let go. With him unable to kiss you back, you press your lips to his cheek, down to his jawline, the sensitive skin just below his ear.

He wriggles beneath you, already overwhelmed with just that simple touch, but also tugs your entwined hands lower between his legs, shifting his hips with a needy whimper.

"You need to let go, Jiminie," you instruct softly, "let go of my hand so I can touch you."

Reluctantly, his fingers untangle from yours, instead gripping onto a handful of your duvet. You take this as a green light to go ahead, and fiddle with the button of his shorts, gently flicking your tongue and sucking gently at the soft point where his jaw meets his neck, a sign of what's to come.

Once you manage to undo his shorts you instruct him to take them off, sitting back to watch him restlessly shuffle out of them, legs lifting so he can grab the fabric while still lying down, folding them and placing them to his other side, close to the wall. After lying flat again, Jimin blinks owlishly at you, hand covering his crotch. You move it aside gently, back to the duvet, and he buries his flaming cheeks into the crook of your shoulder, toes wiggling in embarrassment.

He wears simple white cotton briefs, a narrow trail of near-translucent hair peeking out from above the waistband, legs twisting together self-consciously, though it only makes his straining erection more obvious. "You're gorgeous, Jiminie," you say honestly, "so perfect."

His legs go lax, though they don't shift apart, ankles crossed, though that's okay for now. Not wanting to spook him, you start slow, cupping him over his underwear, thumb locating his sensitive head easily due to the coin-sized wet patch of the fabric above it. His thighs tremble even at the light stimulation, and he shakily lifts his head, pouting and straining for another kiss.

Continuing your slow, shallow circles of your thumb over him to ease him into it, you capture his lips again, shifting the arm propping you up on the pillow so that your hand can cup his head, massaging his scalp and keeping him in place.

"Does it feel good, Jiminie?" you question when you part from him to take a breath.

His eyes stay shut, cherubic lashes fluttering as he sucks his swollen bottom lip into his mouth. "Feels really good," he confirms in a husky yet melodic voice. "Can I have some more?"

"Of course you can, my sweet prince," you allow warmly. Shifting your hand away from his crotch, you smooth your palm over his hipbone, and then up under his t-shirt to brush up his side, making him shiver. "Do you wanna take your shirt off too, or just your underwear?"

His mouth turns down slightly at being made to make a decision, as he blinks his eyes open blearily. "But you still have all your clothes on," he protests faintly.

"I can take my clothes off if it makes you feel comfortable," you offer easily, "it's up to you."

Jimin purses his lips to the side in thought. "Maybe...we both take our shirts off? I- I wanna see you too."

Clearly he hadn't thought it through too much, because his mouth drops open in upset shock when you detangle yourself from him to sit up, shucking your shirt off and helping him to lift off his.

"Am I keeping my shorts on?" you question, but he just shrugs cutely, looking up at you from below his lashes. You smile. "I'll leave them on then, this is about you. Jiminie, can I take your underwear off now?"

With a deep breath, he nods nervously, letting you slide them over his hips and down off his legs, leaving him bare to you. You can see the way his fingers tighten on the duvet, probably with the urge to cover himself again, but you're glad he doesn't

Resting back against his stomach, his cock drips clear fluid onto the tan skin, a glossy patch that you long to run your finger through. You're surprised at just how hard he is, the head a deeply flushed pink and a single vein running up the underside. He's thicker than most you've seen, if a little shorter, and there's a delicate curve to him that makes you long to have him inside you. Not today, though. For now, you simply lie back down beside him, bringing him into a kiss meant to distract.

Rather than going straight towards his dick, though it's probably aching for attention, you instead return your hand to his side, smoothing broad strokes over his overheating skin as your tongue and lips move against his slightly-parted mouth.

Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and very lightly grazing your teeth, you simultaneously thumb at one of his dusky pink nipples, pulling a stuttered moan from his open mouth.

"I wan' you to touch me," Jimin makes out through gasped breaths, chest writhing as you continue to play with his sensitive peak.

"I am touching you," you retort simply.

"Down there!"

Unable to deny riling up the responsive boy, you let the tips of your fingers run down the centre of his chest, right to the bottom of his torso, before skating to the side and skimming down his trembling thigh, gripping the muscled flesh. "Here?" Jimin whines out a no, and you raise your hand higher, pointer finger pressing at his hip bone. "Here?"

Breaking away from your mouth, Jimin wriggles his head in a shake, calling your name unhappily.

Taking mercy, you suddenly reach over and wrap your fingers around his shaft, thumb pressing down on his weeping slit. "Here?"

His back arches and he sucks in a moan, hand reaching over to grip your wrist as his eyes clench tightly shut. "Y-yes," he cries helplessly, curling sideways towards you, head shifting so that his fevered cheek presses against your other hand on the pillow.

"That's it," you coo, stroking up to collect some of the pooling wetness to use as lubricant, heart swelling at the beautiful sounds falling from his parted lips. "I'll take care of you, yeah?"

He nods his head shakily, already seeming so far gone after less than a minute, panting, writhing as you tighten your grip around him just enough to provide more pleasure. "Take care of Minnie," Jimin chants mindlessly, rocking his hips into your grip.

With a fond smile, you sit up, taking your hand off him so you can lower yourself between his legs, parting them with both hands even as he kicks them out in frustration. "Just be patient," you chastise, "I said I'd go down on you, didn't I?"

His breath catches and eyes open wide, marveling at the sight of you lying between his legs. "O-okay," he stammers, swallowing hard. "It'll feel good too?"

"It'll feel even better," you promise, gripping him gently, "just tell me if it's too much."

With bated breath and blown pupils, Jimin waits as you teasingly press kisses up his length, following the raised outline of the vein.

It seems like he's calmed down enough, so you lick a bold stripe up the path you'd set, Jimin's moaned sigh like music to your ears. His thighs are tensed up on your shoulders, and you can see the way his lower abdomen flexes, muscles shifting beneath golden skin.

"Relax, Minnie," you say, "you're okay." He does his best to let his muscles go lax, throwing an arm over his eyes, and you take the chance to put your tongue on him again, this time slowly dipping it into the slit at his tip where precum pools, a burst of tanginess that you can't say you mind. His mouth dangles loosely open, lips a dark pink like his tip with all the blood that's rushed to it. He's beautiful.

"Alright?" you check in, and he gives a shallow nod, tilting his hips up in the search for more stimulation. You continue simply laving your tongue over him for a few moments, getting him used to it, before angling him over your mouth and wrapping your lips around his head, sucking lightly.

With a strangled moan, his legs close like clams on either side of you, back arching clean off the bed. His fingers fisted taut in the duvet, he rocks his upper half side-to-side, other hand clutching at the corner of the pillow. Shocked, you lift yourself off of him, concerned it was too much, but this gets even more of a reaction, a high, needy keen ripping out of his throat as his hips jerk up, hiccuping out a, "ple-ease."

"Oh, Minnie," you coo softly, "did you like it? I didn't want to overwhelm you."

When his arm lowers from across his face, it reveals begging eyes bright with tears. "'S good," he whines, bottom lip trembling, "just got a fright."

Your lips stretch into a disbelieving smile. "A fright? Why; because I sucked?"

One of his hands stretches wide, fingers making grabby motions. You use the hand not currently on his dick to hold onto it and bring it to your mouth, pressing an apologetic kiss to the back of his hand.

Jimin swallows and shakes his head. "C-cause it was so w-warm." The way he hiccups through his words, out of his mind with need and still so sweet, has you melting. "You can do it again, though. I want it."

Acquiescing, still with a comforting grip on his hand, you lower your mouth again, this time going deeper so that the flat of your tongue drags against his underside. His fingers tense around yours, but his legs go lax, instead beginning to rock his hips in place, like his body doesn't know what to do with the pleasure.

The weight of him on your tongue is enough to have you drooling, making the slide even easier as you bob slowly, sucking steadily. On every upstroke, your tongue catches and flicks at the underside of his head, and he jerks each time, breath catching and exhaling in stuttered moans.

He sounds so beautiful above you that you feel your own core heating in need, clenching your thighs with the urge for stimulation. But this is about him, so you push the thought aside and pull up off Jimin's cock so you can focus your attention at his head, which so far seems far more sensitive than the shaft.

It only takes a few deft laps and shallow bobs before his whimpering and squirming beneath you, unable to stay still. His eyes have long since clenched shut, brows knitting with a wide open mouth as he's overcome with pleasure.

You use the hand that holds him steady to jerk off what's not in your mouth, and a low, guttural moan falls out of his mouth, tapering up into a squeak as he suddenly gets harder and spurts into your mouth, convulsing as you lap up all the cum that spills from his tip, swallowing as you go. It's more than you'd usually expect from oral, and you imagine that's a pairing of it being his first time, as well as the fact that he didn't see the type to masturbate often.

He curls up in on himself when the pleasure turns to sharp overstimulation, and you release him, his spent cock lying against his thigh, and you give him a few moments of rest to come down, holding tightly onto his hand and rubbing comfortingly at the outer side of his leg with the other, feeling how strongly he shivers beneath you.

Once he finally calms down, taking deeper breaths, you swing your legs over the bed and stand up, patting the back of his hand as an indication to let go. "You can use my bathroom if you want, Jiminie. Or just take a nap here. I should give you some time."

"Wait," Jimin protests in a low pout, laboriously propping himself up to a sitting position. "Kisses?"

You beam, leaning down to press a fond kiss across his silken lips. "Happy?"

Jimin nods with a blissed-out smile, and you swallow a chuckle at his ruffled honey locks and flushed cheeks. "So happy."

"I'm glad to hear it, my sweet prince," you coo, "but if you want more kisses, I better go brush my teeth."

The second report comes and goes, approved. More and more days are met with rain as the seasons change, and gradually Jimin becomes more comfortable with you, the two of you making the choice one day to push your two beds together after Jimin had rolled out of your bed one too many times from falling asleep cuddling. He promises he'll come to you when he's ready to take the next step, but as your final month counts down, a dark cloud begins to hover over the two of you. The fact that he'll have to go home soon. Too soon.

You hate that you've got a mental countdown blaring in your mind, but speaking to Jimin about it makes it real, and so you promise yourself later, always later that you'll bring it up, letting yourself make him tea and breathe his scent and feel his lips on yours in ignorant bliss just a bit more.

That works until you don't have any laters left. That works until you sit on his bed with a cup of lukewarm tea, watching him pack his bags. "Are you looking forward to going back?" you ask in a small voice.

Jimin, looking like a vision even in a ratty pink t-shirt and plain shorts, pauses with an armful of textbooks. "I'm... I'm excited to see Tae again," he answers with a nostalgic smile. "We've been chatting online a bunch lately. He's going to pick me up from the airport."

You have to bite down hard on your lip to prevent the sting of tears. "Does he know? About us?"

With indecision clear on his face, Jimin runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the strands that always seem to fall on his face, long overdue for a haircut. "I- To be honest, I don't really know what to say. I don't even know what to say to you."

"About what?"

"About us," he emphasises, dropping his textbooks with a thud on the floor and sitting on top of his first filled suitcase. "We never really had a conversation about it, you know? I know we should've, but... I don't really know where we go from here."

You nod, staring into the murky depths of your now-unappetising tea. "Well... We know you have to go back to Korea. To argue your thesis."

"Defend my thesis," he corrects softly, "but yes. Other than that, though, I still need to go over it with my supervisor, there are a few rounds of editing and finalising. It- it's not like a week back to finish off. I'll be there for a while. Probably a couple months at minimum."

"Minimum? I guess you'll stay there."

Jimin rests his elbows on his knees, head ducked and propped up in his hands. "I- I know what I want to do, but I'm scared to ask the question."

You frown. "The question?"

He looks up, takes a deep breath. "If I... If I wanted to come back, would you wait for me?"

"Come back?" you repeat, barely breathing.

Jimin's eyes glint; he's trying not to cry. "I didn't wanna speak too soon, but the more I think about it, I don't think I can just leave and never come back. I'm in love with you, Y/n. For a long time, now."

Your nose prickles violently, and you let out a shaky breath. "I love you too, Jiminie, so much. Of course I'll wait. As long as you promise you will come back to me."

Jimin nods, brushing back his hair again. "I've been thinking about that too."

You furrow your brows, putting the mug of tea onto his nightstand. "Coming back?"

"A promise," he clarifies. "To show that you're the one for me. That I wanna be with you." He takes a breath to steady himself. "I want to do it tonight, before I go. Have sex."

You sit upright, eyes widening. "Are you sure? Jimin, that's a big deal."

"Like I said, I've been thinking about it. I'm ready, and there's nobody I'd rather do it with than you. I trust you, and... and I love you."

"I love you too," you reply softly, and it feels even more right to say the second time, an unfurling of pure joy in your heart.

"Can we do it now?" he asks immediately, brows lifting to emphasise his pleading puppy eyes.

"Jiminie, you haven't even finished packing-"

"That doesn't matter," he interjects, "I can do that tomorrow morning, the shuttle comes at 10. I need you now, Y/n." He stands up only to crouch at the bedside beside you, grasping your hands. "Take care of Minnie again."

Your breath leaves your lungs in one defeated sigh. Like always, you can't say no to him, not that you even want to. "Okay, Minnie. Let's go to my room."

Though you've gone down on him a few times after his first, Jimin hadn't stopped being so sensitive, and so as you lazily make out (Jimin a little more rushed than you), you let your hand dip underneath his shirt, flicking at a nipple with a thumb you'd wet in your mouth moments earlier. Like clockwork, he trembles under your ministrations, this time hunched on top of you, straddling your lap and bending to meet your mouth.

He's gotten far more confident at kissing, and you're in heaven as he holds your face in both hands, licking into your mouth but whimpering from your touch all the while.

With his legs on either side of your hips, you can feel his hardness pressing down on you, already so eager, and you can't help but sigh blissfully when he rocks his hips unconsciously.

"Minnie," you make out between kisses, "too many clothes."

He tries valiantly to remove his shirt while remaining firmly joined at the lips, huffing when he has to sit up to pull it off. You quickly follow suit, but take the added step of removing your bra.

The first time he's seen your breasts, Jimin's mouth drops open, a look of awe glimmering in his eyes. You arch your back, wanting nothing more than for those sinful lips to wrap around your stiff peaks.

"You're so beautiful, my love," he gushes in wonder.

"You can touch," you whisper, though really it's code for please touch.

Chest heaving, he cups your breasts with gentle hands, thumbs skimming over the sensitive nipples like you'd done to him. The electricity of his slightly calloused fingertips on your skin is sent right to your core, and you let out a shaky breath, his hands rising and falling with it.

"Good?" he questions softly, and you nod, sighing out your confirmation. Jimin blinks down at you, wetting his lips. "Can I...?"

Without a second's hesitation, you nod, hoping he means what you think he means. You're proven right when he ducks his head, hot mouth latching onto your right nipple. The contact sends a bolt of arousal through you and you whimper as he immediately begins to suck, hard.

"Jimin," you make out in a strangled voice, taken aback by his sudden vigor. "Oh, god, it's so go-"

"Minnie," he interrupts, bringing his face up to your neck without lifting his mouth so that he leaves a wet trail ran behind him, "it's Minnie."

You laugh breathily, but your grin drops away to a shocked moan as he hungrily laps at your skin, sucking lovebites over your pulse point in a way that has you arching your neck, desperate for more. "Fuck, Minnie, where did this come from?"

"Wanna make you feel good," you hear in a muffled sigh, feeling the vibration on your skin. With a boldness you hadn't associated with him before, Jimin reaches between you and rolls your other nipple between his fingers, grasping at the flesh and tugging roughly.

Though it feels better than you'd like to admit, something's wrong, and you pull him away. "Wait, wait," you ease, struggling to detach both his hand and mouth from you. Once he realises you want him off you, he sits up with the confused look of a kicked puppy. "Do you not like it?"

His hands hang limply at his sides, and you interlock your fingers to reassure him. "Minnie, how come you're acting like this? You've never been this way before."

He blinks, a dimpled line between his brows where he furrows them. "Because we're having sex," he answers in an uncertain tone, "and I wanted to make you feel good. Is it not right?"

Belatedly, you recall a conversation you'd had about a month ago, about his friend's sexual habits. Poor Jimin really had internalised one man's preferences as the rule of thumb and taken it to heart. "Minnie," you say in a soft voice, and his face crumples, sending a spike of pain through your heart. "It's not wrong, it's just not...us, is it? Don't you want it to be gentle?"

Jimin sniffs, turning his head to the side, but not before you glance a tear tracking down his cheek. "I- Yeah, I like gentle. But Taehyungie-"

"Was Taehyung in love with the people he was having sex with?" you cut in to ask. "I don't want you to fuck me, Minnie, I want you to make love to me."

Sat on your lap, he looks so small, sniffling away. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," you coo, "don't think about how anyone else does it. Let's just do what feels good for us. You wanna do that?"

Jimin nods with a rueful pout, quietly leaning down so that he was lying on your bare chest, face tucked into the crook of your neck.

"Oh, sweetie," you murmur into the waves of his honey-blonde hair, a hand coming down to rub over his back. "We'll have all the time in the world when you get back to try new things if you want. I just want to make this one special for you, yeah? What do you wanna do, Minnie? Do you want to be on top or do you want to lie down?"

He shifts, relaxing within your embrace. When he speaks, you have to strain to hear it. "I- I thought maybe both of us lying down. Under the covers so it's comfy." He lifts his head back to meet your eyes. "Can we still face each other?"

You brush back his hair with a fond smile, nodding. "Of course. Do you wanna finish getting undressed and we can both get under the covers, hm?"

Your duvet is the thinnest possible one you could find, but even so, it feels like a furnace when the two of you curl up, lying on your sides to face each other.

Jimin seems considerably more calm and content with his setup, giggling as you plant kisses all over his face.

"Happy?" you ask, just to be sure, and Jimin nods decisively, eyes bright no longer with tears but with warmth and love. "Ready?"

He nods again, humming in confirmation, so you run a hand over his shoulder, down his side and dipping over his crotch to take a hold of him, being able to better see his pleasured expressions as you stroke him to full hardness.

Having his face so close, though, is too much of a temptation, and so you lean forward to capture his lips again, deeper this time, hooking a leg over his hips.

One of his hands comes to rest on your hip, and he sighs beautifully into your mouth. "So happy," he mumbles, and your heart leaps as his lips form the words.

Reaching between your spread legs to gather some wetness - which is more abundant than you were expecting, though you've been aching for stimulation down there for a while - you use it to slick Jimin's cock up, preparing him for an easier entry.

His breathing stutters with a hitched moan, already starting to shiver. You smile at his responsiveness, before focussing on lining him up, head dipping just slightly into you.

You can tell the exact moment Jimin realises he's inside you by the way he goes stock still, holding his breath in anticipation. "Still okay?" you confirm, and he mumbles the affirmative.

Unable to keep kissing as you push your hips down on him, you simply pant into his mouth, moaning as he fills you out.

The elegant upwards curve of his cock means that it presses along your top wall, making your thighs jerk when his tip hits your g-spot. "You're so good inside me, Minnie," you praise against his lips, groaning throatily when you finally take all of him, "do I feel good?"

He bites his lip with a whimper, hand on your hip moving to grasp clumsily at your ass cheek, like he wants to make sure he stays buried inside. "It's so tight," he gasps, "I- oh god, it's amazing, I love you so much."

You giggle lightly at his odd choice of timing on the love confession, inadvertently clenching around him which makes Jimin let out a stuttered high keen, curling inwards and jerking his hips to thrust shallowly.

You hiss in a breath, not expecting him to move so soon, but the feeling of being full, of it being Jimin hitting those spots inside you, is too addictive to stay still for much longer.

You start rutting against him in a slow rock, so that he doesn't quite slip all the way out of you before you grind back down, and his hand tenses on the meat of your ass, mouth falling slack.

With no urge to pick up the pace, you simply let Jimin and you enjoy the sensations of being connected on such an intimate level, nosing his chin back so that you can lap tenderly at the skin of his neck, picking a sensitive spot just above his collarbone to softly suck a reminder, something he can take back to Korea with him.

The thought of him leaving makes your heart sink, and to fill the void you begin to pick up your pace, building a delicious heat low in your stomach that has you moaning every breath. "M-minnie, I'm getting close, can you cum with me?"

"Y-yeah, I wanna cum. With- With you," he pants with a full-body shudder, hand leaving your ass to slide up to your back, pressing between your shoulder blades to hold you to him, gasping prettily into the air until you lift your head away from his neck to join your lips again, kissing him like it's oxygen.

You take the chance to slip a hand down and rub at your aching clit, and the extra sensation has you bearing down on him, causing him to start meeting your thrusts halfway.

Like a chain reaction, the pleasure between the two of you skyrockets until you meet your edge, toes curling and rocking needily against him, wanting to feel him fall apart too.

He cums with a high shout, gripping desperately onto your shoulder as he rides the intense waves, ebbing as you throb rhythmically around him with the force of your orgasm.

The two of you pant, mouths connected but too blissed out to properly kiss, and slowly your hips still, bodies wracked with aftershocks for a few minutes of nothing but the sound of you catching your breath.

Surprisingly, it's Jimin that speaks up first, eyes at half-mast as he nuzzles his nose against yours. "Can we stay like this? Sleep like this?"

In his vulnerable eyes, you read the fear of reality, of the fact that he's really leaving tomorrow. You can't say no to Jimin, never have been able to, but neither do you want to.

Instead, you simply press one last, tired kiss across his swollen lips. "Goodnight, Jiminie. I love you."

An almost inaudible sigh of relief. "I love you too."

It’s a day off.

You’re happy to be up early, though, because you're waiting for someone.

You always take this time of the morning to sit on the porch and drink a cup of tea, but today is different. You've already set up the spare room with a blow-up mattress, keeping the two single beds pushed together in your room. The fridge is stocked thanks to an antsy trip to Quito yesterday, and all night you were filled with restless energy.

Now, though, a sense of calm washes over you like deja vu. A contented warmth that blooms inside you when you finish your hot tea, eyes on the far end of the campground where you can see two figures chatting back and forth.

You stand, but you don't rush over, knowing they'll come to you. The short blonde, paler after returning from Korea, and at his side, a taller, dark-haired figure. Even though you've never met this second man, you recognise the boxy smile he wears as he glances around the campsite in wonder. The same smile that you'd first seen in a framed photo in Jimin's room.

A hand on his friend's back, Jimin points out your cabin, his eyes finding yours, crinkling shut with the radiant beam that stretches across his face.

Home.

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