#wound up being more of an experimental piece

[dazzelmethat]

I've been studying some coloring and composition things and decided to draw some fanart to wrestle out the new flow. Atelier Ayesha is my favorite Atelier game, and these are two of my favs from the game.

[keferon]

TexAid continues to rot my brain I hope you don't mind I had an idea for Shockwave. Warning for mentioned super unethical experimentation.

====

Vortex didn’t remember the first day his dad had brought him to work. He’d been too young, young enough to have stars in his eyes about giant robots and a desire to be tested by the cool machines his dad worked on, according to what he’d been told. The standard idiot child. 

Of course that had been where him being standard had ended. 

But that meant he had grown up at the facility, that he knew it better than almost anyone else and knew everyone in it. Which was why he was currently keeping his cockpit shut tight even as First Aid kept hammering the button to open it. 

Shockwave, the only pilot to ever make it to retirement was on the other side of his one way red glass visor staring like he could see through it. Maybe he could. Once upon a time he had been kind. Once upon a time he had actual eyes instead of the bionic yellow glow that shrunk and grew as he focused it. 

His mech had had a fatal accident, one that should have killed him too. But Shockwave hadn’t been lucky enough to die, instead he had been a test subject, to see if machine and human could get just a little closer to being one. 

Vortex had never liked any of his pilots enough to care but looking at Shockwave made him mentally promise First Aid that he would never let him live if he got heavily wounded in a fight. If Vortex was dying he’d take the other man with him as a mercy. Better that than this, having everything he was scooped out. 

One metal hand came up to tap on his glass, like he was knocking on the door of a house. “Vortex let me meet him, I want to see why this one is special.” 

First Aid stopped trying to open the visor and slunk back behind the pilot seat and if Vortex could relax he would have at having him less exposed. Vortex wondered if he should chew First Aid up a little? Make him less special? But it was too late. 

The only consolation was that his reputation as a pilot killer protected First Aid, made him too valuable to let him be dragged down into Shockwave’s lab for tests that weren’t a guaranteed success. 

Shockwave continued, “Wouldn’t you like to have a body again? The first mech to human full-translation. You're an ideal candidate for obvious reasons.” But of course that wasn’t what he really wanted. No Shockwave’s real project was human to mech translation, more than what had been done to him, on a grander scale than replacing most of a human with a machine. Shockwave was large, but he was still person sized. 

Vortex had been smart enough to keep his existence at rumors and Shockwave couldn’t prove he was in here. He was trying to use First Aid to lure him out. 

He felt First Aid’s hands tighten on the back of the seat, as if he was ready to fight being pulled away from it. But Vortex kept his cockpit closed and after a long time Shockwave sighed and turned away. “Well perhaps once you get bored of him, just leave him in usable pieces.” 

Vortex watched him jump off the gangway and heard the sound of metal hitting the ground below him before easy footsteps. For a moment he was jealous of what Shockwave had, but not at that price. Even after he was gone it took a long moment before Vortex let his cockpit open. It took longer for First Aid to leave it. 

OH DAMN…

YOU KNOW WHAT. As much as I love Senator Shockwave. The Idea of him being that creepy fucking scientist really fits here oh my god

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[toodelusionalforreality]

Azriel x OC | Chapter 3

Bastards

Both his brothers are mated. Both his brothers are happily in love. But after five centuries of rejection, Azriel doesn’t hope for such luxury in his life. When he meets the bar owner who is too mysterious even for the spymaster to decipher, his intrigue turns into more. Lines between mystery and secret blur. The closer he gets to her, the more his instincts warn him to stay away.

Previous Chapter: Sanctuary

Word count: ~9.4k Warning: Slight mentions of blood [minimal editing/proofreading/formatting]

A/N: This is an experimental piece of work. I'm testing a writing style, so feedback is welcome. A lot is going on here that editing is a lost cause. I'm sincerely praying none of you know anything about fighting.

Ahead. 

His shadows urged him as if he couldn’t hear the call himself. They snaked through the trees, leading him through a darkness softer than their own. The melody tugged at his heart, enough for him to lurch forward, tripping and stumbling over the overgrown roots under his feet. Her voice grew nearer, clearer, the tremors in it raking over his skin.

Ahead.

As he emerged through the entangled branches, his breath hitched. Moonlight broke through the canopy and illuminated a wide circle in the clearing. And she at the centre of it, her head tipped skyward.

Her shirt, barely a white veil in the dim light, caressed her skin as the breeze danced to the rhythm of her song, her words unintelligible and foreign. The soft waves of her hair whipped in the gentle wind. A thick white mist stood a barrier between them, shielding her from him as though she wasn’t his to embrace. 

Ahead.

He took another step. Twigs snapped under him. The fog lifted. She lowered her eyes and blinked. Her lips stopped moving. She stood, frozen in front of him, radiant than a full moon above the mountains. The word hung in the air, whispered by his shadows and the breeze. 

Mate. 

.

.

.

Azriel opened his eyes to a cloud of darkness flittering above him. With each gasp of breath, the weight in his chest sank a little deeper. Every time he saw the same face. Some nights, she sang for him under the golden lights in her bar. On others, they were far away from the rest of the world, alone and safe. But she always smiled. At him, only him.

Despite the torture of facing reality at the crack of his dreams, he went to sleep every night only to catch a glimpse of her. 

Masochist, he might be, but it was all Azriel had of her.

His brothers never mentioned being plagued by visions of their mates after the mating bond snapped for them. He didn’t have the gall to ask either, partly because he didn’t dare believe it was what he suspected it to be. The clear whisper from his shadows only haunted him in his dreams. A mere word said into his ears once and gone, leaving him to wonder if he had dreamt it as much as his hallucinations of her. But every time he woke up with his skin prickling with need and heart swelling with bittersweet longing, he swore he smelled that same fragrance of spices.

And then, there was the matter of the bond itself. His emotions and desires came crashing down on him so fiercely, so fast, that there was no other explanation, even if he wanted to deny it. The tether wound tight around his heart every time he refused to seek her. But it was quiet. So eerily quiet. If he sensed her, he told himself, he would know for sure.

His brothers realised the moment the growl erupted from his throat. They scented the bond on him, Rhys had said. It was the feral look in his eyes that had convinced Cass though. Azriel believed him, for he had wanted to tear every limb of the man that night.

He could see it as he sat in the booth with his hands fisted on the table—thundering up the stairs past Uri’s protests, ripping the door that snapped shut softly above them off its hinges, going straight for the man’s throat. He wouldn’t have used his knife. No, he had wanted to do it with his bare hands.

Darkness exploded around him at the sight of the locked office door. His siphons shone bright like hellfire against the black of his shadows. If his brothers hadn’t dragged him out of the bar a minute later, his shadows would have claimed the one who belonged with them, belonged with him .

What truly stopped him was her eyes.

Even after months, he remembered the pure disdain and disgust that filled them when she defended the fae against a pervert. The flicker of alarm, the following rage, and then the void. No, Azriel couldn’t bring himself to be the cause of it. Mate or not, he didn’t want her to look at him with those eyes. 

And when he shot to the skies and flew over Velaris until sunrise—afraid to stop, afraid he might end up in front of her doors—all he thought of was her smile, her voice, her. 

His brothers didn’t bother to stop him. Even Cass didn’t make one of his jokes. After hours of trailing him, they left him to his own misery. But not before a slow, careful presence nudged against his mental wards as if he were a breath away from shattering. 

Whatever you’re tempted to do, Rhys had voiced when Azriel allowed him in, don’t.

And he listened.

He listened every day since. He fought his impulses to run to her, to see whether she had felt anything that night. Even when he knew mating bonds didn’t work that way. 

Rhys made it easy though, or so Azriel believed, by sending him on mission after mission with barely any day to spare in between. Months ago, he would have visited Pharus even during only a day’s break. But now, he didn’t trust himself enough to be in the vicinity of the bar, day or night.

Cass took the honour of owning the loosest lips in the family by telling everyone what had transpired that very night. Apparently, Rhys had wanted to wait until Azriel was ready.

One look at Mor’s brown eyes and he knew when the conversation veered towards Ayla. But five centuries of friendship counted for something as she picked up on signs of his frustration and let him be. Nesta gave him a disapproving stare but respected his silence, on occasions. At least Cass backed off when he showed no interest in pouring his heart out like a lovesick youth. 

But Feyre, believing she was as sly as her mate, took him on errands for her paint supplies. And supposedly remembered an important meeting always somewhere close to a specific red-bricked building. Azriel wasn’t a fool, and so he left his High Lady to attend her meetings alone. Honestly, it was Elain’s company he tolerated, the only one in his family who never asked about Ayla or his brooding over his own cowardice.

Rhys’s generosity lasted for a whole of three grand weeks. He dismissed every pressing concern Azriel brought to him and bound him home. With an endless list of people who loved to pry into his matters, each day posed a new kind of torture. 

Given they were aware of his obsession with the middle Archeron sister and the consequent dispute with his brother—the High Lord, it was safe to say his longing to be mated like his brothers surfaced with not much of a shock. And they all had one question.

Why hadn’t he done anything yet?

To begin with, Ayla barely knew of his existence. When the mating bond snapped for his brothers, they were acquainted with their mates to some extent. Feyre knew Rhys enough to hate him. Nesta and Cass. . . they were at each other’s throats as much as in each other’s pants. And he distinctly remembered Elain’s reaction. She hated Lucien when he declared the bond in front of everyone, resented him for it, and resisted it with all her might.

So Azriel listened. He stayed away.

He stayed away as years of rejection finally caught up to him and fear snagged his heart. He stayed away though centuries-long prayers were answered in a heartbeat. He stayed away when everything he ever wanted was so close to his reach.

Shackled to home day after day, his options were limited—antagonising himself with his family’s nosiness, running errands which gave his legs, wings and shadows a reason to seek Ayla, or training. 

‘Ready to talk?’ asked Cass the moment his brother took his stance before him and raised his fists to his chin. 

Azriel threw the first punch, and that was the end of that conversation.

It became the new routine. Waking up at night with thoughts of her and releasing his tension in the ring in the morning. He expected Cass to coax him into action, but Rhys was the one to intervene.

Glaring at his brother’s back, Azriel froze in his steps. Close to the southern border of Velaris, stood a lone white stone building along the wide bend of Sidra curving into the city. The turquoise blue on the carved iron doors demanded attention from miles away. One of the heavy double doors was pulled open while the other remained closed, blocking the view of the inside. Through the mesh-covered grilled window, hot air billowed out only to be carried downwind over the waters. Smoke coiled out of a chimney in the back. 

Two horses—creatures of beauty and grace complimenting each other in every way—were tied to the stump outside a modest stable erected beside the quaint smithy. One, as stark as Rhys’s hair and the other, as pale as Amren’s grey eyes. They shuffled silently at the sight of the three brothers who invoked their primal need to surrender their beastly control.

‘Why are we here?’ Azriel ground out. His hands clenched, twitching to throw his brother into the river. Not nearly adequate, but enough to get his point across.

Rhys adjusted the cuffs of his tunic. ‘I fancied a new blade. It’s been a while since I got any, don’t you think? You could get one too.’ He glanced over his shoulder with the same insufferable smirk at the Truth-teller strapped to Azriel’s thigh. ‘Give it a little rest maybe.’

Cass rubbed his sore shoulder from two mornings ago. ‘Do you think I enjoy getting my ass handed to me every day?’ He scowled, stalking up to the two wide doorsteps made of the same stone as the building. ‘I don’t care what you do there. Get. Inside. ’

Azriel stared. Cass stared back.

His brother’s solution to everything was training until his body was limp and trembling. If Azriel had gotten him grumbling about a few landed hits, he definitely pushed this too far. He took a step forward and Cass breathed in relief.

Rhys opened the other door and peered inside. 

Azriel came up behind him and said quietly, ‘You told me not to do anything.’ His shadows drifted ahead before he could reel them back.

‘That night, Az.’ Every trace of amusement disappeared from Rhys's face. Shaking his head, he entered the shop with his brothers on his trail. ‘I told you not to do anything stupid that night.’

A short counter took the space along the breadth of the room across the door. A metal mesh formed part of the wall on their left separating the forge from the shop front. Wood groaned and crackled beyond the partition as a shadow moved in front of a glowing furnace.

To their right, cabinets with glass doors spanned the wall from floor to ceiling. One half showcased knives, swords, and arrowheads made of iron and steel fit for regular use. The other exhibited an interesting collection.

The polished metal of the blades gleamed with a liquid sheen under the soft morning light. Gold and silver made their hilts. Gems of every colour, cut and size adorned the intricate swirls along them. Little wooden placards took a place next to each with centuries, lands—except Night Court—and a few names of fae lords, long dead or forgotten, etched on them.

The brothers studied each weapon carefully, their breaths held in reverence in the presence of ancient blades that had been lost in time, wielded by warriors who once walked and warred and bled to death.

If his brothers chose to wield a sword of their own and name it, Azriel knew, long after they were gone, they would be as coveted as the ones before them. One day, his Truth-Teller would be too, and it had nothing to do with him. The sheathed knife weighed heavy on his thigh as to confirm his belief.

Metal groaned behind them. A man pushed the mesh wall aside and came through. He offered a mild smile, sealing the path again. 

Azriel had seen an uninhibited version of that smile once, hated it, and wanted to carve it out of that face.

Cass strode past to Rhys and blocked him from the clueless fae. He muttered under his breath, ‘What were we thinking? This is a bad idea.’

But his brother smiled smoothly, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Azriel resisted the urge to snarl at the man. His shadows curled around his ears, hissing how they wished to shred the one who dared touch Ayla apart. His face that brought a smile to hers, his lips that kissed her cheek, his hand that held her body. Another reason he had stayed away.

‘How can I help you?’

Orvin was no warrior but his build suggested he could handle himself in a fight. His wrapped hands implied he indeed helped Ayla in the workshop. His eyes held an effortless sparkle, unlike the one Azriel usually had to muster for anyone but his family. His short chestnut hair curled at the ends and all Azriel could think was the way Ayla would have tugged at them that night when he—

‘We were hoping to talk to her.’ Rhys tipped his head to the mere shadow looming beyond the makeshift wall against the roaring golden of the fire.

Orvin folded his arms across his chest. His smile faltered a little. ‘She’s busy. Whatever you’re looking for,’ he nodded at the case beside them, ‘you can find it here.’

Cass’s eyes roved over every steel with the warrior's scrutiny, unable to resist his instincts. ‘They’re not good enough.’

And Rhys didn’t deign to look at them, ‘We have a special request.’

In a blink, Orvin stood to his full height—his chin held high, his smile vanishing. ‘She doesn’t work with lords and High Lords.’ 

While Azriel watched her as she moved farther into the shadows, Rhys purred, ‘Surely you can make an exception once.’ 

Metal hit metal in a steady rhythm in the other room. For long minutes, they stared at each other. Feet shuffled. A harsh hiss cut through the silence.

Orvin remained unfazed. ‘She doesn’t make exceptions. For anyone. You can either buy one of these or leave.’

All his life, very few who weren’t a lord or High Lord had defied Rhys. He never abused his power in Velaris. It was one of the reasons the city thrived and people admired him. Still, no one ever forgot who he was and what he was capable of under that beautiful face and charming smile. 

Yet, the sheer arrogance Orvin radiated at that moment, looking down at the most powerful High Lord to have ever existed like the scums he drove out of the shop, was not something anyone had dared do before. He either had a lot of courage or little common sense to deny Rhys what he wanted. 

‘I’m no lord,’ Azriel said finally, his voice gratefully even and low. ‘She makes weapons for others though, doesn’t she?’ 

Orvin slid his gaze to the darkness swarming the shadowsinger's shoulders, ripples and ripples of them challenging him, threatening him. He brought his eyes back to the glowering hazel ones that promised nothing good. Then he turned to the forge. ‘I’ll have to ask her first.’

‘Don’t tell her who we are,’ added Rhys softly.

Orvin paused to throw a warning look over his shoulder. The sliding door clanked gently into the stone wall behind him.

Azriel heard her heart beat as steady as every clang of metal that rang through the air. Time crawled as he waited and waited. For a moment, he considered if Orvin had returned to his work instead. Finally, every sound came to a halt when light footsteps headed towards them.

‘Make yourself presentable,’ her friend sighed. His voice was smooth as a caress when he spoke to her.

Her feet stopped. She took one sharp breath and bit out, ‘If they want me to look pretty, they shouldn’t interrupt me while I’m working.’

Cass pressed a fist to his lips in a useless attempt to hide the stupid grin on his face. Rhys turned to him, his usual amused eyes glowing that set Azriel’s nerves on edge. 

Another sigh, long and deep. ‘At least wash your face.’

‘I regret hiring you.’ 

Her quiet grumble left Azriel’s heart fluttering in his chest. He surveyed a short sword perched on the lowest shelf to hide his smile from his brothers who watched him intently.

‘You wouldn't have a business without me,’ Orvin’s voice followed her to the back and the sound of running water muted his words. ‘How do you plan on selling anything when you hate talking to your customers? You need me to run this place.’

Water splashed. ‘And you get compensated for it.’

In her bed. The words birthed something wretched and slimy in his gut. Azriel closed his eyes as if the simple act could erase his filthy thoughts. With each breath, he tamed the self-loathing that filled him at his own perverseness.

Rhys spoke with a touch of kindness. ‘She doesn’t take an interest in him that way.’

‘Did you,’ his words came out in a low growl and Azriel didn’t try to hide it, ‘look into her mind?’

Though his brother had done it to many over the centuries, none of them ever tempted him to throttle Rhys to death. He could have as well laid his hand on Ayla in ways he shouldn’t.

Rhys simply shook his head. The cockiness in his eyes from mere seconds ago vanished as a calm contemplation replaced it, the one that overtook him in the face of an unknown opponent.

His. Hers is shielded. Rhys held his brother's glare and admitted solemnly, That night in the bar, she knew I peeked into her mind. I didn’t mean to. Her shields went up so fast I could barely find my way out. She knew what she was doing, Azriel. But she didn’t chase me. Any Daemati would have, but she didn’t.

That was months ago and Rhys chose to disclose it with Ayla only a few feet away. Revealing it now meant one thing. A warning. To a brother. From the look on Cass’s face, it was obvious he had been privy to that information as well. 

The groan of wheels against the floor brought the three out of their mental conversation. Ayla walked out, wiping the back of her neck with a washrag. A sheen of sweat coated her flushed skin below her collarbones. Hair slipped loose from her braid curling along the curve of her face. She didn’t come any closer.

Azriel had been so wrong. He had a glimpse of her legs that night, and yet he never could have imagined what he saw in front of him. 

Her oversized shirts and pants were a disguise for what truly lay underneath. Every inch of her body was a sculpted perfection. Every curve and dip of muscle earned from years of training and discipline. Her light sleeveless shirt hung off her shoulders and shifted with each breath she took. The tunic underneath and her dark pants clung to her like a second skin. The scratch on her exposed calf had turned into a fading pale strip. And a fresh scorch mark stained the inside of her forearm.

How long had it been since that night? Weeks? Months? It felt like aeons. And now he stood in her presence, mere steps away from touching her. If he wanted, if she allowed. Azriel couldn’t breathe. His hands trembled by his side. He focused his will on binding his shadows to himself as they chanted her name and begged to be set loose.

‘What can I do for you?’ Her voice lost the airiness from moments ago. Her words were polite, yet her frown asked— Why are you bothering me?

Rhys smiled like the beautiful prick he was. ‘We hear you're crafty with weapons. We’d like to commission you to make one for us.’

None of the brothers missed the slight roll of her eyes. ‘We don’t make weapons. The ones on display are for sale. My partner will help you with that.’

Her partner leaned against the sliding door, wearing a smirk on his face. A smug, satisfied smirk.

Ayla turned around. She was halfway through the door when Rhys’s words stopped her. ‘That’s not what I heard. You have quite the reputation all over Prythian. And beyond.’

‘You heard wrong.’ She noted each of their faces with nothing but a blank observation.

Don’t you remember me? Azriel wanted to ask like an insolent child. You sang for me!

‘So what’s that hammering back there about?’

‘I deal with arrogant fae men every day. Helps with stress.’

Rhys lifted a brow. Ayla mimicked him. 

Azriel couldn’t help but chuckle. A calm warmth smothered the anger, jealousy, and everything vile that consumed his heart.

‘Indulge us,’ Rhys gave her a smile that charmed everyone into compliance. ‘Just one weapon. It shouldn’t be much trouble.’

Ayla blinked.

‘For him,’ Orvin lifted his chin, ‘at the back.’ Maybe she wasn’t into him, but he sure seemed to be protective of her.

Ayla dragged her eyes across his face, peering through the mask of indifference he wore, or Azriel hoped he did.

‘One for each of us,’ amended Rhys, earning a glare from her partner.

‘Special requests cost extra.’ 

Orvin paled. He opened his mouth but Rhys interrupted, ‘We can afford it.’

‘This way.’

Ayla turned on her feet and headed back. 

Orvin stalked her, his eyes widening and yet, they softened for her, ‘Listen, they are—’ 

‘It’s fine. I’ll handle it.’

‘But they are—’

A heavy quiet fell in the room. The brothers went in before Orvin revealed their identity. Heat swallowed them the moment they set foot inside the forge. Sweat trickled down their bodies, making their leathers stick uncomfortably. 

Azriel tucked his wings close to his back, wading through the narrow path between two wooden worktables. He keenly avoided the fire that gorged on coals on his left. The scarred skin on his hands stung and tingled. His shadows swarmed away to his other side, twitching against his wing. 

As they crossed to the end of the room, he took in a breath, her overwhelming scent etched in every corner soothing him. The sweet and bitter scent of spices. All those months when he had thought it was the bar, it had been her.

Ayla stopped in front of a carved wooden door. Removing a heavy iron key from a hook above her head, she unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside. 

All the while, Orvin stood beside her and scowled at Rhys. His brother flashed him one of his perfect grins and peeked into the room over Ayla's shoulder.

Azriel appreciated one thing—her partner’s refusal to back down even knowing who Rhys was. And couldn’t decide how he felt about his unwavering loyalty to his mate.

‘It wasn’t my fault this time,’ called out a voice. A young fae, no older than twenty, walked in and came to a halt when she spotted the three brothers.

Her skin glowed golden in the light from the furnace and the brown in her eyes turned into a pool of molten copper. A purple bruise adorned her child-like face from her cheekbone to her jaw.

Ayla arched her brow, bored and challenging. 

The fae shrugged, but there was panic in her eyes. Fear of disappointing Ayla, Azriel realised. ‘I mean it! He came at me.’

Finally, losing interest in the brothers, Orvin went to the girl. ‘When did this happen?’

Her thick red hair swayed as she jerked her face out of his grip. She scanned them from head to toe, the frown on her lips deepening with each passing glance. ‘You’d make a knife for another one of these rich bastards, but not me?’

‘I’ll consider making one for you when you come in here without a scratch,’ said Ayla mildly.

‘I have to stop defending myself against those bastards to get a weapon?’

With her bared teeth and fiery eyes, the fae looked like a portrait of a feral cub. The brothers tried to hold in their smiles.

Ayla cut them the same bored look and it was enough to sober them up. When she turned to the fae, her eyes shone. ‘I meant don’t get hit.’

For a moment, the girl only blinked. Then her lips parted in a childish grin as she let Orvin inspect her bruises and answered his questions. 

When none of the brothers moved, Ayla said to Rhys, her face placid. ‘What are you waiting for?’

Azriel couldn’t hide his smile this time. He bowed his head as he entered the room after his brothers. The shell of his wing brushed against her shirt and a shiver shot down his spine.

A short writing desk stood beside the door. Ayla went on to pluck a notebook from the shelf next to it leaving the brothers to their inspection. The room, almost as big as the store and forge combined, included a training mat in the middle. Weapons ranging from knives to swords to maces to war hammers were mounted on one wall. The other carried practice weapons with blunt edges and wooden swords. Long windows, as wide as his hand, split the continuous racks on either side. No way in or out except for the carved door.

‘Who is she?’ asked Rhys, eyeing her every move. 

Cass had been unnaturally quiet since they arrived. 

Ayla unwound the thread holding the notebook close. ‘I don’t see how she's your concern.’ She flipped through the pages, the soft crinkle echoing through the air. She continued without looking at them, ‘You will not tell anyone that I made these for you. You will not speak of this room to anyone. You will return here if and only if you need a replacement.’

‘You seem to be fond of rules,’ Rhys drawled with a tilt of his head, gauging her every reaction, her every word, her every breath.

She lifted one of her beautifully arched brows. ‘You can leave if that’s an inconvenience to you.’ With a pencil in her hand, she looked up. ‘I’ll need your names.’

‘Silence for silence. We won’t talk about you and you won’t know us.’ The words fell off Rhys's lips as if he had been expecting it.

‘This is for me. You shall choose your weapons today. If you prove safe to use one, you will get one.’

Rhys stared at her. Ayla stared back. Her face was a vision of calmness, one that even he never mastered.

A minute passed. Then another. The silence was stifling. His shadows nipped at his neck.

Speak .

Azriel took a steadying breath.

Speak.

He opened his mouth.

‘Rhysand. Call me Rhys since we’re about to be good friends.’

No widening of eyes, no parting of lips in a soft gasp, no shaky breath as the name hung in the air.

Instead, Ayla stood still. Her eyes roved over Rhys’s form in an agonisingly slow, measured scrutiny. She took in every feature, from his infuriatingly perfect face to his broad shoulders to his toned chest to his shaped legs. And all the while, Azriel ground his teeth.

‘Rhysand it is,’ she said in a voice that left his skin prickling. She made notes in her notebook and his shadows writhed to know what she observed.

Cass crouched in front of the stack of longswords finer than Illyrian blades. He had a sincere smile on his lips and appreciation in his eyes. ‘You know how to use all these weapons?’

‘Most of them, yes. Others, I have a working knowledge.’ Ayla frowned, shrugging a shoulder. Her gaze lifted to Rhys again before she jotted more. Finally, she closed the notebook marking the page. ‘Pick your weapon.’

Rhys walked along the shelves surveying the assortment, before he stopped in front of the double-edged swords. He ran his finger over the one at his eye level. Sunlight hit its gilded dark edge and scattered on his palm. A thick white rope corded along the length of its hilt for a better grip.

‘Which one do you recommend?’ He asked softly with a ring of awe in his voice.

‘It’s not up to me to decide yet. First, I need to know what you can do.’ Rhys looked over his shoulder and she added, ‘We’ll assess your strengths. Pick a weapon of your choice. Knock me off my feet.’ 

Rhys faced her with a wicked smile. Cass grinned walking up to Azriel. His brothers knew. Even his shadows didn’t find out this little slice of detail in their spying. 

Ayla moved to one end of the mat. Her feet planted shoulder-width apart. Her hands clasped behind her back. She had not an ounce of doubt or worry on her face as she waited. 

Did she know who they were? Would she still be calm if she knew of the wars they had seen and fought in? The Illyrian wings must have clued her in. Yet, she stood poised and composed.

Rhys lifted his hand, fingers brushing against each other, ready to get rid of his jacket with a single snap. Then, he reached for the buttons instead.

Ayla didn’t even blink at the sight of his naked warrior torso, and a petty satisfaction churned in Azriel's heart. Her gaze shifted though, when he picked a broadsword, the one he admired.

Her brows furrowed, ‘You sure?’

‘Your turn,’ was Rhys’s only reply as he swung the steel, testing its balance. 

‘I don’t need one.’ Rhys looked up. Ayla shrugged, ‘I’m making an assessment. I don’t need a blade for that. When you’re ready.’ 

Grasping with both hands, Rhys adjusted his grip on the hilt and grounded his feet. He winked at Azriel. How do you like her now?  

How did he like her? He wanted to shove her against the wall and devour her lips. He wouldn’t care if his brothers watched. He wouldn’t care if the whole of Prythian watched. He wanted to feast on her, feel her body against his, naked and sweaty. He wanted to run his tongue over her skin until the taste of her was all he remembered. 

Azriel took a shuddering breath and crossed his arms against his chest. His shadows sheathed his body hiding the one true indication of where his thoughts had wandered. His brother chuckled, and he scrambled to put his mental shield back up, tripping over and over again.

Rhys took a step forward and swung his sword lightly. Ayla didn’t move. He inched forward and did it again. Not a blink. He held back his thrusts, stopping short with lazy flicks. 

Azriel smirked at his dilemma. How do you like her now? 

Rhys straightened, his hand and sword limp by his side. ‘At least pick one of those blunt ones,’ he smiled. ‘It’s impolite enough to fight a lady.’

The corner of her lips twitched. ‘If I need a blade to win a fight, I'd rather learn how to fight first.’

Cass laughed and jabbed an elbow into his ribs. ‘She’s fun. I bet—’

‘We both can’t bet against him.’ Azriel grinned back. 

‘Ten gold marks says Rhys will be on his ass in fifteen.’

‘Twenty marks. And make it ten.’

Rhys opened his mouth when Ayla sighed softly to herself, ‘Rich bastards indeed.’

The three brothers shut up but had identical grins plastered on their faces.

Rhys moved in the precise steps he had mastered over years and years in war camps and battlefields. His hands set to motion to match his stride—fluid, quick. The edge almost grazed her arm and Ayla leaned back an inch.

Pulling the sword back, he swung it to her other side. Ayla swerved, but barely. Every move was calculated, nothing more than to dodge the attacks, none to waste her energy or lose her balance.

Rhys noticed too. Do you mind if I nick her a bit? 

Azriel smiled. You can try.

Smirking, Rhys launched into attack after attack. With each step, he pushed her back. He cornered her against the wall stacked with the training swords, careful not to hurt her, much. 

And she stood rooted every time, her hands behind her back.

Her body twisted and stretched with grace. Her feet slid against the floor in effortless drags. Her serene face gave away none of her thoughts. Her gaze darted between his arms and legs, swift and cunning. A glimmer flickered in her eyes but it vanished as soon as she blinked. 

In her presence, at the sight of her, Azriel trembled—not out of fear. But with need, with reverence. He wanted to run his hands down her every curve and watch her move at his touch, at his kiss. Just the thought of the curl of her delicate body against his or the glide of her hands along his skin was too much to bear. Every fibre in his body cried to get on his knees for her.

Rhys swept high and went for her neck. Ayla moved with the blade, ducked low, and turned away as she grasped a wooden sword off the rack and blocked his next strike.

‘I thought you didn’t need a weapon,’ Rhys smirked and aimed for her leg.

Ayla sighed, twisting out of his reach. ‘You’re taking too long.’ She nodded at their audience, ‘And I have other customers.’

She made no attacks. Splinters flew with each blocked hit. Every move was as fluid as her breathing. 

Rhys quickened his pace. His smile fell off his lips, but the spark in his eyes remained. He went for her shoulder, the flat of his sword hoisted to land a hard blow.

Ayla leaned back, dropping to her knees, her sword tucked along her spine. She swivelled around and rose to her feet behind him. The blunt tip of her sword tapped Rhys thrice. On the back of his neck, right behind his heart, at the base of his spine. 

They were done in seven.

Azriel was mesmerised. He had never seen anyone move with such precision or swiftness. But he didn't have the chance to linger on what she had done for long.

‘Or your wings if I’m being generous with your life.’ She walked past Rhys back to her desk, ‘Do you not prefer using them in close-range combat?’

Rhys faced her, palming the spot on his neck where he took the soft hit. His lips parted with a mild gasp. ‘You can see them?’

Ayla shrugged and opened her notebook. ‘Most glamours don’t work on me. They are still hidden by shadows.’ She glanced at Azriel, and he sucked in a breath. ‘Not like his. But faint outlines, more of a disguise by a dark smoke.’

Azriel hadn’t realised his shadows were perched on his shoulders, watching her without their usual chatter.

‘It’s not a glamour,’ mumbled Rhys. The earlier wariness returned to his eyes as he met his brother’s stare.

She wrote in her notebook again. ‘Then I don’t have an explanation for it. That one is too heavy for you,’ she peeked at the sword in his hand, a frown tugging at her lips. ‘You need a lighter steel since you don’t use your wings. The weight throws you off balance. But then, you’ll need more force in your thrusts.’

Rhys gaped at her. 

Cass agreed with a simple shrug. ‘You better show up for training tomorrow.’ He wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulder as he did his shirt. Rhys shoved his hand off, the buttons at the top left forgotten.

‘Where did you learn to fight?’ Cass asked her. Noting Azriel's unwavering eyes on her like a creep, he gave his ribs a harsh nudge.

‘Around,’ she mumbled, flipping through her notes, scratching with her pencil, and marking a few details. She opened a new page, ‘Next.’

Cass clapped his hands and skipped forward with a feral smile that showed all his teeth.

‘Azriel.’ He smirked when his brother mouthed a curse at him and walked to the middle of the room.

Ayla looked up. She studied him—every inch of his face and body. For a moment, Azriel let himself believe she took longer than she did with Rhys. She blinked slowly, her lingering gaze setting his skin on fire. When her eyes landed on his wings, they flared by a degree in response. She scribbled in her notebook as his brothers chuckled under their breaths.

Azriel had already decided what he would do once they walked out—kill Rhys for his mental comments and then Cass for indulging the prick.

Ayla went to the racks. She returned her sword and rearranged the ones misplaced by her earlier. ‘Choose your weapon,’ she said gently.

Azriel hated that she never spoke his name like she did Rhys’s in that sweet voice of hers.

The moment they entered the room, he spotted the one he wanted to try. Narrower and longer than his Illyrian sword, the simple piece of art swallowed the light around it. Leather wrapped along its hilt as a seamless extension of the abyssal black of the blade. His shadows glided over it, testing it for him, almost as drawn to it as himself.

A muffled ring of metal sliding against leather echoed in the quiet. Ayla turned around to find a curved knife in each of his hands. 

Though Azriel had knives and daggers sheathed on him at all times, he favoured swords. But not that day. They wouldn’t allow him to get close to her, give him a chance to touch her.

Taking her place across from him, she quietly assessed his hands, the way he brought them to his front, gripped his knives ready, and shifted his weight on his feet.

She murmured, ‘Odd choice. Most don’t go for these. They prefer something big and flashy,’ she smiled, bringing her gaze to his face. ‘Requires a lot of practice to master. How long did you take?’

Azriel blinked. Every thought went out of his mind at that smile. ‘Been a while to remember.’ 

Wisps of hair fell over her face as she tipped her head. Her eyes shifted over his shoulders and arms. ‘Your shadows,’ darkness wreathed around him anticipating the little touches they longed to steal, ‘need to sit this one out.’ There was a flicker of hesitation, a weight on his back. ‘Just you and me.’

Like it had been a command from him, his shadows drifted to a corner of the room. 

Just you and me. 

Her words roved over his skin. He stared at her. His brothers fell silent too. 

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ she said softly.

For a full minute, Azriel stood frozen. Then, he lunged forward. 

The same dance ensued, him leading with the first move, her dodging with minimal movement. A strangely familiar rhythm they both fell into with an ease that rendered him senseless. Her warmth grazed his body, her breath hit his fist, and her hair caressed him every time he got too close. Unlike with Rhys, she didn’t keep her distance. She threw her own punches this time.

Azriel summoned every knowledge he acquired fighting for five centuries to take down one woman—his mate.

He wanted to win her challenge only to pin her down under him, to know what she felt like against him. He was, by no means, a simple warrior. Even without his shadows, he was easily one of the most powerful the Illyrians ever dreamt to be. And yet, in her presence, under her calculating eyes, he hardly remembered to steady his breaths.

‘Your left footing needs work,’ she said, stepping back to miss his blade that almost slashed her rib. 

His footing needed no such thing. She was goading him, mocking his consideration, that much her smile told him.

Cass yelled from one corner, ‘Don’t let her win again, brother.’ His eyes twinkled.

Training with each other for centuries left no mystery in their technique or style and removed the freshness of a challenge. If his brother got the chance, he wouldn’t hesitate like Rhys, and Azriel knew. 

Rhys scowled beside him, a look so foreign on his face. ‘She didn’t win against me.’

‘Sure, she didn’t kill you thrice either.’

‘She didn’t have a real blade. I was being courteous.’ Rhys’s lazy smugness returned to his voice. ‘It’s something you wouldn’t understand.’

Azriel breathed a laugh. 

Her gaze dipped to his lips and then to his hand that came at her. She swerved to her right, grabbed his wrist and ducked under. And as she came back up, her other fist met the inside of his bicep. She retreated a few paces. Feet apart, hands behind her back. 

Pain rippled through his muscles. He shook his arm twice, slowly. His skin burned and ached where her fingers had been. His body came alive as though it had felt her grip elsewhere. His heart pounded in his chest, their beat drumming in his ears. He let out a long exhale.

How he wished to throw the knives away and grab her waist instead.

She observed every move he made—the flex of his fingers before they wrapped around the daggers, the rise of his chest as he heaved in a breath, the shift of his legs under him for his next move.

Azriel wanted her eyes only on him anyway. He wished he had taken off his leathers like his brother had done so. Maybe she would have appreciated that too. He would have definitely enjoyed her hits.

He threw the same punch. She swerved. He went for her chest. She glided back. He took a step forward and swept his dagger across her torso before she landed on her feet. She skipped back. He smirked. The corner of her lips twitched. He aimed a strike at her face again. She leaned to her side, and Azriel slammed his left fist into her jaw. She staggered back a few steps, far from his arm’s reach.

‘You always favour your right,’ he remarked softly.

Ayla didn’t move. Her feet planted on the spot. Loose strands of hair veiled her averted face but not the patches of red blooming on her jaw. Her breaths were uneven for the first time since they started. Even his brothers went silent.

She slowly turned to him, her head hung low, her eyes trained on the ground. She reached a hand to her face. A streak of crimson, thin and sharp, ran along the smooth curve of her jaw through the framing bruise. 

Azriel stared at his blade. Blood gleamed along its edge. His grip loosened. Dread filled his chest along with an ache. He looked at her, breathless, as her fingers ghosted over the cut, pulling away with smears of pale red on the tips.

Apologise, Rhys hissed in his mind, now .

Azriel opened his mouth.

‘You,’ she wiped her fingers on her shirt below her ribs—the stains akin to the ones she tried to erase that first night, ‘learn fast.’

Her eyes met his, and a dangerous delight swirled in them. She moved quick. She took two long steps and lunged at him.

Azriel crouched and rooted to his feet as he brought his arms up to block her incoming blow to his face. It wasn’t her hand that met him, and he wasn’t fast enough.

She stepped on the inside of his thigh hard to shift his weight, propelled herself up, and her other foot pushed into his chest. Using the momentum, she swung herself over and around his shoulder.

Before Azriel could blink, his feet gave out. His wings spread behind him easing his fall.

Her grip was strong. She pressed his hand to his throat, the edge of his knife cool against his skin. Her face hovered over his. 

Azriel let his head rest on the ground. Painfully aware of her body pressed against his—straddling his waist, her hands around each of his wrists—he willed himself to hold her stare steady. 

She breathed, ‘You’re dead.’

‘So are you,’ he rasped the words out. He lifted his head to peer down between them. The glinting tip of his other blade poked at her chest, where her heart was, where he was sure a spot of blood would soon taint her white shirt.

She followed his stare. Her lips pulled into a smirk before she looked him in the eye. ‘As long as I take you with me.’

Azriel yearned for nothing more. For her to take him—to death, to hell, to his damnation. 

Her braid fell over her shoulder, and the ends tickled his face and neck. Her short breaths hit his skin, the scent of her making him heady. Her hands were warm against his shadow-kissed cold ones. Blood rushed to her face. A bead of sweat trickled down between her brows, followed the curve of her nose, and trailed down her cheek.

Azriel wanted to trace it with his tongue, taste her. Her blood, her sweat.

Beautiful. The word clanged in every corner of his mind as he took her in, raw and bare. 

Beautiful. The blade dug deeper into his skin, reminding him she held his life in her hands. 

Beautiful. Especially when she had him at her mercy. 

His mind chose the inappropriate time to conjure the other ways she could have him at her mercy. Gods, if she moved, she would feel him. 

His shadows crept up to them, teasing her hair, teetering along the cut on her jaw, furious for what he had done to her.

His head fell back. He took a deep breath and still, it wasn’t enough. The delicious burn of cool metal scraping against the column of his throat felt painless compared to her intense gaze peering into his soul. He swallowed. She tracked the movement. He swallowed again, her eyes snapped to his. Every nerve in his body urged him to reach up, let the blade slit his throat, only to kiss her once.

And for a sweet moment, he thought she wanted it too. 

She blinked. She pulled back an inch and looked up. 

Orvin hurried in with the red-haired fae. Panic flashed in his eyes. He shoved the fae inside while he lingered close to the door. ‘She’s back. She’s here.’

Ayla shot to her feet taking every sense of warmth around him with her. ‘It’s fine,’ she urged them in and stepped out. ‘Don’t make a sound.’

The door closed behind her. Azriel’s feet followed her on their own.

But Rhysr’s voice in his mind brought him back. She’s gone. Quiet your thoughts a little.

He turned around with a snarl to find both his brothers sporting a cruel grin.

The key clicked into place and so did an invisible force. ‘It’s warded,’ Rhys observed the narrow slits along the walls. His smile vanished. ‘Why do you have wards here?’ 

They turned to Orvin, but he stared at the closed door. He shielded the fae with his body and coaxed her back, far from the entrance. He didn’t answer. 

Outside, a fire crackled in the furnace. Metal whined. Sharp clicks bounced off the stone floors and walls. Both Orvin and the fae sucked in a breath.

‘So,’ said a voice low and feminine, ‘you’re hiding in the monster’s den. I can’t decide if you’re smart or losing your mind.’

Orvin shivered at the sound.

Rhys studied the door, lost and distant in his thoughts. He reached out a hand despite Cass's warning. His palm rested on an invisible field a few inches short of the wood. His touch sent out glimmering waves along the walls, floor, and roof. The wavering stilled once they merged on the far side. A breath later, they rippled and eddied until they reached his palm again. Rhys stepped back staring at his hand.

Ayla spoke calmly. ‘You wouldn’t have found me if I were hiding.’ 

‘I wasted a long trip on this.’ The voice sighed, every word tinged with a seductive drawl. ‘Let’s not dally. Come with me.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Have you forgotten your deal already?’ The voice got closer and closer to the door. 

‘I never made a deal with you.’

‘Didn’t you?’ The voice hummed. Long and light. ‘Never mind. We can always make a new one.’

Bare feet shuffled across the floor, drawing away from the locked door. The wards muffled some of the conversation, but their fae hearing helped. Ayla’s voice barely carried through the room. ‘I don’t work for any court.’ 

Heels stomped across the floor. The intruder whined, a delicate teasing sound. ‘Name your price. I’ll get you whatever you want.’

‘I have everything I need.’

Metal groaned against the wood. A sharp thump, metal against metal. Another and another. Each one harder than the previous. 

The voice snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve grown fond of this pathetic excuse of a court.’ 

Cass stiffened beside them. He asked Orvin, ‘Who is she?’ Neither he nor the fae answered.

Ayla said softly, ‘This is my home.’

Those simple words from her lips made Azriel’s heart clench in his chest. A twisted approval of who he was, an acknowledgement of his existence.

‘This? Velaris? Don’t fool yourself.’ The voice laughed. It would’ve been the most melodic sound Azriel had ever heard if not for the mockery in it. She moved away and away, stalking Ayla, circling her. Venom dripped from each word she spouted. ‘What did you expect? You’d find a man here, maybe a lord , fall in love, have a cosy little life like a common fae?’

Ayla chuckled in response. So soft, so tender that it made Azriel smile, too. ‘Is that what you think I’m doing here?’ Her voice lingered, drifting farther past the furnace, past the fires. ‘Gods, sounds like you’re projecting your dreams onto me.’

‘Don’t you dare!’ The voice turned into what it truly was. A vile, cruel shrill masked by the sweetness of its lull.

‘Or what?’ Ayla paused, and Azriel could see the smirk on her lips. ‘You come into my home and threaten me. Did you expect me to kiss your feet next?’

The voice fell silent.

Azriel turned to Rhys, and he shook his head. Her mind is shielded. 

The heels turned to the door again, hitting faster and faster. They stopped right in front of the door. ‘Where’s the half-fae youngling?’ 

Orvin hissed behind the brothers and gestured to them to step back. They all turned to the fae who cowered to a corner, yet schooled her face in defiance. The pointed arch of her ears peeked through her thick hair. But the tan skin, the hazel eyes.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Please,’ the stranger whined with a thrill at the tightness in Ayla’s voice. ‘I can smell her.’

Rhys asked the fae kindly, ‘Why does she want you?’ When she didn’t answer, he tried again. ‘I’m Rhysand. You know who I am?’ She nodded once. ‘I can help you if you tell me who that is.’

But one look from Orvin had her pursing her lips.

Ayla padded over, biding her time. ‘It’s just me. And I’m very busy. So leave.’

‘Right, since the silver-tongued half-fae High Lord finally gets his way with you.’ 

A long silence. Despite Rhys’s warning looks, Azriel checked the wards. Shadows writhed along the door prying for a way out.

‘The men inside,’ she huffed a breath. ‘Don’t look at me like that. Of course, I knew. Who do you think they are?’

Another moment of silence, only longer. A heart beat faster and faster while the other remained steady outside the door.

‘You didn’t know,’ the voice whispered. ‘Of course, they hid it. Very clever.’ Her breaths filled the pause as if she were calculating her next words. ‘No matter. You already had your doubts, didn’t you?’ She let out a dreamy sigh, one many men yearned to hear in their beds. ‘Well sculpted, beautiful beyond measure, skills better than that of an ordinary warrior. Come on, they are Illyrians! ’

From her tone, it was certain she meant more than just their appearance. The brutal savagery of their kind.

Ayla was silent. So very silent. But her heart—the one that remained calm and rhythmic while fighting—now raced like a fawn’s being preyed upon, trying to break free of her ribcage. 

Azriel inhaled sharply. His own heart filled with fear, anger, and confusion. A breath later, it was gone as swiftly as it had overtaken his senses, leaving a hollow in its wake. So was the frantic beating of her heart. He pressed his fingers to his chest. His brothers noted it.

Finally, Ayla said, ‘Who I do business with is none of your concern.’ Her voice was surprisingly composed.

‘Oh, but it is. Your hypocrisy is my concern when it stands in the way of getting what I want.’

‘Whatever that is, you need to look somewhere else.’ 

A low grunt rumbled through the door and sent his shadows skittering. 

The intruder hissed, ‘You know, your righteousness is starting to get old.’ 

The wood jerked when something hard slammed against it. Shadows exploded against the ward, only to be pushed back and contained inside the room. A whimper escaped the young fae behind them.

Ayla gasped. Feet scraped against the stone floor.

Before he realised, Azriel pounded at the door. The ward wavered like it did against Rhys’s gentle palm and settled into stillness. He hit it again. Again. And again. His shadows slithered along the walls, searching for an escape, through the roof, through the narrow slits of the windows.

‘She won’t even hear you, Shadowsinger.’ Orvin spoke, concern lacing through his words. ‘The ward strengthens with each impact.’

His brothers only watched him. When Cass looked at Rhys, he hesitated, ‘I can’t get through.’

There was a strain in his voice, worried for Azriel. Worried about the danger his mate posed. Worried what might become of his brother if something happened to her. 

The voice hissed, ‘Remember.’ A strangled choke left Ayla’s lips when her head hit against the door again. ‘Remember what you owe them. For once,’ the voice ground out, ‘remember everything.’

Silence returned, suffocating and intense.

‘Finally!’ Another soft thud. ‘Next time, don’t play too hard. Make the bargain.’

Ayla sucked in a breath. The sharp footfalls pulled away from the door, from her. She growled, ‘Next time, I’ll melt you.’

The air stilled. A dark promise carried through in those words of hers. With each passing second of quiet, the gravity of her threat settled deeper and deeper.

Then there it was, the grating mockery of that angelic laugh. But no words followed. And the intruder was gone.

The key clicked. The ward faded. Azriel took a step back and so did his brothers. The door slowly flung open.

Ayla stayed outside. She took in their faces as carefully as she did before, as every other time. Her stare settled on Rhys. For the first time, recognition flickered in those still eyes. A deep red handprint tainted her delicate neck.

Azriel gritted his teeth. ‘Did she do that to you?’ 

He didn't truly need an answer. His whole body shook with rage as his shadows swallowed him, ready for his command. Cass came to stand beside him.

Ayla only looked at Rhys. ‘I don’t work for High Lords. You need to leave.’

Azriel reached for her, but Rhys held a hand out. He glared at his brother.

But Rhys ignored him. ‘I can explain,’ he spoke as gently as he would to a babe. ‘We had our reasons. We didn’t me—’

‘I respect them. I want you to respect mine.’ She stepped aside from the doorway. ‘Leave.’

Rhys waited for a moment. He then turned to his brother and nodded. But Azriel stood his ground, watching Ayla. Later, Rhys promised. You will come back for her later.

Azriel released his breath. He took in her distant eyes once. He stormed out without waiting for his brothers, his knives clenched tighter in his fists. 

He and his shadows were going on a hunt.

Next Chapter: Shadow

[zinfindoll]

Gehenna | fem!reader x twst | 00.

[ ao3 | quotev ]

[ index | next chapter (coming soon!) ]

Rating: T CW: Injuries, gore, mentioned death

AN: i wanted to write smth spooky for halloween so i have a reader from the evil dead world being sent over to twisted wonderland. this takes place directly at the end of evil dead 2, when ash gets sent to 1300 A.D.! you do not need to watch or consume evil dead media to hopefully enjoy this piece <3 I do not update often on here but feel free to follow my AO3 or Quotev for more constant updates! <3 there are currently more chapters uploaded to AO3 and Q right now.

It was funny how everything could change in the span of two days.  In just two days, you had watched your sister and her friends die.  In just two days you had gone from the happy-go-lucky 16 year old to a war-hardened vet.  You had seen everybody around you get brutally murdered, had seen your older brother get possessed and try to kill you, had fought against forces best left unseen.

And now, you were dying.

Everything hurt.  Your body felt like it was on fire, and you felt cold.  As you lied on the ground next to the lifeless body of Annie, you struggled to prop yourself up on your one good arm.  Each movement brought fresh waves of pain that had you whimpering.

You had come so far.  So fucking far.  And for what?  To bleed out just when the demon had been defeated?  What a joke.

Your brother crawled over to where you and Annie laid, and you could see tears drip from his eyes as he helped you to sit up.  "We did it," he gasped.  Blood dripped from his head from one of the many wounds he had gotten in his own fight against the Kandarian demon.  "No, no, c'mon kid, stay with me!"

Ash was rapidly smacking your cheek, the sensation stinging.  You didn't realize your eyes had been closing, and you groggily opened them back up, staring up at his panic-stricken face.

"M...  Really tired."  Your words were slurred, and he began to shake you.  In any other instance you would have scolded him for being so rough.  If somebody was bleeding out, you didn't try to give them shaken baby syndrome!

"God damn it, stay awake!"

"Why... are you always so loud?" you rasped.  Before he could respond, though, the cabin door flung open, revealing what could only be described as a worm hole of sorts.  It sucked everything in indiscriminately, and you watched with faint amusement as you could see Ash's car be pulled in from outside.  That was rough.

"Agh!"

Ash cried out, holding you close with his one good arm.  You appreciated him not bringing his chainsaw hand near you, although perhaps that would be the final step to put you out of your misery.

"How do you stop this?!"  Ash exclaimed as the two of you began to be pulled across the floor.  You grimaced at the feel of being pulled by such a strong force.

"Don't worry 'bout me," you muttered.  "Just go."

Ash held onto you tighter.  "No!  First Cheryl...  I'm not losing you, either!"

It was easier said than done, though.  Neither you nor Ashley were strong enough to resist the pull of the vortex, and with no solid grip, you were the first to be pulled in.  You offered no resistance, weakly clutching onto the Kandarian dagger that you had managed to pry from Annie's back.

He cried out your name as you felt yourself lift up off the ground; and the last thing you saw was his distraught face before the world around you turned black.

You were dead.  This, you were certain.  After all, not only were you standing in complete darkness, but you were completely uninjured.  You didn't feel any pain, and both of your arms were in perfect working condition.  You even flexed your left fingers experimentally, relieved to see everything was in order.

Everything that had happened was fresh in your mind, which was why you knew, without a doubt...  

You were dead.

So where were you?  Was this limbo?  Was this truly the afterlife?  Desolate and bleak?  You had at least been hoping to see Cheryl again, but even she was gone.

You were completely alone.

Your knees buckled underneath you, the weight of everything that had happened weighing on you.  You sank to the cold ground, and you let out a shuddering breath.

"You're not dead yet."

Your head snapped up, but you made no move to stand.  In front of you stood...  Well, something.  You weren't sure if it was exactly a person.  Their form seemed to shift and phase.  It was humanoid in shape, but you couldn't really process any features, as if your mind was incapable of handling such a feat.  At this point, you weren't surprised.  The past few days had been literal hell for you.

"What does that mean?"

Slowly, you forced yourself to stand back up.  Your legs trembled, but you stayed standing.  The figure was only a little bit taller than you, and their voice was layered.  When they spoke, it was as if many voices were speaking at once, an amalgamation of tones that created a dissonance in your mind.

"You fought well against the Kandarian demon and the Deadites, child."

"The....  huh?"

The entity sighed, although it seemed to be more in amusement than anything else.  Its tone remained calm and patient, addressing your obvious confusion.

"The ones you once loved, possessed by demons from another plane...  Those beings are, of course, the Deadites I refer to.  It is rather unfortunate that you had to encounter them...  But it is, whether you like it or not, the best."

"The best?  Those things killed my sister, my friends — me."  Your voice was choked up, cracking.  But the being said you weren't dead yet.  Was there hope for you?

"Indeed," the entity did not seem phased by your outburst.  "You and your brother, Ashley Joanna Williams, were prophesized to be the ones to fight against the Kandarian demon, far before your ancestry could be traced back.  Whether you like it or not, it is your duty to protect the Necronomicon from those who wish to wield it.

"You and Ashley Joanna Williams...  Are set to save the world, one day."

You shook your head.  Your throat felt dry.  "No.  No.  We're just...  a couple of idiots from Michigan.  We've never done anything remarkable throughout our lives.  You...  Have to be mistaken.  This was all a mistake.  A simple case of the wrong place and wrong time."  You shook your head again.  There was no way...  No way your fate was to do something so scary.  It was a mistake.  You refused to believe otherwise.

The entity was not perturbed by your adamancy, nor did it budge.  "Whether you want to believe it or not, it is true.  When you are much older, you will face off against Kandar the Destroyer."  The entity paused in its wording, before continuing.  "However...  I do not believe it is time yet to thrust you into such a role.  As Ashley Joanna Williams has been sent to find his own way and truth, so will you."

"Where is my brother?"

You took a hesitant step forward.  If this meant Ash was still alive...  You could at least rest a little bit easier.

"1300 A.D."

You nearly choked on your spit, slapping your hand over your mouth.  "He's where?!"  Your voice came out in a squeak.

"Fret not, child.  I will not be sending you so far back in the past.  His job is to save that era from darkness.  You, too, will be sent somewhere where your presence is needed."

"I want to go back home—"

The entity waved its hand.

"And in time, you shall return to Elks Grove.  But for now, you have your own part to play.  Rest easy, child.  Your story...  Is just beginning."

 The darkness began to lighten up, and you watched as the entity began to fade.

"Who are you?"

The entity spoke next, but it was pure static in your ears.  Brightness engulfed you.

When you woke up, your body was in pain.  You were surrounded by darkness once more, but you could tell this time it was because you were in an enclosed space.

Is this...  a coffin?!

You felt like you were going to throw up.  Sharp pains radiated throughout your torso, and you held your hand up to your abdomen only to find it sticky.  You were still bleeding.  Even worse, only your right hand had any movement, your left arm dangling uselessly at your side.  It was for the best you couldn't see it right now; when possessed, Ash had driven his chainsaw through your forearm.  It was a miracle it was still attached.

"Well, at least somebody had the decency to stay in their coffin before I could grab them!"  The muffled voice was flamboyant in nature, and you winced as light began to crack through the lids.  "Once I grab this last student, we can be on our way to the entrance ceremony to get you all sorted— hm?!"

As the lid was removed, you couldn't help but fall forward.  You landed on the ground with a rough thud, and you were grateful you didn't break your nose in the process.  The room was tinted blue, and you could have sworn you saw books floating around you in the peripheral of your vision.

"Sevens — what has happened to you?!  There's so much blood....!"

The voice was panicked, and you were rolled over onto your back.  You saw glimpses of two faces; one covered in a strange, black mask, and the other of a person with long black hair and worried silver eyes.

"Never in all of my tenure...  No matter!  We must get her to the infirmary posthaste!"

"What the..."

Before the words could finish leaving your lips, everything, once more, went black.

[itsnothingofinterest]

Hey, while I’m rambling about all the consequences of Deku killing Tomura, what is going to happen with the quirk singularity plot line now?

I talked about the Singularity in full here, but to go over it again real quick:

Dr, Garaki long theorized, and recently found proof by studying Eri’s blood, that as people with strong quirks reproduce to make children with stronger quirks, they will/did reach a point where we start to see quirks that people can’t control, leading to disaster as those quirks manifest. If a solution were not found, humanity would go extinct due to those walking-nuke children, or due to not reproducing so as not not risk walking-nuke children.

Prospects of a new solution being found by normal scientists always seemed low too; Garaki 'led' that field as the sole interested party and it still took him 70 years to produce a treatment on the backs of so much unethical experimentation. But almost all his work & research was destroyed, he’s unlikely to help if asked since he hates the heroes, and that’s even if the government starts taking the singularity seriously enough to ask before executing him or just let naturally kick the bucket.

And given how it’s already started, I don’t think the scientific community has that time to start from scratch.

But luckily the one piece of Garaki’s work needed to save humanity from extinction remains; and in another's hand too, so we don't need the spiteful mad scientist's co-operation. Tomura already went through the procedure to make his body singularity-proof, and so what I always thought could happen is once he and Deku set aside some differences and start working together, he could just let some people research his body and-

Oh…right…

…Fuck.

Way to go Deku, you’ve saved the day once more. Sucks for tomorrow though; I guess those future kids and their dangerously uncontrollable quirks are just plumb out of luck.

(On that note, isn’t this just salt in the wound of every ‘baby step in the right direction’ solution to the few systemic issues the League brought up that these last few arcs have chosen to address? How many more baby steps will be made by the time humanity is an endangered species? Will they have stopped spraying heteromorphs with pesticides by then do you think?)

Boy I hope for the people of the MHAverse’s sake that one of those long shot theories for how Tomura could survive this come true; because they look kind of screwed otherwise.

[blaisenova]

a little drabble i shat out teehee. super experimental, super angsty, super shorter than usual. i wouldn't have it any other way.

as always, ao3 link is in the reblogs.

no warnings for this one other than the usual messed up relationship bs i don't think, but let me know if i missed anything and i'll tack it on

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

A heaving breath disturbs the dust that has gathered on the bright red scarf that hangs on a bent nail sticking out of the wall. Once, perhaps, it would have reminded you of someone else, but all you can see now is a warped version of yourself that clung to both it and all of the memories that it held despite how much it hurt him. 

And, that was the problem, wasn’t it? 

That he was too much like you, only broken in different ways. Like looking in a mirror that had been shattered, seeing a distorted reflection that might have been you if the light had shone at another angle, or if the ones that had broken you both had done so more similarly; if there weren’t parts that had been removed; replaced; rearranged. You were imperfect echoes of one another, simultaneously too alike and too different; warped by the way your sound bounced off of the walls.

In the end, it hadn’t really mattered that you both wanted the same thing; to be seen, and to be loved despite how ugly the view was.

You had always known that you weren’t something worth seeing – weren’t convinced that you could be seen – and he’d been convinced that not seeing every part of him all at once, all the time, meant that you didn’t see him at all. 

You’d feared him just as much as you’d adored him; he’d hated you almost as much as he’d loved you.

And, that was the problem, wasn’t it?

You both had held on to things that would only ever hurt you, and neither of you had known how to let it go until you were already so thoroughly intertwined with one another that you had to rip and tear at the thorns that bound you so that you just might have a chance at escaping. You’d thought, at some point, the bleeding might stop – now that his binds weren’t tearing open your body just to be certain that you’d still bleed at his command – but, even though your soul is no longer connected to his, the thorns remain, and you are an open wound; a bleeding heart; a walking haemorrhage.

Nightmare wouldn’t like that you were staining his carpets so.

You weren’t sure you could bring yourself to care.

Gently, you rub his scarf between your fingers. It’s thin and threadbare, and some part of you finds kinship in that fact. The feeling is rough – unpleasant – but familiar.

Does familiarity have to be a good thing?

“I miss you,” you confess to no one, because something about the admission makes you feel filthy. Thick tar falls from your sockets and stains your cheeks, and terror lances through you as you realise that maybe you never will be anything more than this ever again. 

Your breathing comes quick, and you hold your breath so as to not disturb his dusty remains any further than you already have; and, you wonder why you treat him with a reverence that he would never return.

You wonder if he could ever understand just how terrified he made you – of being nothing more than this; wonder why it matters so much to you that he understands; know he can’t possibly, when he is the one making you so afraid.

What were you, before? What are you, now?

Pieces and parts of yourself: removed, replaced, and rearranged. 

You think of a story you read, once, long ago. The books you managed to get your hands on before were worse for wear – yellowing pages that were putrid and warped from the journey they’d taken when they were discarded and forgotten; nothing like the pristine, well taken care of books that you had access to now, though something about that made them mean less – but you absorbed what they had to offer you with an appreciation you were sure they’d never been granted before. They spoke of gods, and humans, and monsters, and they wondered in ways you’d never wondered before; ways you wonder now.

You think of the story of the Ship of Theseus.

Pieces and parts: removed, replaced, rearranged.

Is it the same ship? Are you the same you? Now that you’ve been rebuilt – removed, replaced, and rearranged – are you still the person you once were? Can you be rebuilt again? Or, are you stuck like this, now that the one that was constructing you is no longer around to restore your weathered parts? Are you trapped, half-finished and without a purpose? A boat built with perforated wood? 

Water rushes in the gaps, and, through the same rifts, your blood pours out. Because, despite being free of his ties – the thorns are gone; you ripped them out; you tore out their roots, so they can’t possibly grow back, right? – you still tear yourself open just to be certain that you can still bleed, should he command it.

He’s not around to command you anymore.

Somehow, you feel you still need to be prepared for it.

“I miss you,” you confess to yourself, and something about the admission makes you feel vile. Thick tar falls from your sockets and drowns you, and you’re horrified because, even now, you’re still exactly how he reconstructed you – removed, replaced, rearranged. You fear you’ll never be anything more than this.

Can you be anything more than this?

You weren’t rebuilt to be a person. You weren’t remade to have desires or needs. You’re not sure he knew how you were meant to function, when his hands were deep within your very mind; your very soul. You’re not sure he knew how thoroughly he was stripping you of the programming that kept you alive. You’re not sure it matters whether he knew, when the result is the same.

His hands left you, coated in oil, or tar, or blood – whatever it was that flowed through you – and he’d wiped sweat from his brow – smeared you across his forehead – after a job well done.

Pieces and parts of you: removed, replaced, rearranged.

Refashioned to please a person that can no longer reap the rewards.

The fabric between your fingers grates on your bone and wears you away. The feeling is rough – unpleasant – but familiar.

You wonder if familiarity is ever a good thing.

“Killer,” a voice calls, and you numbly raise your head to meet a bright cyan eye with your own two empty ones. His sockets are half-lidded, and his expression is tight. When he speaks, his tone is harsh. “You serve no purpose, serving someone that no longer exists. Come back to me. Let him go.”

Again, your gaze falls back down to the red on your hands, and you wither at the sight. You feel light and heavy, all at the same time. “How?”

He sighs, and the sound makes you flinch; apologies taste bitter as you swallow them back down like bile. In a way that is certainly contrary, he kneels before you – pulls your chin up with his hand in a way you know is uncharacteristically gentle – and smiles; wider, when you smile back. His hand outstretches towards you, open and empty. “Let me help you.”

You stare at the offer, gripping your grief in closed fists, and, carefully, you allow your fingers to fall open. Uncertainty shakes you as you reach for his hand, and you’re careful not to make contact when you deposit your soul – heart-shaped; unstable; ugly – within his grasp. Your fingers dart away from the construct before you can change your mind.

“Good,” Nightmare praises, but you wince as he draws your soul up and away, right before his face. His eye watches its shifting form in fascination, and, this time, his smile almost feels real. He looks back at you, and you already feel the oncoming sting. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll fix you.”

“I miss him,” you confess, and the admission makes you mortified. Thick tar falls from your sockets, and you can’t breathe.

“I know,” he says, “but you won’t.”

He brings your soul to his teeth, and a choked sound of agony catches in your throat as he bites down and consumes you. For a moment, panic locks you in place – punctuated by the way your breath stutters with each excruciating soulbeat – but the feeling disappears as quickly as the rest, and you’re left with nothing but the pain that serves as the cost of numbness.

As you barrel towards apathy, laughter pouring from your chest – you’re not sure why you’re laughing. It’s not funny – you think that you can never be more than this.

Pieces and parts of yourself: removed, replaced, rearranged, always in someone else’s name.

[kassandras-one-braincell]

I need to ramble into the void about Arcane season 2 act 2 because I'm a fucking wreck, but genuinely overjoyed too. Mostly sobbing, though. There is a smidge of LoL lore under the cut too but that's just me being autistic.

This show is genius. I have so many thoughts. The Glorious Evolution is at the forefront of most of them.

Viktor's commune is so cleverly designed, and brings in different elements from the whole of Runeterra. The architecture is distinctly Ionian, the foliage is Ixtali, and the colour palette is Demacian but with the iridescence of the Arcane. It's such a brilliant design choice. And immortalising Skye as this symbol of curiosity and progress, the epitome of true scientific partnership, is beautiful. It's amazing to see Viktor becoming a fully fleshed-out character with a complex and appealing motive.

Speaking of, Singed???

Singed's experimentation finally makes sense. I was always hoping to see Orianna in Arcane, and this was the best possible outcome. A villain gains a motive, my first ever main has her lore integrated into the events of the show, and his little music box has so much more meaning. Every single character has a moral plight in this show. The gasp I gusped upon seeing that ballerina figurine literally woke my dad up.

Jayce, Piltover's face of progress, being the undoing of the commune is just poetic. I'm living for biblically accurate Jayce.

Vander made me ugly-cry at least three times. Making him into Warwick was the right choice. And the 2D animation of the bloodlust, replicating that in-game mechanic, was so good. That oil-painting-style flashback sequence with Vi and Powder and their mother was a bloody masterpiece. I'm really glad there was an act dedicated to him.

Mel. Fucking Mel. The Black Rose is one of the most interesting factions in LoL, and god, am I glad they kept Mel's arc going by intrinsically tying her into them. The integration of Noxian lore has been impeccable thus far. Ambessa explaining the three core values to Caitlyn was a lovely touch.

I'm glad Ambessa's right hand (forgot his name) Pantheon't bit the bullet, because his resemblance to a certain Targonian Aspect was starting to freak me out. Very curious where her arc is tending towards.

As soul-destroying as it was to see Isha's sacrifice, it was essential to Jinx's character arc. Sweet baby girl. She will live on happily in fix-it fics. I haven't cried this hard at a piece of media since the first season. Her innocent joy at having her hair dyed and braided like her big sister, and the montage in the Powder-like sketchy art style before she pulled the trigger on zap... They couldn't have written a more gut-wrenching sacrifice if they tried.

And finally, while it was contained within the more light-hearted episode of the Act, Sevika. I have no quarrel with the fuckass bob. She cannot catch a break, or keep a prosthetic together. But the payoff was getting to see her organic arm in its full thick, muscular glory. The calm before the storm. Happy thoughts.

1000/10, cannot wait for the final Act, as much as it will wound us all, probably.

[atxxzist]

broken | c.s (final)

prev // series m.list

pairing: choi san x reader

word count: 13.5k

warning: nothing i can think of but lmk

"you did it once again!" arin squeaks, the excitement in her tone louder than the overwhelming joy you're feeling, only able to stare in awe at the sight before you.

your picture right under the employee of the month for the second time in a row.

"i guess i did," you reply, a confident smile resting on your lips as your chest drops in relief.

it took a lot of time and so much work in order for you to come around and accept the idea that you are good at what you do. that every compliment wasn't just because they pitied or felt bad for you, but because you genuinely deserved it.

it took even longer to come to terms with the fact that despite growing up the way you did, your youth filled with absent parents and a home and family with no love, you are so much more than that.

you are so much more than the traumas and broken pieces in your life, and you're not just a weak, timid girl with a haunted past and a wounded heart.

even if your parents didn't love you, and the only boy who you gave your heart to broke it, those things doesn't define you as much as the belief and faith you have in yourself.

all the sessions of sitting in your therapist's office, crying, spilling your soul and guts out, and trying to believe her when she'd tell you none of it is your fault, whether your parents or the romantic partners you had.

it's worth it because you came out so much better in the end, your mindset almost completely rewired to the point you can't believe how vulnerable you once were.

how, you used to believe every lies so easily, it flying over your head and always giving people the benefits of the doubt when they didn't deserve it.

always such a pushover and so fearful, unconfident at anything, it's hard to wrap your head around the fact you lived for almost nineteen years without medication or guidance when you were on edge and close to breaking down at all time.

but regardless, you did it. you got help and unlearned some, and then had to learn a lot so you could be the person you are today. no longer doubtful of yourself and your abilities, and unwilling to let just anybody step all over you.

it's that mentality that got you this far despite also still being the very same girl from five years ago who's still naive in some ways, and with so many more things to learn and overcome.

"y/n," arin calls, sneaking half her body into your cubicle with a stack of papers in her hold, prompting you to spin the chair around to face her.

"the team's going out to eat after work. it is our treat to you."

"sounds good," you reply, pleased by the offer you wouldn't ever deny. "see you in about 20?"

"yes." she bobs her head. "we're getting barbecue, by the way."

life had been an array of ups and downs, everything not always smooth sailing and hitting many bumps on the road here. from you and yuna joining hands together in making a children's book with her being the illustrator but unable to commit to the idea, to getting ignored or rejected the first 40 or so applications until someone finally found your resume impressive because you didn't want to just rely on other people.

no matter how good yuna's offer was, talking about how she could get you a position in her uncle's company and how bad you wanted to take it because it would've spared you the stress of having to search for a job yourself, you knew you couldn't.

you wanted to earn it and be proud it was through your own efforts.

the rejections humbled you in some ways, and made you stronger in others, stopping at nothing until you finally got the first email that you've been accepted by a makeup brand as their content writer.

the brand, velvetie, had only been out for about a year by the time of your employment and was still fairly small and experimental. now, the brand is known for their lines of lip tints that are labeled soft, smooth, and long-lasting by reviewers, the creations only getting more popular by days as it's just now being praised by actors and idols alike.

you didn't at all imagined this to be the job you'd wind up with, nor did you think you'd turn out liking it, the creative writing degree and your history speaking for itself, but you're happy where you ended up and happy to still be writing in general.

the marketing team you're in, a small but comfortable circle where you've come to love and grow fond of the people you're working with, sharing the same space for a few hours a day and understanding all too well the struggles of meeting deadlines or running into a creative dry spell.

arin, who you're closest to and have known the longest, is who you met in your last semester of sophomore year after making the mistake of taking calculus as an elective while she was taking it as requirement for her business major.

besides the obvious hatred for calculus the two of you shared, it was unusual how quick a friendship came to blossom, never in your life have you felt such a natural bond to anyone. not even mingi, you've already told that story countless times, how it took awhile.

but it was so easy talking to her, your reserved and hesitant personality the perfect one to her more outgoing and friendly nature, you two clicked instantly, it was crazy.

she not only became one of your best friends, but also a part of your everyday life.

"you're completely drunk," you comment, finally pulling your friend's butt off the seat when everyone else finally left.

she hurls out a groan and leans on you slightly, her alcohol breath incredibly intoxicating and is the sole reason why you often rethink the choice of saying yes when you hate taking care of a drunk arin.

"i'm good," she attempts to say but her words are slurred as she tries regaining her balance and striving a few steps forward but you're quick to assist her again because you know she's gonna fall.

"come on, let's get you a cab," you say at the same time walking out with her sluggish body, stopping just right outside the restaurant.

"no. let me go home with you."

you raise an eyebrow at your friend, her head on your shoulder and appearing unconscious but the response just now registering her more aware than you think, because you know the girl, and you know she won't ever pass up the opportunity to visit her boyfriend.

a few months ago when you finally made the big decison to move out after sharing a tiny apartment with mingi for over a year, you had no idea that the new place, a modern-esque two bedroom apartment, would be under the same building as arin's boyfriend, and just right down from the hall to be precise.

you've met him a couple times and of course, he's handsome and wonderful and treats her just right, but you definitely did not apartment hunt with him in mind, so what were the chances.

at least for arin, it made everything all more convenient. her boyfriend in one place and her best friend just two doors down as she'd hop from one to another like it's halloween.

but in spite of her protests along the shared ride because you also shouldn't be driving, your conscious tipsy, you tell the driver to pull up at her place, not at all concerned about the abandoned cars because you'll just pick it up tomorrow, with the restaurant and your workplace a walking distance.

"but the dinner tomorrow, you're still coming, right?" your friend turns to you, her lazy eyes squinting as she awaits an answer.

"yes. we'll talk more about it tomorrow."

you insist on helping her walk to the door, afraid she might hit the cement before she'll even make it, but she assures she got it. still, you watch through the window as she fiddles with the keys until unlocking and disappearing inside.

once you're home, all you want to do is hit the bed. maybe put on a show in the background and just doze off to it, but you have to wash off the sweats and grime of today; get cleaned up and dry before settling on your mattress comfortably.

the ding from your phone you've placed on the nightstand after going the entire day of being on silent is what grabs your attention, your neck snapping to the lit-up screen, checking the bundle of messages you missed out on.

4:43 p.m.

kwak yuna: guys! florence is so beautiful!

kwak yuna: *attachment*

song minGi: beautiful for sure, but would be even better in person 🙄

kwak yuna: i told you guys that we should take a trip and i'll pay for half of it, but y'all always too busy to do anything 🙄💅

song minGi: yeah cuz we have something called being poor & have to keep up with jobs and responsibilities. we don't have mommy's and daddy's limitless money to live off of

kwak yuna: stfu 🖕

song minGi: 😜

lee minJi: he's so jealous fr

song minGi: that, i am. i too wish i was in italy rn

jeong yunho: but we really need to catch up soon. how does seoul sound in about a month from now?

kwak yuna: i can do that. starting to really miss home anyways.

jeong yunho: yeah, me and minji can make a trip there as well

song minGi: sounds good to me. now, we just wait for the other two, which is gonna be a good few years

jeong yunho: y/n has her phone on silence during work

song minGi: and yeosang's too good for the rest of us

jeong yunho: pfft

you giggle and roll your eyes the entire time reading through it, checking the latest message that prompted the notification and seeing it was from yuna.

it only makes sense given it's probably still early for her because of the time zone difference.

9:51 p.m.

kwak yuna: no one cares but this is the outfit i'm wearing for today. it's almost 1pm and i'll be heading to the gallery soon.

kwak yuna: *attachment*

song minGi: you're right, no one cares

y/n: in about a month sounds good to me, and seoul sounds even better. i won't have to do any traveling lol. also @ kwak yuna the outfit is super cute! i love the beret! 💕 and @song minGi you're literally annoying 🥱

song minGi: omg jumpscare! she's here to yell @ me

y/n: yessir

kwak yuna: omg y/n! hi!!!!

y/n: hi 🤭

y/n: had my phone on silence and then went out with my coworkers after. but yes, i miss you guys a lot. let's crash at my place next time!

kwak yuna: yes! i'll bring the booze!

song minGi: make sure it's the expensive kind

y/n: that's it, guys. have to sleep. goodnight! 🌙

before you go to set the alarms and really turn off your phone for the night, you catch just a glimpse of mingi's and yuna's conversation, the brief mention of yeosang before it all turns to fun banters again.

of course, most of the works were because of your own efforts and determination in wanting to get better. but the process would've been so much harder had it not been for the friends and support by your side.

the ones who believed in you when you didn't even believe in yourself, and the ones who gave you words of encouragement one after another, and was just there for you through it all.

a few years ago, you didn't think it was even possible to be without mingi or yunho. without their guidance or assistance because then you'd feel so out of place, lost, and completely confused.

but now, you're cities apart from them, and is surviving and doing absolutely okay.

they were so happy when you told them about arin; how alike but also different you two are, and how comfortable everything is with her, because they could rest assured that when they were no longer by your side, you'd be in good hands.

but even if without arin, they had faith in that you could do it by yourself. you'd grown so much within the past years and had no doubts you'd be fine.

they knew they couldn't be with you forever. not all the time at least. eventually, dreams and ambitions will take one of you from the others until you're all in different places one day, and they wanted you to be ready for that.

and it did. yunho sooner than mingi because as soon as he graduated, he followed his heart and moved to busan with minji, his girlfriend, and has been there since.

mingi on the other hand, lived under the same roof as you for a little over a year, attempting to do something with his psychology degree and earn his teaching credentials before moving back to the quiet town to be closer to his parents. he missed them.

who would've ever thought that out of the three, you would be the one who chose to stay back in the bigger city of strobing lights, loud commotions, and a big population when you were anything but that once upon a time.

so you're all in different places.

not just mingi and yunho, but yuna also traveling the world just like she dreamed of. traveling the continents so she can see the beauty the world has to offer; replicate it in her arts and visiting galleries and museums for more knowledge and inspirations.

you're happy for her.

the only person still in town is yeosang, but even he's not entirely reachable, if at all. he's the least active in the group chat and you can't recall the last time you had a proper conversation with him.

he's incredibly busy, you understand.

last you heard, he's juggling the tech job he got during his senior year, along with his master's at seoul national.

you knew someone like yeosang was always destined for greatness and his current standing doesn't fall any short of it. that he was always meant to go to a competitive university and get offered a great job because he's truly gifted and exceptional.

unable to dwell on any more thoughts, you close your eyes and let the weight of today take over, falling into a deep slumber.

waking up and getting ready for work is a repetitive routine.

first, making yourself a nice cup of coffee before getting dressed up and doing your hair, grabbing all necessary files and anything essential before calling a cab because you left your car at the company's parking lot yesterday.

the company's building is mostly in white, the only splash of other colors is the logo in pink plastered right at the front for everyone to see as they enter.

you swipe your id card and head upstairs to your designated working space, surprise to see arin already at hers before you.

"morning," she coos, her early tone friendly as you pass by her cubicle.

"morning," you reply, voice still tired and drowsy to a point, but your friend's perfectly fine appearance has you questioning, "hangover?"

"nope." she shakes her head. "i'm surprisingly fine, and excited for the dinner tonight. i hope you haven't forgotten."

"i haven't, because you've only reminded me like 50 times."

she giggles, a satisfied smile on.

"okay, good. i'll see you during break."

~

"so what exactly is this dinner about?" you ask your friend, seated in the break room right across from each other, the question stopping her from shoving a sandwich down her throat.

the entire week of her bringing up the 'dinner' event and annoying you with it, she never emphasized on what exactly it means. and dinner in the presence of her boyfriend and his apartment, to be exact.

"i don't understand why you'd want to invite me? i mean, shouldn't you guys be spending time alone?" you add on, confused.

"shhh," she shushes you, index finger at her lips and swirling out an exaggerated sigh, "you don't need to know anything for now. just get dressed up and get pretty, okay?"

she ends it with a calming smile, diving right back into her food as you stare at her with daggers.

you swear, if this is another of her attempt at setting you up on a date, you're so not gonna forgive her for it. it will be the third time, to speak.

the third time that you'll have to explain to her why you're not interested and why it didn't work out with you being completely married to your job and just not ready for the next step.

that no matter how fun and exciting the idea of a double date and hanging together is, it is not a priority for you. at least for now.

nonetheless, you get ready, throwing on a casual enough off shoulder ruffle dress that still looks presentable and like you at least tried, along with a pair of flat sandals.

you think that maybe, there's a chance tonight you're all just gonna eat dinner, probably play a game or two after and even catch a late night movie because arin just wants to hang with her boyfriend and best friend.

that you've drilled it enough time in her head that you're not looking for a romantic interest for her to know to not try to persuade you.

a text from her telling you to come when you're ready is what gets you up from the couch, checking your hair just once in the small mirror before heading down the hall and placing two knocks at the door.

your body and nerves still calm one second, and suddenly the next when the frame comes apart to unveil the person behind it and standing before you, you second guess if you're at the right place and time.

if this is some alternate universe where you're seeing things, or if reality is really so cruel to put you through this.

you've come so far and thought you had conquered most of your fears and hauntings, but all it's taking for your palms to start sweating again and feet with the urge to run to safety, is one of your past showing its head and waddling back into your life.

he's as equally surprised and confused, staring at you like he didn't expect this as well, and time stretches on when you two just gawk at each other like a dramatic scene from a movie.

his appalled expression as his eyes enlarges is disgustingly endearing, and you hate the way your body reacts to it.

hate that he looks even better than the last time, his hair now more refined and there's something more mature and manly about his style.

he's in a suit and no longer looks like a college fratboy that enjoys breaking hearts just for fun.

hate that you haven't seen him in practically five years and everything still feels so familiar; all his features so instantly recognizable that you can still imagine the way his lips feel on yours, and how cute dimples would pop out of his cheeks when he smiles.

hate that everything's coming back all at once; when time used to stop and when it was still hard to breathe.

when a beating heart was usually followed by swarm of butterflies in your stomach that you haven't felt in years, and now the sight of him in front triggering the sensation once again.

and you hate the fact that no matter how much pain he had put you through, or how many times he had hurt you to the point you were so sure you were over him, there's a certain fondness you have for him and a special place in your heart that reacts with familiarity.

it feels like the world stopped spinning and everything in the background turning blurry just for the few seconds you two meet again for the first time, although it feels like forever.

"hey, y/n!" yeonjun's voice snaps you back, your gaze skipping over san's shoulder to your friend's boyfriend and you loathe it even more that none of it is a mistake.

that you didn't just happen to wander into the wrong apartment or something.

that the universe is really so unfair and cruel and setting you up for the worst by crossing paths with san again.

"come on in!" he ushers, his tone happy and excited the way you know yeonjun always is, him and your friend completely ignorant to the bubbling tension between you and the boy still standing before you.

you just nod in return, san moving out of the way awkwardly as you finally step in and roam the interior as if you haven't already seen it, trying your best to focus on anything else but the person raising the hair at the back of your neck.

the closing of the door is heard the same time yeonjun switches to introduce you to one another, and you both just humming and bowing with acknowledgement.

act as if this is the first time meeting each other. as if there isn't a history that played a signifcant part in shaping the two of you in becoming the people you are today, and now landing in this situation by some odd twisted fate.

arin and yeonjun just laughing off the awkward and bumbling exchange, brushing it off as no more than two strangers new to each other and moving it to the dining table.

"let's eat first. perfect opportunity to learn about each other," your friend speaks, and all that is going through your mind is which is worse: sitting next to san or across from him. you think the latter.

but the former isn't any better with arin and yeonjun watching the both of you like hawks, unaware that the reason you're both not speaking to each other isn't because of shyness or unfamiliarity.

but they do notice something isn't right; that there might another reason up in the air why the both of you can barely look at each other.

yeonjun with how bold and confident san tends to be, the boy always approaching everything so smugly. and arin in the entirety of knowing you, never had seen you look so tense.

she wasn't gonna do it at first. knows and understands how much you've been telling her it's never gonna work out, the two guys she connected you with from before ending in complete disaster.

but she just couldn't help it this time when her boyfriend started talking about his friend he met in the states finally flying to korea and will be staying with him for a couple of days.

and she especially couldn't help it when she learned he's not only incredibly handsome but also single.

she figured she was doing you a favor, but by the look of your face and body language right now, white in complexion like you just saw a ghost, she thinks you're totally gonna yell at her for this.

"i uhm, i gotta use the restroom," you speak up, lying through your teeth and san can't even blame you for it, honestly even relieved you're the one to initiate.

you wobble the entire way to the bathroom, your legs shaky and your stomach starting to become upset but your chest dropping slightly when you sit on the edge of the bathtub, glad to just be away.

you were doing so good. you were.

you hadn't thought of him in forever and now he just shows up out of nowhere, not even just as a stranger, but as the friend of your friend's boyfriend?

what sick joke is reality trying to play on you right now?

"y/n?" arin's sweet and concerned voice calls from the other side as you attempt to gather yourself to face your friend. tell her why you can't be here and make up something in hope you can leave.

"hey," you say lowly after prying the door open, a forced smile on your lips which arin doesn't buy into.

"you okay?"

"i'm alright. i just... don't feel so good right now," is your excuse, just praying she doesn't start questioning now, because you're not exactly in the time or place to explain everything between you and san.

all the heartbreaks and betrayals, and why you cannot stay here any longer or you'll really break.

"do you want to go home, or?" she's the one to bring up the idea, and you're thankful because you didn't want to be that person.

didn't want to have to break it to her and end the night so soon given how much she's talked about the day, and all the planning and preparation that yeonjun must've put in.

"yeah, i think it's best if i do," you answer, guilt present in your eyes, "i'm sorry i couldn't stay any longer. you guys probably worked hard on dinner."

arin snickers and shakes her head, the reassuring smile on her helps in dissipating some of the guilt.

"don't worry about it. you go ahead, i'll tell yeonjun."

she isn't gonna fight you on it. not when she's never seen you this way, coming off uneasy and absolutely troubled, she's gonna have to get down to the root of it tomorrow.

but for now, she just knows you need to be away.

you barely manage to make it to the door the stealthiest you can, bidding a weak goodbye to yeonjun and zooming out that instant, the frame shut right behind you and your shoulders dropping from the built up suffocation.

you proceed to your apartment, pushing past everything with a thumping heart until you're sitting at the edge of your bed, going on to do the one thing you always do when it's just all too overwhelming--

"mingi, you're not gonna believe this."

you can hear his protests of groans and sighs from the other side, so in character of him because this is usually his nap time.

"i just saw san."

the commotion is loud, the shuffling of body as he sits himself up and tries regaining conscious just to make sure he's not tripping out.

"you're forreal?" he remarks, sounding a lot more awake but still unconvinced.

"yes. he's yeonjun's friend and i don't even know how the fuck they knew each other or why he's here. all i know is arin needs to give up on trying to find me a date," you say in disbelief, recalling the last guy you went out with who left you feeling extremely disrespected and insulted after, and you thought the next one couldn't possibly be any worse.

"wait. so let me get this straight. you two met again because you're friend with arin and he's friend with yeonjun, and arin and yeonjun are dating?"

"yes."

"and yeonjun and you just happen to live under the same complex?"

"well, yes."

"what in the soulmate fuckery is this?"

"pfft," you scoff, throwing your head back into the soft mattress in frustration. "more like a curse. i was doing so good, it's been so long since i'd just... straight freeze up and chicken out, and that's exactly what i did."

mingi churns out a low hum, "no other way else to do it. what? you were gonna shake hands and play catch up with him? asked him what he did after he fucked you over and broke your heart?" he quips.

"well, no," you reply, reframing from growing irritated at your friend for his snarky remark during a time when your ovaries are about to explode. "i just thought i would've handled it a lot better. it's been five years and i haven't thought of him in so long, but one sighting of him and i'm already starting to question all the progress."

the recollection of earlier so vivid, you can almost feel the same sensation of shock and confusion as it numbed your entire body, just standing there like a little deer caught in headlights.

as if time throwing you back to the age of eighteen, still so easily starstruck and defenseless when it came to the charming boy who knew all the right things to say and do but never meant any of it.

who, told you right in the face he didn't want you--which was probably the only time he was being sincere.

last you heard, he had left the country. you didn't know where to exactly, but knew that he left.

you remember hearing about it from mingi the first time, that strange melancholy washing over at the news even though in theory, you should be happy.

mingi said he debated on telling you, having heard it from a friend of a friend, but succumbed eventually because he thought you would like to know, despite the pain and hardships san caused you, there's a part of you the revelation would bring relief to.

you won't have to worry or fret about accidentally running into him anywhere and go through that stage of grief all over again. and most importantly, it might in some ways, make the healing process easier.

"y/n," mingi snaps you out of it, that stern accent in his voice that indicates he's about to go off, "just because you're experiencing strong emotions again doesn't erase all of the progress you've made. you've seriously come so far, so don't undermine it."

"of course you're gonna feel some types of way at seeing san again. you said it yourself that he's someone special because he took so much from you. what matters is how you handle it now, and i know my y/n won't even give him the time of day or entertain his ass, right?"

you take in mingi's words and he's absolutely right. you're overthinking and giving yourself too little credits when you know that there's no way--

"right?! bitch, you better answer."

you roll your eyes.

"i love the faith you have in me," you say sarcastically.

"girl, i love you but that was a rough time."

because you lied and betrayed him the most during your time with san, and now, you just let him make all the jokes and snarky comments he wants. you're all over it.

"no but forreal that was actually kind of eye opening. if this teacher thing doesn't work out, you should totally go back and expand on that psychology degree."

he blows from the other line and you can picture an unamused expression on his face.

"nah, fuck that. i'm done with this school shit for life."

you let him ramble some more about why, no matter how much he enjoys the subject, the life and longevity of being a professional in the field just not for him (or the extra years of schooling) before he brings it back to the initial discussion once more.

and you promise that you won't fold so easily and pathetically ever again in the face of choi san.

you're familiar with how sometimes, by strokes of bad luck, you'd just be having shitty events happen one after another in a single day.

well, you're not gonna risk it and let it be this day, the top of your head peeking out to check the hallway before your entire body is scuttling into the elevator not taking any chances.

fate is already so cruel in placing the man who broke your heart and all, just a few doors down, and if it wanted to smack you right in the face with his chest or broad shoulders, it would've had you not left so quickly.

arin isn't there when you set foot into the office, her cubicle vacant and you continue to yours, sitting down to login and access your email, looking through the files the other team had sent of confirmed products that are soon gonna be launched and on the website a few months from now.

"good morning," your friend's greeting make you turn around, a sweet smile on her face like always, but yours still holding that same silently petrified expression of yesterday.

"hey."

her heels clink the carpet tiles walking closer, brows creasing into a look of sympathy as she asks, "you feeling any better?"

you nod, a barely audible hum leaving to accompany.

"should we talk about it? at lunch?"

because as much as you don't say, she knows there's something in your throat dying to just get out, and she's as equally curious to know.

"after work. we can grab something to eat."

you just don't think it's possible to summarize it all in thirty minutes; the history between you and san, and why you slightly want to pull her hair out because her boyfriend just has to be his friend.

it wasn't her fault, of course. but you're still kind of mad she tried playing cupid again and found the worst possible candidate.

you consider arin one of your best friends and she's told you on plenty occasions the same in return, but you did meet her after everything.

your fall from grace, that is, and quite possibly the lowest point in your life. so it just never came up, despite the impact it had on your growth, you didn't exactly expect you'd have to explain to her why her boyfriend's friend makes you want to hit your head against a wall.

"what? no way!"

your friend's embarrassingly loud volume echoes the whole restaurant and you have to deliver a kick to her leg under the table for the girl to calm with a light flush on her cheeks.

but you suppose there's no other way to react; finding out you too, were in love once and isn't completely the anti-romantic she was gonna write you off as.

"yeah..."

"i'm sorry. i truly am. from now on, i won't do it anymore," the girl swears, having seen it enough for herself at this point how her schemes despite having good intentions, always brings you the worst luck.

and though you've barely just scrapped the surface with san, your reactions were so strong when you saw him again, there's no doubt the guy put you through some fucked up shit.

"it's not like you knew or i ever told you, but yeah, it would be nice for you give up this whole matchmaking gig. you're horrible at it," you tease your friend, a laughter bubbling out when she rolls her eyes in response, quick to jump right back into asking questions.

"but you're okay now?"

"yeah. it's been years. just the shock of the first meeting in so long, i guess."

she nods, her mouth clamped shut because she does feel a little bad even if she didn't know, thinking the chances is crazy.

"he won't be here for long. as far as i know, it's only for a couple days until he finds a place or move elsewhere," she assures, bringing up what she heard from dinner last night because it might make you feel better.

"oh," is all that leaves, not that you're not relieved to hear it, but because there's something else you want to ask. questions lingering in your mind ever since 24 hours ago when you saw he was back.

it's not that you care, but it's really more out of curiosity.

"do you know how yeonjun and him met? or why he's back?" it slips out either way. but he could've been around for a while--the country at least, and last night was just when you so happened to see him.

"they met back in the states, when yeonjun was studying in new york. he haven't told me a lot about it either but i'm guessing it's something to do with his dance studio."

ah, so that's where san moved... new york.

"i see," you simply reply and leave it there, unwilling to ask any more or show the slightest interest in san's whereabouts even if you are intrigued because you know how much yeonjun lives and breathes dancing.

he even managed to open up his own studio, and you may not know a lot about san now or how much he's changed, but you remember his answer whenever you'd tell him to pursue his interest.

you never thought you'd see san and dance in the same sentence ever again.

you try to not let the threats of him distract you, but you still can't help but watch your back and surrounding everytime you leave into the hall, so fearful you're gonna smack or run into him and be left with nothing but the choice to face the ghost of your past.

you're not gonna let him have the power he once had over you, but that doesn't mean you're not dreading seeing him.

he's always been perfectly sculpted and too handsome for his own good, the last few years turning him even more menacing in terms of appearance, it's annoying if anything.

it doesn't have the same effect it used to, your eighteen year old self would've fallen to her knees and make an offering, but now, you can admit he looks good and just move the hell on.

but you still don't want to see him.

a few days of sneaking and hiding around like you're a spy in some undercover movie, you think you've officially lost your mind.

that maybe the universe's done enough damage and has taken a backseat, all your fear and paranoia all for nothing because there's no way you're gonna have to face san.

there's no way that on the day you finally decide to let your guards down and admit you're being overdramatic that you're gonna--

the sound of a door opening just as you close yours pick your head up in that direction, and out of every neighbors it could possibly be, of course it's san because why wouldn't it be?

he has a trash bag in one of his hands just like you and you can't help but to curse yeonjun's name for not taking out his own shit.

the world once again stops spinning and time stands still as both of your gazes burn into each other, his slightly hesitant eyes to your dull ones, just hoping he gets the fucking message.

that it's gonna be fucking awkward and since he still has his door opened, he can go the hell back in. act like this never happened because under any circumstances, you're not gonna talk to him.

you're also not gonna go back in now that it is what it is. you've already come so far and it's been years, it's about time you show than just tell.

show that he no longer has a hold over you and that you're not gonna cower like the once timid person you were.

you start by breaking the staring contest, straightening your posture and begin walking, not bothering to spare him another glance even as you pass right by him.

that it's more than enough signs and he'll just let it go. but it's san after all, and why would you ever expect him to do anything right?

"can we please--"

"--no," you cut him off so fast, his words more triggering than predicted and you can't really believe he's even trying.

"i know that--"

"i don't want to hear it!" you finally turn to him, all kinds of anger and disbelief coursing your face as tears threaten to pour and making your eyes red.

don't want to hear about the heartbreak and lies all over again; how and why you're not the one, and relive the miserable days once more.

"i don't care what you have to say because i don't want to hear it," you go on, voice and legs trembling but persisting nonetheless, "what happened between us is over. it ended, so i'd like it if you can keep it that way because there's nothing else to talk about."

and with that, you're walking away. you don't bother to wait for his response and you don't care to, but the silence protrudes until you hear the door shut behind.

~

"so you're not even a little bit curious in what he has to say?"

"no."

"or what he's been up to?"

"why the fuck would i be?"

"because you gave your pussy to him and he made your heart flutter like no others."

"what the fuck, mingi," you hiss into your phone, "weren't you the one preaching about not even giving him the time of day?"

"no no, of course, fuck that guy. i'm just saying that if he has something to say, aren't you just the slightest bit curious what it is? don't you want to hear about how pathetic and miserable he was during the time apart, or how sorry he is?"

you raise an eyebrow, replying with a perplexed but definite "no."

"okay, i'm proud or whatever," he says nonchalantly, and you can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not.

"there's no need to hear him out and even if he is sorry, i don't care. i'm over that shit and i'm over him."

"yes! so don't let me find out otherwise," he snarks, and you hate that he can't be serious for a second unless you two are at each other's throats and about to start yelling.

"you're annoying. bye."

you hang up, throwing your phone aside and eyes glued to the white ceiling that suddenly has such an entrancing pattern.

surely, you don't care. what he's been up to the past five years, or why he decided to come back.

there's also no reason to hear him out; the last conversation between the both of you more than enough to sum it up. he's hurt and used you beyond belief and that's that.

“i-i just feel like you never tried enough. maybe i’m not fond of who you are currently, but i could learn to–”

“please don’t make it any more harder than this, y/n. you don’t get with someone hoping you can learn to tolerate them… that’s not how it works.”

“you’re a nice girl, y/n. you really are so sweet, and i can see myself with you someday…” he says with a distraught look you will forever remember given how his words make your heart thump, only to then shoot it down, “but not right now…”

you cringe at how pathetic you were, so desperate for his reciprocation as if it was the sole thing keeping you alive and breathing.

but you've been fine and haven't moped about him in probably three years, so you will continue to be fine, whether or not you'll really hear from him, all the things he's been waiting to say.

"any plans for tomorrow?" you casually ask arin during break, your focus on the laptop and skimming through the drafts you've written, you don't catch the very moment she just freezes up tight-lipped.

"i'm going to see a movie," she answers.

"oh?" you nod it off, unsuspecting to the tension uprising and going on to ask in a cool tone, "what movie?"

it's not like you want to be invited; you and arin are perfectly fine being apart and doing your own things from time to time, but it's lunch and it's where you and her usually engage in topics and conversations of all kind just to pass time.

"the new superhero one." she lets a few seconds go by before adding, "with yeonjun."

you freeze in position then, though missing her nervous and anxious tone from before, it all makes sense.

she's gonna be with yeonjun, and with yeonjun comes someone else. she was afraid to bring it up; knows almost everything between you and san by now and knew you were most likely to reject the offer to go to the movie if he's gonna be there.

even if she loves going to the theater with you, the rants and comments after about what you both loved or hated the best part of the entire experience, but she was afraid.

"oh, i see," you dismiss, relaxed tone and a smile like it doesn't affect you. "heard lots of positive reviews about it, you guys are going to enjoy it for sure."

you try not to let the thought bother you for the rest of the day, but it does.

not of arin because you know she's sweet and kind and even asked again before she went home if you're okay with it, and you assured her you are.

she and yeonjun can't possibly cater to you and san just because you both happened to have some intertwined history they weren't even aware of beforehand.

no. you can't stop letting san fuck with your head. surprise?

can't stop overthinking and being spiteful that he was the one who fucked you over, yet you're the one having to accomodate while he's still shameless after all these years.

so he still has some effect on you, but you bet they're not the ability to summon butterflies or make you pink in the cheeks, maybe just red in the face.

because on top of learning to not let everyone step all over you, you also picked up on how to be a bit of a bitch. not your proudest accomplishment but a much needed one for survival.

you shouldn't have to step aside for him, tell him you don't want to talk, or run away as if he's the plague. it's been years, you said it yourself, and there's no reason to not hang with your friend or go see a movie you're interested in just because san is gonna be there.

you roll around in bed until landing in a comfortable position, eventually going to sleep with the thought.

~

"are you sure?" arin asks once again, the soft concerned accent in her voice.

"yes."

you've made your mind overnight, that you're not gonna run or cower. he no longer has ownership over you and you're gonna go see the movie.

"alright. if you really are sure, pick you up at four."

you get ready around three, do your hair and dress up a little just to look somewhat presentable and wait until there's a knock at the door, arin having texted thirty minutes ago you'll all be going in her car since the theater is closer to the complex.

somehow, you're not dreading or feeling even the slightest nervous at having to share a car ride with san or spend two hours at the cinema with him just a couple seats down.

when you do see him out in the hall, his freshly showered hair still wet and he has on a matching grey set of joggers and hoodie, his hands buried inside the pockets of his pants as he lasers you a look of surprise.

he didn't think you'd come because you most likely knew he's gonna go.

the ride down the elevator and most in the car thankfully drowned by arin's and yeonjun's constant chattering, talking like they're never gonna run out of topics.

but it makes the situation all more better and less awkward considering you're sitting in the backseats with san, but your attention out the window the entire time, mind either occupied with their conversation or the low volume music.

"y/n, i heard you got employee of the month again."

the call of your name pulls you away and to yeonjun's eyes as he looks over his shoulder before he blinks and turns back.

"ah, yes i did."

your friend has a habit of telling other people your business, but in her defense it's only because she wants to show you off since you're so great--taken by her word for word.

"arin's told me a lot about your writing," he casually adds, seconds before your friend starts doing what she does best.

"she's the best!" she squeals, and you have to hold back a snicker.

"how'd you get into it? your friend hasn't told me that part, shockingly," yeonjun says, amusement in his tone and taking the chance to tease his girlfriend.

"i--" you start but arin beats you to it.

"she started with a journal or notebook first, i think!"

you don't know whether to find it annoying or endearing, your eyes rolling but lips pulling into a smile.

"yeah," you let your friend have it, but the smile soon fading when you can feel the pair of eyes on you burning from the side, though you won't dare check it for yourself.

you also won't tell them why you started it in the first place, or how much the boy sitting next to you played a part in it.

"we're here!" arin announces, pulling into a parking space.

going to the movies also follows a routine; purchasing the tickets, getting a drink and popcorn if you're up for it, then going to find your seats.

san is seated next to yeonjun, and you next to arin, your eyes occasionally batting from the screen to your friend as she passes comments to her boyfriend when she'd have something to say about a scene.

the situation all too relaxing and calm, just exactly what you need for your mind to destress and just focus on what's happening; whether the characters' motivations or the great worldbuilding.

no need to worry about anything else, your stomach and chest still relaxed, nothing like the situation after the premiere that constricts the both of them as a wave of uneasiness wash over.

now regretting not following after your friend and just lying about having to use the restroom as well, because if you did, you wouldn't be stuck waiting in the hallway with san.

he's standing a feet from you, you can't really tell. but your gaze is nothing but trained on the restroom's doors wishing for either arin or yeonjun to finish fast enough.

but at least you're both kept company by the exit of other people leaving their auditorium, and the ones trying to find theirs.

you think you've done enough of a good job in letting san know you don't want anything to do with him, especially when it comes to compromising or making amends.

that he'd get it by now you don't even want to talk. after this, you both can go back to living separate lives and put on the act of not knowing each other the way it's been.

"congrats on getting employee of the month."

the voice makes you shudder, the reaction you want to give bordering annoyed and angry.

"i already told you i don't want--"

"i know. i know you don't want to hear any of it, and i won't try it now. but i just really wanted to tell you that because you deserve to hear it."

you fume through your nose, not wanting to have to look him in the eyes or give into his attempt at starting a conversation, but you can feel him looking you down, if the uncomfortable ting from the side of your face means anything.

"thanks, but i've heard enough from others to know i deserve it," you reply, your delivery sharp and straightforward, and san can't help but to smirk at that.

he knows he doesn't deserve to be heard; get the chance to explain himself and all the mistakes he's made because then it would be unfair to you.

calling them mistakes would be downplaying all the hurt and pain he's put you through, because at the time, it was his choice to make them. his choice to deceive and lie to you when he never had any sincere intentions.

he isn't proud of them, but that was who he was, and he owns up to the fact he was so horrible back then. undeserving of sympathy, affection, or being loved, and yet, you still gave him all three with your entire heart.

he can't say he deserves it now either despite some life altering decisions and soul searching, but he can say he's less of a shitbag to some extent.

still, your forgiveness is something he don't think he'll ever rightfully deserve.

another thing still the same is how much he likes everything about you, and seeing you again after all these years; after how much you've changed, he might like you even more.

no longer the soft spoken and afraid girl always holding back, but now with a sharp tongue and snippy attitude that speaks her mind.

who, different from the last time he saw you years ago, has on a new distinct style to complement the woman you've become--your hair always perfectly curled at the tips, your makeups more bold and edgy, and you don't shy away from showing any skin.

you walk around with more confidence without coming off arrogant, san still able to see the sweet and kind girl even through all the changes because that will always be who you are at the core--someone too easy to fall for and like.

"i have to apologize for the inconvenience, but just one more day and you won't have to worry about running into me anymore. i'll be staying somewhere else until i get approved for a place myself," he announces to utter silence, you standing there and not knowing what to say.

when the tense air stretches on, he speaks again, "also, i hope you'll be willing to hear my apology out even if just once. not for me and all my excuses, but because you deserve it. that's all."

you open your mouth, another dismissive comment about to slip about the wrath of being arin's and yeonjun's friends unavoidable but a buzz in the pocket of your jeans cut it short.

your eyes widen and lips pulled into an amused smile at the person who finally texted back, san catching the displayed name just right before you put it away at arin's return.

kang yeosang: hey, i'm so sorry for not answering sooner. i keep knocking out after school or work 🤦 but i'm doing great actually lol, and i hope you are too. would you like to meet up tomorrow? i'll finally be off and will have some time.

you've been here a couple of times, the cafe with a warm toned brown as its primary color, and menu and size two times bigger than the smaller one back at university.

you don't come often, but you do always feel welcomed. the aesthetics pleasing to the eyes and the staffs always friendly with warm smiles.

yeosang is seated at the corner, a small two person table, and his smile at the sight of you also makes you feel so warm.

"hey," you greet, pulling the chair as you take a seat.

"hey," he returns, unable to help the giggle that follows after, finding something so amusing about finally seeing each other again after four months despite being the only two still in the same city.

there's not a lot about him that has changed, except he's risen higher than any of you, but he's still just as handsome, welcoming, and obviously meant for bigger and better things.

but with yeosang, it is always so pleasant and safe.

in another reality; an alternate universe somewhere out there, you think yeosang might've been the one for you. even if he's too perfect for his and your own good, you'd come around to the idea that you do deserve someone like him.

someone who was such a mystery at first and had you believing he was the biggest asshole to walk the planet only to completely prove you wrong.

someone who showed patience time and time again that he was willing to wait, because he had so much love and sincerity to give if you were to accept his heart.

it was the perfect enemies or friends to lovers, and oh... it would've been so beautiful. it was quite close to the kind of fairytale love you always imagined; something too unrealistic and borderline delusional, but yeosang was real and ready to make it happen.

you never did give him your heart, though there was no rejection or denial. it just happened...

he waited for you, never pushy or pressuring, always so understanding of the fact you were healing and needed time. admitted to having a 'little' crush on you and whenever you were ready, you could consider.

you kept it in thought, then a month turned into three, and three turned into six, then a year, and suddenly you realized you had put it on the back burner for two years already.

it's not that you didn't like him. of course you like him, but you just weren't sure if you liked him like that.

so when he started acting off; not cold or indifferent, but actually smiling more and his head always somewhere else, it all made sense when a new face started to show at the pc shop on the regular.

yeosang met someone else.

and truthfully, you couldn't be any happier for him, because he deserved someone who wanted to be with him and who will love him in that moment.

every time your two best friends asked why you let a man of yeosang's caliber slip right out of your hand, you were never able to give them a definite answer, unsure of it yourself.

you guys were great friends and meshed so well together even without all the budding romance, and you didn't see why that needed to change--you suppose.

you had assured him it was all good and fair, that it is so natural for feelings to develop and for some to die out, especially over a long period--he needed to just go for it.

you like to think you earned another lifelong friend, even if he's busy most of the time and you'll be seeing each other at most only four times a year.

"want to order something first?" you suggest, quirking an eyebrow.

he hums with a nod, arms crossed in a relaxed manner.

you both order no more than two cups of americano, the taste of the black style coffee something you used to dislike because of the lack of sweetness, but yeosang got you growing fond of it after a while.

"how's everything?" you start again, "the job? school? other things?" you let just the faintest smirk cross your lips, much to the mirth on yeosang's.

"i want to say good but it's all really just a pain in the ass. the job and school, that is."

you snicker and he does the same, your frame slightly leaning over the table before passing a comment, "at least other things are going well."

"yeah." he smile. "but school will be over soon and that'll be that. the lead in my department likes my work enough so hoping for a promotion around the corner."

"you'll get it. for sure."

you both thank the waiter after the drinks' arrival, one of your hand fidgeting at the handle of the cup watching as he takes a sip.

"but i'm excited to be seeing everyone else the next month or so," he says, his turn be the one to watch.

"me too. we'll do karaoke, play stupid games, and maybe just drink a little."

you were also never great with alcohol but you've built more tolerance for it over the years given how your friends are.

"yeah, a little," yeosang quips, and you both giggle, knowing it's never just a small amount with mingi and yuna before they'd want everyone else to get as equally wasted.

"and you? anything new?" he asks, much to the fall of your expression as you begin fighting with yourself internally.

decide on whether you should or should not tell him of the tragedy that struck just a couple of days ago; the one that sent you five years back and to a place so dark.

but it's yeosang, and he will understand. he always does.

"i uh, i ran into san again," you break it sharp and quick, his relaxed face and posture tensing up.

"oh? what the fuck."

"yeah. he's friends with arin's boyfriend and it's an unbelievable amount of fuckery."

"thought he was being a dickhead somewhere else, and not in the country," yeosang takes a jab, always squeezing in the opportunity to do so, because he really does think san is such a horrible person.

he don't know how much the man's come to grovel, but for one to act like that and hurt another the way he did, it takes some malice at the core.

"he did meet her boyfriend while somewhere else," you enlighten, the fact not one you're happy to know about or tell.

yeosang quiets for a second, asking hesitantly, "did he tried talking to you?"

you nod, much to his expectation.

"yeah. but i shot him down the first time, and the second... i don't know. we talked but he didn't try apologizing or anything."

“also, i hope you’ll be willing to hear my apology out even if just once. not for me and all my excuses, but because you deserve it. that’s all.”

"and do you want him to apologize?" he asks, his voice stern and serious.

you freeze up at the question, all this time talking so big about not wanting to hear from san or whatever because he's hurt you enough, but you really don't know.

it's been years and you've moved on, but you do acknowledge the part of you that reserves a special place for him; him who was your first love and was once something you held on a pedestal.

"it would take a lot more than an apology for what he did," you answer, lacking just the smallest confidence.

"no, of course it's gonna take more than an apology. he did a lot of shitty things to you, but you shouldn't hear him out for the purpose of forgiveness, but because it's the least he can do for the hurt he's caused you. the apology isn't about him, but you."

yeosang's words stays with you for the rest of the day, and it doesn't get any better--mingi's also comes back as a haunting, making you turn and toss in bed.

“so you’re not even a little bit curious in what he has to say?”

“no.”

“or what he’s been up to?”

“why the fuck would i be?”

“no no, of course, fuck that guy. i’m just saying that if he has something to say, aren’t you just the slightest bit curious what it is? don’t you want to hear about how pathetic and miserable he was during the time apart, or how sorry he is?”

then what san said back at the theater also makes a reappearance, each of them taking turn to mess with your head and rethink: are you okay with never knowing what san was gonna say?

maybe it isn't gonna be as deep or remorseful as you hope, but he very clearly wants to say something to you, and you have to make a choice between finding out what it is or live your life with the mystery in mind.

you hate to say it, but you think the latter might be more painful, your mind always so itching and curious.

you might need to talk to him tomorrow, for just one last time.

you wake up way too early for your own good, not even urgent to get ready for work for another hour.

but you need to talk to san. make it quick and over with, then go on your own way like it's been.

you're barely a step out, the door not even closed yet when you can feel something under your slipper, glancing down to see you've stepped on a white envelope... addressed to you and from san, the date almost from a year ago.

you open it, seated on your couch and with a racing heart.

dear y/n,

i am finally writing this letter. i’ve sat down many times attempting to do so, sometimes barely able to get through the first line and sometimes i’ll read the first paragraph i wrote only to throw it away, completely unsatisfied. but it’s been four years–at least at the time that i’m writing this–that i’ve last seen you. four years since we saw each other and we probably won’t for a very long time, if ever.

it would be a miracle for me if i was to ever cross paths with you even just one more time, but it would be a tragedy for you because i’d like to think fate wouldn’t be so cruel to put you through that. so i write this letter with the thought that you would most likely never see it, but i did promise myself that if fate really is that cruel and we were to cross paths again, i would give it to you. it’s a bit selfish of me, but it’s because i know the chance of ever seeing you again is close to none. but it’s also everything i’ve ever wanted to tell you; say to you. i want to apologize sincerely, even though it’s a little too late. in a way, this letter is also an outlet for me and my thoughts.

it’s been about a year since i’ve graduated and around this time of the year, i always get a little sentimental. could be because i’m so far away from home so it’s only natural, but i know it’s because it’s summer and i tend to associate the season with you. we did a lot together and you opened some parts of me i couldn’t say or admit at the time.

you would always used to tell me to just try whenever i didn’t see the worth in doing something and i honestly just dismissed it because it sounded silly and quite cliche. i thought it was ironic coming from someone so shy and timid who always looked at the world with so much fear in her eyes. now, i’m starting to understand the amount of courage it must’ve taken you to even go out of your comfort zone. i realized, i was so much of a coward in comparison despite thinking i was the hottest shit at the time.

i always ran, but you never did. i was so scared of anything new and unfamiliar but you always faced them even when there’s a likely chance of failure. i treated you like shit and you still wanted to love me. i think about it often… why are you this way? but i won’t ever know because i never put in the efforts to get to know you beyond what you could offer me. you always asked about me but i never did the same in return.

if i could redo everything, i would want to hear your story. i would love to read anything you write. i said i would, but i never did.

i’m in the states, i’m sure somewhat and somehow you probably already know that (or you probably don’t because you don’t care anymore, which is fair). i left right before the start of the second semester during sophomore year. it was a big decision for sure, but i needed the change. things were already getting stale and repetitive, and you know me… i am not one to stick in one place for too long. i will always run, and so i ran to the states to live with my sister.

other than the fact i was born there and half of my family resides there, at that point, there was nothing left for me in korea. i didn’t have much to lose if i were to fly across an ocean and start anew.

wooyoung had already cut contact with me by then and any friends close to genuine i’ve ever had were all from associations with him. soon after, i realized anyone i still talked to were all phonies who i only hung around during parties and stupid rendezvous, with the exception of jongho. he got into yonsei, by the way. if you didn’t see him pestering you on campus, you probably already picked that up. he sent me a message a few months ago to come back and attend his graduation but i told him to fuck off because he didn’t attend mine either. good for him, though. he’s a smart kid.

but yeah. wooyoung’s a good person even if he grew up privileged. it’s what makes him such a people magnet. he was the most genuine friend i’ve ever had and the one who stuck by me for the longest. i really took him for granted and it only hit me when i lost him.

you are fortunate to have someone like mingi and yunho who seems very protective. i was a little scared when wooyoung warned me about mingi because he threatened to knock me out if he ever sees me. he’s much taller than me, so i don’t doubt it.

i know i sound miserable so far, but i am actually doing pretty okay… unfortunately. you probably don’t want to hear that and wish i was suffering, but i’ve suffered for maybe two and a half years before i finally felt somewhat content and okay, if that will make you feel any better.

the states is different and the people are as well. i’ve got to experience a lot of new things for a change.

when i transferred, i still didn’t know what to do. the clock was ticking and there was only so little time before i had to pick a field. i ended up going into dance performance, and of course i thought of you. when i found a passion for it again, i thought of you. and when i graduated last year with a fine arts degree, i thought of you… all because i knew you would be the happiest to hear about it.

whenever anyone asked me why i don’t want to come back home, i would always tell them what i told you: because there’s nothing left there for me. but one of the biggest reasons why i didn’t want to come back was because it reminded me of you too much. that, coupled with other factors, just makes it so much harder for me to want to return. it feels like reopening old emotional wounds that i have no one else to blame for but myself.

but my junior year, i met someone named yeonjun because we shared the same major. i get nostalgic sometimes because he often reminded me of wooyoung. speaking of wooyoung again, i sent him a similar letter but in email form a while ago, though not as long, and he said he was happy to hear from me again. i wasn’t sure if he was going to reply at all because it was an old email and i assumed he probably wanted nothing to do with me and that was official. but he replied pretty fast and said if i ever returned to korea, he doesn’t mind catching up. he went into business and said it’s something he actually really enjoys.

yeonjun is cool though, and like a less annoying version of wooyoung. he was also a transfer but had been here longer than i have. he met his girlfriend online who’s living in south korea and so after he graduated, he went back right away and said he was going to attempt to open his own studio. just about a month ago, he called me and said it’s almost done and he would be recruiting. he wants me to come back and help him and i’ve been giving it some consideration because i’m not doing much here back at the states either.

i was hesitant at first, of course. all for the reasons i’ve already stated, but all i ever do i run and even i’m growing tired of it. no matter how many bad memories the place holds, it is still home and my motherland after all.

anyways, i apologize for rambling. the letter is getting way too long, but my point is, i might’ve started liking you at one point. not in the casual way that our relationship was, but actually really like you. i don’t know. now that i’m older, it’s true that the love you’ve given me was something i was not ready for at that time and age. and now, it’s everything i wish i have. funny how time really does change a person.

i hope you are doing good for yourself, and i’m so sorry if you ever get the chance to read this letter.

– choi san

you don't even register you're crying despite the burning in your eyes until a lone tear stains the last page.

your heart and emotions so conflicted but also whole, unable to help the warmth and love that wraps your body even for just a moment.

because san felt something. through all of the lies and deceit, there were some sincerity, because an even bigger question you had all these years was whether he ever meant any of it.

when he kissed you, fucked you, and looked at you, you always wondered if there was something else behind his actions--if even the smallest of liking you--not for what you could offer him, but for being yourself.

your weakness always having been too easily touched and moved, particularly when swayed by the name of choi san that you're already at yeonjun's doorstep with the letter still in your clutch.

your beating heart still loud but ready to face him with everything.

"oh, hey."

it's yeonjun and he's both surprise and happy at the sight of you, but definitely questioning of the puffy red eyes.

"i-is san here?" you ask in the most vulnerable tone he's ever heard from you, raising an eyebrow in return.

"he left just a while ago."

yeonjun doesn't get to interrogate the reason why you're asking or is at his door so early in the morning looking like you just had a breakdown, only watching in silence as you scuttle into the elevator.

you don't know how long he's been gone exactly (you really should've asked), but there's a chance he might not have gone far; you might still catch him if--

you thought you were prepared and ready, but when you actually see him, your body just kind of goes into shock.

he catches your nervous gaze, so scared before but relieved the instant he sees you--standing up from where he was waiting as you walk over.

the lobby still with some people and their chitters, but the air around both you and san so thick with a silence that you're desperate to break.

"yeonjun told me you left a while ago... i thought you were most likely gone," you speak, so shy and nervous all of a sudden, but determined nonetheless.

"yeah. i-i was going to, but i told myself if i don't see you within the next hour, then i'll really go. forget all of it."

it might be the first time he's ever stuttered in front of you, your heart once again somersaulting knowing he was waiting for you.

"oh..."

as much as san's gotten better, he will always be a little selfish. he knows he absolutely does not deserve your forgiveness or even to be talking to you, but you are someone special to him.

someone he didn't even think he'd get to ever meet again unless by some miracle, and for it to actually happen, it must be some sign.

that he at least need to try and fight before completely giving it up. just one hour, and if you didn't show, he'd let it be. take that as an answer and leave you alone forever.

"w-where are you going to be staying?" you attempt to carry a casual conversation.

"wooyoung," he answers, mouth forming into a smile you love all too much. "he said i can stay for a month before he'll kick me out."

you giggle and he does so, too, your eyes meeting momentarily as another silence fly by.

"i got your letter," you finally say, the one thing that was sitting on your chest so heavy.

he only nods, posture and everything about him so awkward, because it is.

admitting to your own fuck-ups is never easy, and especially when those fuck-ups messed with the lives of people. he is ashamed and embarrassed, to say the very least.

when he doesn't say anything, you try again, only getting as far in your sentence at the first "i'm..." before the emotions get the better of you--the crack in your voice and the waterwork.

san's hands are on you that instant, his hands wiping at your tears, and you think you're going to cry even more at the proximity; he's so close and it feels so wrong.

"i'm... i'm just so happy," you let it out, your gaze holding his and at the way he softens, you think you could die.

not just that he's incredibly handsome, but it's always been so easy to fall for him and want to give your all. like you can understand why your eighteen year old self wanted him so bad.

"i'm so happy that you liked me then," you finish off, a tad dramatic but thankful there isn't a lot of people in the lobby so early in the morning.

"i still like you now, y/n," he replies almost immediately, so much passion and sincerity in his voice, because he wants you to know that. he does like you.

"i was so stupid and immature and a complete dick. i am still a lot of those things, but god... you were amazing. you still are. and i had it so good and took it for granted. i just want to say, i am sorry... for everything. i already wrote it in the letter, but i want you to hear it, too, that i truly am so sorry."

the way you look at him the entire time too endearing; something he used to hate. your gaze always so attentive as if he holds the stars in them.

your lips are slightly pouting and if he was the man from before, he would've already kissed them. take them for himself and not care whether you wanted it or not.

but he already swore that he will no longer be crossing boundaries or doing anything just for his own self fulfillment.

you're about to say something but is cut off by the ringing of his phone, greatly saddened when he takes his hold off your face to fumble his pocket, taking a single glance at it.

"it's wooyoung. probably to complain because i told him i would be coming like twenty minutes ago."

you nod in understanding, mumbling, "you can go."

he exhales and looks down at you.

"i know this wasn't the best time and place to talk, but... if you want, just if you're okay with it... maybe we can talk again another time? no pressure, of course."

he waits for the stoic expression on you to turn into a smile as you respond with a soft, "i would love that." pausing just before adding, "my number is still the same."

"got it," he says, trying the hardest to hide a smile you can still see. the both of you just waiting in spot after because it's hard to leave.

"are you still gonna come visit yeonjun?" you suddenly ask, much to san's amusement, he can't help the smirk.

"yeah."

"okay, cool," you reply nonchalantly, acting the most aloof as your eyes shy away from his.

"then can i also ask you something?"

"go ahead."

he clears his throat, taking the shortest pause.

"are you seeing yeosang?"

you pinch in your brows at the question, puzzlement all over your face before breaking out a chuckle.

"no."

and if you are to ask him, he probably will never admit to the uneasiness ever since he saw yeosang's name pop up on your phone.

yeosang's a great guy and a perfect fit for you, but dare he say it, san would be heartbroken.

"okay, cool," he mimics you, eventually rubbing at the back of his neck, "gonna head out then. i'll see you."

"yeah. i'll see you."

you watch as he disappears into the distance, sparing another glance at the letter still in your hold, only shaking your head going back up the elevator to get ready for work.

damned choi san and the hold he still has over you.

a/n: dksdskdjfksi it is finally over!!! truly ty to everyone who stuck around even with all the bullshit bc i couldn't make up my mind half of the time. i did the yeosang girlies the dirtiest but believe me when i say we were SO CLOSE to a yeosang endgame. if anyone is interested in that, i would be happy to respond in an ask or reply. but they did have so much potential, i'm sorry sdlksijdkjsdl

again, ty 4 reading and have a wonderful rest of your day/night! onto better things, we go.

taglist: @sorryimananti-romantic @revehosh @cookiechristie @avantalem @atiny68 @sannwa @shibera @mochibabycakes @justineasian @eastleighsblog @baguette-atiny @crimson-mia @yeosxxx @sleepychimm @atz-diary @diorwoo @naiify @becauseiloveyunho @damagelove @softie00 @s-nsanshine @atinytinaa @moonseonghwa @lemontreefantasy @wooyoung4eva @yeosangsbiceps @likexaxdaydream @knucklesdeepmingi @barbielibra @tmtxtf @brown88 @harusoraa @frankenstein852 @yujispinkhair @mermaid17venus @nolxverlikeme @writersun @kkayfan @wooyoungjpg @galaxypox @byunniebaekhyunnie @vixensss @interweab @svintsandghosts @moonchele @atinyluv238

[synnthamonsugar]

DESTINYTOBER: Day 14 - Grief

Read it on AO3

. . .

Joining Eris for lessons on stasis has become a ritual for Zavala, one he looks forward to each week despite both the physical strain on his once-light enhanced body and the emotions their lines of discussion typically invoke. 

"I'd thought about life without Targe, more often than I want to admit." Zavala says when they take a break from sparring and the conversation turns to loss and moving forward. "When I begged him to bring Hakim back; when he said no, that he couldn't, that he wouldn't even if he could . . . I fantasized about killing him. Ending all of this, living out my days as a mortal. It's foolhardy to say, but I thought I would feel free. Instead I feel —"

He grasps in the dark for the right words to describe the indescribable, and comes up empty handed.

"Empty?" Eris offers, gently.

Zavala thinks about it. After a moment, he agrees: "Yes."

"To lose your Light is to suffer an amputation. To have a piece of yourself torn away in such an unexpected manner is a trauma both physical and emotional. A shock to the very core of your being." 

Zavala glances at the soulfire beneath Eris' veil. He no longer heeds the rumors that she made a deal with Crota's brood, that her face is the manifestation of irrevocable corruption; he hasn't for a very long time, and is embarrassed he ever entertained the idea. But he thinks about being tempted by The Witness, and somehow the other, whispered, story — that Eris cut out her human eyes and replaced them with those of the hive — becomes more frightening. How easy it'd been to be swayed by temptation in a moment of desperation. How hard it must have been for Eris to lose another part of herself, at her own hands, after the deaths of her Ghost and Fireteam.

"Although the phantom pains will persist, the wounds will close. You will learn to adapt to it. Life can never be exactly the same as it was before, but it can be good. Some of the greatest joys — certainly, my proudest accomplishments — have happened since losing my Light. There is no reason to expect different from you." 

He lifts his gloved hand to her right gauntlet, with an experimental pat. Rests it there when she doesn't move away. "I appreciate that, Eris."

The corners of her mouth upturn ever so slightly. The ghost of a smile disappears almost as quickly.

"Even though you get used to lightlessness … I fear you'll never stop missing your Ghost. They are a part of us, yes, and the place where they are ripped away will heal with time. But as our companions, our soul-mates —" her voice, usually so composed, quavers enough to send a spike of alarm through Zavala, "— there will always be a hollow in our heart in their shape."

Zavala thinks about how fraught his relationship with Targe was. How, even after every pain, every betrayal, he was willing to sacrifice himself for his Guardian's life. 

He simply says, "I only wish I'd told him how much I cared about him."

"Neither Brya nor Targe would have laid down their lives for us if they hadn't known."

He wipes the tears away from the corners of his eyes. She clasps his hand, a gesture he reciprocates. 

"The pain, the questions, and the doubts will always be there. But you will grow around it, and I'll be here as you do."

[theharrowing]

Collateral 🗡️ 17 - Making someone cry is a side-effect of being in love, I'm afraid

Your ex-boyfriend gets in over his head working for the local mafia, and Boss Min has come to collect his payment: You.

But was it simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or has he always had his sights on you?

PREVIOUS | INDEX | NEXT

🗡️ Yoongi x Female Reader x Namjoon, Jungkook x Female Reader 🗡️ word count: 15.6k 🗡️ mafia au, strangers to lovers, graphic violence, major character injury, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit 21+ 

🗡️ chapter warnings: excessive drinking to numb/forget; so much fucking tension lolol; Hwasa (yes, that is the warning); new nickname for the bingo card (doll/dollface); Jeongguk is a flirty little shit & he got his eyebrow and lip pierced; mc learns to dance; use of "whore" (not derogatory but also kind of derogatory); smoking weed; mc confessing to "going all ways" (sorry straight readers, but i don't know how to not write a queer mc); mc has some complicated feelings and is doing her best; Jeongguk sometimes says the wrong thing but he is also doing his best; a healthy amount of crying; mention of dead moms; discussion of drug use & addiction; inexplicit discussion of sex (sorry lads, the smut is in the second half. it's worth the wait!!!)

🗡️ note: this chapter spans about three weeks, and there is no clear definition of time in between some scenes because mc is just kind of...dealing with the passage of time in her own way. so if it seems kind of disjointed, that is because it is meant to. also, as you may have seen, this chapter wound up being 30k words, so i have broken it in two parts and beefed up some of the scenes. i intend to post chapter 18 very, very soon. ok i love you, enjoy!

🗡️ beta read by @neoneunnajimin!

🗡️ posted on june 2023 | read on ao3

You love Yoongi; there is no question about it. 

Despite the hurt and confusion and pain, one thing that you are certain about, above all else, is that you love him. 

And that is why you drink. 

You drink to numb the myriad feelings. You drink to pass the time. You drink to forget. With a twinkling haze of intoxication, loud club beats, and bright lights, you drink, and drink, and drink. 

Jimin caves instantly on his insistence to not teach you how to dance, and you realize that he is not only a brilliant dancer, but that he seems to really enjoy having someone around to join him. Behind Paradise is a ballet studio that he owns and rents out to instructors. When he has free time, he goes there to practice in front of the wall of mirrors while some sultry melody plays on an old-fashioned boombox in the corner. 

Sometimes he throws on a hip-hop beat and does experimental moves with his body, contorting his limbs in square, jarring movements. Other times he drifts gracefully through the space to ballet pieces, muttering about Tchaikovski, Prokofiev, and other names of long-dead men that you struggle to pronounce. He is always magnificent—a true artist of his craft. 

It takes no time at all to become a friendly face at Paradise. Within just a few nights, the cocktail waitresses, dancers, bartenders, and regulars all seem happy to greet you. Jimin has introduced you to everyone as dove, a nickname you quickly warm up to, which is what everyone there calls you. 

Everyone, that is, except the new bar manager, Jeon Jeongguk. 

At Paradise, under the flashy red, purple, and fuchsia lights, he calls you dollface, or doll for short. And at first, you fucking hate it; the words stick like bile to your tongue, heavy and tacky. 

But the more he struts over with his black satin shirt unbuttoned just a little too low, hair slicked back, standing too close with his sticky-sweet whiskey breath and muttering shit like, "Looking gorgeous tonight, doll," you begin to warm up to it a little. 

"What happened to buttercup?" you teased the first time he tried the new nickname, and he rolled his eyes, chewing on a piece of pink bubblegum wide-mouthed like an adorable a fucking cow as he said, "That was the old me, dollface; I'm not the same person I was yesterday."

It should come as no surprise that Jeongguk is really beginning to grow on you. Now that he works the bar and you see him a lot more often, his attitude is much softer. He still teases you, and at times, it makes your fucking blood boil, but there is a softness to his gaze, especially when his smile stretches wide, that makes your tummy do a backflip whenever his presence lingers. 

All of this is extra dangerous in your current situation because the last thing you need while on sabbatical from both of the men who you continue to be in some unnamed but deeply romantic relationship with, is Jeon Jeongguk making you feel giddy. Try as you might to convince yourself that your feelings are purely a product of your loneliness, you know that is untrue; your feelings for Jeongguk had already begun to sprout, and, as time goes on, they continue to grow. 

You are also finding yourself charmed by Jeongguk's second-in-command, a wisp of a woman with a wide smile and even wider hips named Ahn Hyejin—stage name Hwasa. Hyejin is tiny, barely standing taller than Jeongguk's shoulder with her sharp stiletto heels on. But she commands a room, voice booming and deep when she needs it to be, making all the dancers do exactly as she says. 

Although you are surrounded by beauty in a place like Paradise, nobody steals your attention like Hyejin. Her beautiful diamond-shaped face is always made up with sharp black eyeliner and bright red lipstick. With wide, dark brown eyes that pierce into your soul, all it takes is one pointed smirk, and you are practically melting to her feet. She is always dressed a little revealing, showing enough skin that your eyes continuously trail back to her, just to get another glance.

You understand why men wage wars over love and lust. Hyejin is living proof of why so many sonnets and classic literature pieces are steeped in maniacal desperation over a woman some lonely man saw at a passing glance one time. 

Hyejin was once a dancer, too, but she worked her way into a management position, and all the family men who come to the bar treat her like a sister, including Jeongguk, who only reluctantly calls her Hyejin-noona because she is two years older than him and likes to insist on the nickname. 

She teases Jimin at times, too, being several months older than he is, and she uses it to her advantage when she wants him to do something for her. Jimin always grumbles, rolling his eyes while fulfilling her requests to make the stages and dress rooms better for the dancers, but he does everything out of love for her, and for his dancers, and he is grateful to have her on his management team, giving him advice on how to improve.

Hyejin is, in a word, amazing.

"I see the way you look at her," Jimin teases you tonight the moment she walks in sporting a red one-piece latex bodysuit with long sleeves and a deep v-collar, putting her thighs on glorious display. She wears matching red thigh-high boots, and her long, dark brown hair falls past her shoulders in waves.

Although you turn your head in the direction of Jimin's voice, your eyes stay on Hyejin as she struts over to the bar where Jeongguk is leaning forward on his elbows, getting his attention by draping herself over him and slamming her hip against his side. 

"Hmm?" you finally ask when seeing the two of them standing side-by-side has your cheeks feeling entirely too warm, though it still takes a few stray seconds to pull your gaze to Jimin. 

He has one perfectly manicured eyebrow raised, and he tongues the inside of his cheek, making you feel even more embarrassed. You are only human…what does he expect from you?

Tonight, Jimin wears silver shimmer on his eyes, with his brown hair styled off his forehead. His black satin button-up is undone to the center of his chest, and it is tucked into very tight, fitted black slacks, styled with black boots. 

Everyone at Paradise is honestly so breathtaking; it is no wonder the place brings in so many high-rollers willing to spend top dollar. Although you are determined to keep Jimin as a friend only—not that he has ever shown signs of wanting more from you—you still find yourself stunned by his beauty.

"Gonna start calling you fawn instead of dove," Jimin teases, and you snicker at the wordplay, unwilling or able to deny you have been fawning over Hyejin since the moment you met her. 

"I need a pet name bingo card," you tease, scrunching your nose to feign annoyance, despite finding it cute. 

You smell a familiar perfume—bright floral and lightly fruity—dance softly in the air before you feel an arm sling around your waist, and you take a fortifying breath before turning to find Hyejin's beaming red smile inches from your face. 

"Hey, dove," she greets in a deep, sultry tone that makes every little hair on your body stand up. 

"Hey, Hyejin," you respond as your cheeks become hot.

"What are you up to tonight?" she asks, giving your waist a squeeze before sliding her arm away but staying just as close. "Practicing any more of your dance moves?"

You giggle and shake your head, feeling nervous about talking to her, of all people, about dancing. Once Jimin let it slip that he was showing you floor moves, both Hyejin and Jeongguk began hounding you for a demonstration. 

"Ahhhh, probably not," you respond, sounding just as awkward as you feel. "I was planning on sitting here tonight and drinking all of Jimin's expensive whiskey for free."

Hyejin pouts and it sends your heart haywire, making you nearly cave. "I want to see your moves," she says in a sweet, baby voice that has you floundering for words—deciding that you would probably do anything to satisfy her. 

"Maybe once I feel more confident," you respond demurely, nibbling on your bottom lip. 

This seems to satisfy her, and she winks as she says, "Looking forward to it," before walking off to the dressing rooms to check on her dancers. 

"Holy shit," you mutter under your breath once she is gone, catching your breath as if you had just run a marathon. 

Jimin scoffs, teasing you as he says, "You are such a whore," and you laugh with him, rubbing your palms over your face. The effect that she has on you must be as obvious to her as it is to everyone else, and the prospect of that makes you nervous.

You have begun to dress a little nicer when you visit Paradise, starting from the first night Hyejn was introduced to you—wearing the more casual designer dresses that Jimin graciously brought from your room at the mansion, and letting him do your hair and makeup. She always gets a little too close when you have your cleavage showing, so you have been displaying it more and more lately.

"She's just so pretty," you complain as if it is an inconvenience, making Jimin laugh anymore. 

"Careful, doll," Jeongguk's voice speaks way too close to your right ear, causing you to gasp and flinch, turning in the direction of the sound. "Keep flirting with her and it might make me jealous."

You scoff and lean away from Jeongguk, who only crowds closer, teasing you with a grin. Recently, Jeongguk has gotten his eyebrow and lip pierced, both on the right side—your left—and he keeps his hair cut short with a sharp, dark undercut. Today, his hair is styled in a swoop over his forehead, and his delicate, floral musky scent is dizzying the closer he gets. 

Since working at Paradise, Jeongguk has begun to dress a little differently, and you find yourself unable to keep from sneaking glances at the slivers of skin he kept hidden behind buttons and t-shirts before. He continues to don his standard all-black attire, but he has also switched to satin, much like Jimin. His shirts are always unbuttoned to the center of his toned chest with no undershirt, and tonight he has several silver chains of various lengths and widths cascading from his neck. 

"I wouldn't dream of it," you tease as you take a step away from Jeongguk and spin on your toes, toward the bar. A sexy R&B song plays loudly, and you swish your hips to the rhythm, knowing without having to glance back that he is watching you. 

And although you tell yourself that you should not enjoy his attention so much—or anyone's attention, for that matter—you revel in the thrill it gives you. Yoongi and Namjoon have both encouraged you to pursue him, anyway…surely they wouldn't mind if you have a little innocent fun. After all, you have no idea when you may see the two of them again.

Nights at Jimin's house are lonely. His mansion is huge and empty, and you prefer not to spend much time there by yourself, which means you tend to be at Paradise from late evening to mid-morning most nights. At first, you thought your sleep schedule would adjust and you would become a night owl just like Jimin and Jeongguk, but as the days wear on, you find yourself exhausted, floating through a realm of half-wakefulness. The drinking likely does not help. 

But what other choice do you have? Despite the deep ache behind your ribs, it feels too soon to return to Namjoon. During a brief phone call shortly after returning from Paris, he mentioned Yoongi was in the countryside at a facility to help him get past the first three weeks of withdrawal. 

From time to time, you find yourself wondering how long it has been since you returned from Paris. It could have been weeks, but it could have been days; you have been disinterested in keeping track, finding the tangible passage of time too painful to confront. You figure the time will come when they are both ready to return to you and not a moment sooner; no use dwelling on it.

On the nights when all you wish to do is let go and forget, you either sit at the center stage and watch the strip shows with a drink in hand, or you head to the upper-level VIP section of the club and dance by the railings. When you are feeling outgoing, you find a group of drunk, friendly women by the back bar to become single-use friends with for the night and dance until bar close. 

Back when you first moved into the mansion, Paradise was apparently a dance club with a brothel beneath, just like Serendipity. But during the weeks leading up to your Paris trip, Jimin had been working on getting the space remodeled—hence why you had not seen him around much, for a while. There still is a dancefloor, but it is rather compact near the back bar; not too many people come to Paradise just to dance. 

The main room now consists of three stages—two smaller ones on either side of the room, and one large stage in the center, all equipped with a spinning poll. Everything is made up of dark wood, black leather, and chrome.

Beneath Paradise, there are still brothel rooms, but it is a very hush-hush affair that not too many patrons seem aware of. A patron can book any of the dancers for a private strip show and lap dance in a back room, but anything explicitly sexual is kept strictly to the lower level, and unless someone knows how to ask for it, they will get removed from the premises in a heartbeat. 

Jimin oversees all Paradise operations, but his main focus is on the activities that take place underground. Jeongguk and Hyejin oversee everything on the main floors, including the strip stages, the back bar and dancefloor, and the VIP bar upstairs, which is more or less just a mezzanine with a bar and booths that cost a pretty penny to use. 

Paradise is your oyster, and you more or less have free reign to do anything you would like.

During the nights when you do not feel like drinking, you go to the dance studio. Sometimes, Jimin goes along to let off some steam, either before he needs to run things at Paradise, or when he has a break in his duties. Other times, you go alone. 

You have been getting a hang of moving your body in ways Jimin has shown you, and in new ways that you are discovering on your own. And although you are nowhere near as flexible or fluid as he is, you are surprised by how your body can bend and move and stretch when you allow it patience and grace to learn how. You get why he, and the other dancers at Paradise, take so much pride in their craft. To the patron, it may just seem like stripping and ass-shaking for some loose notes, but to them, and to you, it truly is an art form.

On nights when you dance, the loneliness is not at all quelled, and you find yourself spacing out often and getting lost in your thoughts. But the more you move and let out all of your pent-up energy, the lighter the loneliness seems to feel. Some nights you are able to relax and feel at peace, rolling and stretching your body without a care in the world. It gives you hope that there truly may be a light at the end of this tunnel, no matter how long it takes for you to reach it.  

"Hey, pretty," a familiar sultry voice purrs, giving you goosebumps. 

It is some unknown night in the middle of the week, and you left a group of bachelorettes by the back bar to step outside and smoke a joint. It is rare that anyone is out here, and you are surprised to find Hyejin, of all people, leaning against the brick wall in this quiet, employees-only escape tucked away in a dark alley. This spot is nestled behind a tall fence, past which is a set of dumpsters and a narrow path out to the main roads.

Hyejin is beautiful as always, wearing a black long-sleeve crop top shirt and high-waisted short shorts, under which black garters stick out and are clipped to black thigh-high socks. Her hair is pulled back into a bun, slicked on the sides, and as she approaches, her mary jane heels clack against the pavement. 

"Hyejin," you mutter, swallowing thickly and abandoning the joint you had forgotten to light, cradling it in your fist. "Didn't realize you would be out here."

Tonight, she wears a nude lipstick rather than the red you have grown accustomed to, and her smile is not quite as warm. As she approaches, you are greeted by her lightly fruity, floral perfume. 

"Stepped out for a breather," she sighs, eyes falling to your hand before they meet your gaze. With a raise of her eyebrows, she adds, "Mind if I help you smoke that?"

Your brain has to reboot before you lift your hand to inspect its contents, and you remember what you came outside for, chuckling as you hold out the joint and lighter to her and say, "Of course. You can hit greens."

Every once in a while, Hyejin will smile shyly. She has a practiced shy smile that she uses on Jimin, Jeongguk, and plenty of her customers—honed to perfection to get just what she wants. But this one is soft and delicate, filling her beautifully golden-tawny-toned cheeks with a deep red blush. 

As she unfurls the soft smile that opens into a toothy grin, she reaches out both slender manicured hands and takes your offering, gently scratching her long, painted-black fingernails against your palms. The sensation sends a shiver through you, and you giggle, squeezing your hands shut before opening them again.

"That tickles," you admit when she looks curiously, laughing softly at you.

"You're easily ticklish, hmm?" she mutters with the joint cradled between her lips, then flicks on the lighter, giving her face a beautiful golden glow while igniting the tip and sucking in. 

Hyejin takes a slow inhale followed by a sharp one, then holds her breath and passes the joint to you. When she lets out an exhale, smoke plumes in front of her, and you take a nice, big hit and hold it in, just the same. 

The smoke is warm in your lungs and licks at your senses. As you breathe it out, you feel a small sense of release, letting your shoulders drop and your body relax. 

When you turn to hand the joint back to Hyejin, she is standing much closer, leaning on the sliver of brick wall between you and the closed back door. You instinctively take a step back but rotate so that you are facing her, with barely any space between you. This time, when she smiles, her eyes have the sparkle that you are used to, but there is still an unmissable hint of sadness swirling in their deep umber depths. 

"You know, you can always talk to me if you need someone," she offers unprompted as she takes a hit and hands the joint back. 

You nod and mull it over, unsure where you would even begin. You have no idea what Hyejin knows about your situation, and although you think you can trust her, there is a part of you that is unsure whether you really want to talk about it, especially right now. 

"Thank you," you say before taking a hit and holding it in. Hyejin turns her head to blow the smoke away from your face, then she reaches out one hand and gently rubs her fingertips over your wrist, snaking them into the sleeve of your black denim jacket and sending a tingling warmth into your bloodstream.

You turn your head to exhale, then hold up the joint, asking, "More?"

"I'm good right now," she responds softly, and you move your hand away from her inviting touch to pinch the lit end off onto the ground. In your pocket is a small plastic tube into which you slide the joint, placing a little plastic cap over the end so that its smell does not stick to your clothing, and then you return your arm to its spot and allow her fingers to resume exploring your wrist and hand.

"I appreciate the offer," you try, hearing the way your voice trembles as the weed settles over you and fills you with a heavy-weightless warmth, buzzing in a deep thrum that tenses and relaxes and relaxes and relaxes. Sheepishly, with a giggle, you add, "I don't…really know where to begin."

Hyejin's hand sides into yours, palm against palm, fingers wrapping and holding on tight. 

"That's okay," she responds with a disarming smile. "I just wanted to offer, just in case. I know you have Jimin and Jeongguk, too."

At this, you laugh and sink further against the brick wall, tilting your head to rest against the scratchy, unwelcoming surface. "I do have them…for better or worse."

Hyejin laughs in understanding, then she rolls her eyes and says, "Jeongguk is so possessive; I thought the two of you were dating when you first started coming around."

"Oh?" you respond, a bit surprised by this news. Admittedly, when you first began coming to Paradise, you thought there was something going on between the two of them. It took a couple nights to realize that the way Hyejin hangs off of and pouts at her manager is all an act. "We're…not…" you begin, trailing off, unsure what to say.

"He clearly has feelings for you, regardless," she adds, and you search her face and fidget in place. Hyejin seems genuine and sweet, but you are so used to women in this line of work having ulterior motives and using kindness as a tool to gain information and an upper hand. But that does not seem to be what she is doing, and you let out the breath that had gotten trapped in your lungs and nod, chuckling lightly. 

"Yeah," you admit, feeling your cheeks warm. "He…certainly does."

"Oh my god," Hyejin teases, squeezing your hand until you look at her wide, beaming smile. "You like him too, don't you?"

Try as you might to shake your head and mutter, "No," she mirrors the movement, laughing and practically shouting, "Yes, you definitely do! You are a terrible liar, dove!" 

"It's…complicated," you mutter, squeezing your eyes shut with embarrassment. 

A sweet giggle flits through the air like a flutter of butterflies, and you open your eyes to find Hyejin regarding you with the sweetest smile. 

"I won't judge you," she assures, giving your hand another squeeze. "I don't know a lot about your relationship, but Jimin has mentioned you are dating two men, which…honestly, sounds like a dream come true."

Your heart seizes a bit around the word dating, and you swallow thickly and nod, unwilling to go down that path. Nothing has ever been established, despite your confessions of love and the huge, expensive fake-engagement ring that sits in your dark, empty bedroom. Sometimes, if you allow yourself to dwell on it, both the distance and time spent away from them make you worry that things may have an end date that is sooner than you expect. 

But none of this is pertinent enough information to share at a time like this, so you smile as convincingly as you can while saying, "It has its perks."

Hyejin returns your smile and closes the already meager space between the two of you to press a kiss against your cheek. Her mouth is soft and warm, and you let your eyes flutter closed, smiling from the smell of bluebells and apple that fills your senses. As she pulls her lips back, she stays close, cradling your chin with her hand while opening her mouth to continue speaking. However, the back door flies open, cutting off what she was going to say.

The sight of Jeongguk looking around the corner makes you gasp and back up, kicking up a flurry of feelings in your chest. Despite nothing happening between you and Hyejn, this feels like too precarious of a position to be caught in suddenly. Daresay, it may appear somewhat intimate. 

Jeongguk's expression is wide and shocked, but it quickly melts to intrigue. He steps outside and approaches, slinging an arm over both your shoulder and Hyejin's. 

"Well, what have we here?" he asks with a tone that is far too gleeful for anyone's good. 

"I was just telling our dove that I am here if she needs anything, and then I gave her a kiss on the cheek," Hyejin says, turning to Jeongguk and standing on her toes to plant her lips against his jaw. 

Jeongguk looks affronted and gasps as she says, "There, now nobody is left out."

"Listen, I'm not here to break up whatever is going on between my favorite girls." Jeongguk says, gaze on you as he raises an eyebrow and adds, "I just didn't know our doll swings both ways."

Feeling indignant and a little claustrophobic, you shrug away from Jeongguk's arm and give his shoulder a shove. 

"For your information, I go…all ways…" you mutter with a grimace, trailing off because you do not owe him an explanation. Labels for sexual orientation may work for some, but they have never been your thing; you like people for people, and it is as simple as that. Defensive, you add, "But she was just giving me a friendly little kiss on the cheek, so it doesn't matter."

Jeongguk grunts unconvincingly, then leans in close to say, "But a kiss between friends can easily spiral into something more, can it not?"

With that, Jeongguk takes a step back, leaving you standing shell-shocked and ready to smack him. Jeongguk winks and says, "Hyejin-noona, when you're ready, I have some things I wanna go over with for tonight," then he walks inside. 

Hyejin holds out her elbow, asking, "Shall we?" and you lift a hand to slide against her soft skin, allowing her to lead the way. 

Once you are back inside, the bachelorette group is still at the back bar, drunker and louder than when you left them, and you wave Hyejin and Jeongguk off as you walk over and allow the women to pull you into their chaotic little group for shots. 

You wake up late in the evening with a hangover after hanging with the bachelorette group the night and morning before, taking shot after shot of overly sweet liquor that was far too strong for its own good. It feels like it has been ages since you have felt so awful, and the thought of having even a drop more of alcohol makes your stomach churn.

So, tonight, rather than go to Paradise, you decide to visit the dance studio to practice the floor moves Jimin has been teaching you. Although you are still certain you have no desire to dance at the club, practicing the moves has been cathartic. And it helps you slow down on drinking. Being a lush for a while has definitely been one way to handle your myriad tumultuous emotions, but the hangovers are too frequent, and after what you felt earlier today, you are eager to change your ways.

Dancing also makes you feel sexy. You enjoy watching the way your body can curve and flex, bending and swaying in ways you had never really attempted before. Tonight you alternate between taking moves slowly on the floor, facing away from the mirrors, before attempting to add speed and flow to them while watching your reflection. 

With the cassette mixtape that Jimin has scribbled Whore Mix onto playing through the boombox, you stretch on a dark purple yoga mat that sits in the center of the floor while a sultry voice sings and raps over a beat that begs your hips to move, with the mirrors to your left and the studio door behind you.  

The approaching click-clack of boots against the wooden floor that greets you does not strike you as odd at first; you have grown accustomed to Jimin and his affinity for boots. So you continue practicing without turning to greet him.

Anchored back on your elbows, sitting on the mat on your left hip, with both legs bent, you stretch your right leg straight and fan it out at an angle lifted in front of you. In the same fluid motion, you lift your left leg, creating a v-shape in the air. Then you curl your legs in, trying to perfect the graceful movement that Jimin is so good at, twisting until you are on your right hip.

Only when clapping echoes through the room do you realize that the boots had stopped moving and that the tell-tale frenetic energy Jimin always brings to the studio is missing. You turn with a gasp and find Jeongguk standing in the center of the room, wearing his standard all-black. His button-up is undone enough to show a dip of his chest, as always, with no shirt underneath, and it is tucked into black slacks that are so fitted, the material strains against his thighs when he shifts from one foot to the other. 

"My, my," Jeongguk teases, approaching before squatting beside you. "What have I walked in on?"

Instinctively, you lean away, feeling warmth flood your cheeks. You sit wearing a tight purple sports bra and very tight, very short black athletic shorts, making you self-conscious to be met with such a hungry stare, especially knowing that he had been watching you, just now. 

"Jeongguk," you mutter, having to clear your throat to get more sound out. "What are you doing here?"

"I was coming to see if Jimin was here. Wanted to run a few things by him."

You nod, feeling like a fish out of water with how your mouth hangs open. Jeongguk's cologne is stronger than usual and a little different tonight—musky and floral with hints of spice—and you find it incredibly intoxicating. 

"But what I found is far more enticing," Jeongguk continues with a smirk.

Silence falls between you, and you feel your hands prickle with sweat. All you can think about is that kiss in Hong Kong and the chemistry you found in his lips—how delicately he asserted control but never pushed or pulled too much, causing you to unravel in moments. You want to feel that again—want to feel him again—so much that it seems like a bad idea for you to be left alone with him, like this. Flirting in the club, with people around, is one thing, but here, alone, seems dangerous.

Jeongguk stands, and you let out a heavy breath, then swallow a lump, feeling relief wash over you at the thought of him leaving. But then he walks over to the corner, to where some black chairs are shoved together, and he grabs one. Anxiety washes over you when he begins to bring the chair over, boot heels echoing loudly against the floor as he places it beside you and has a seat. He spreads his legs and leans forward, resting his wrists against his knees, tattooed hands so close you could reach out to him. 

With his lips tugged into a sharp grin, he says, "Let me see that move again."

You must look as stunned as you feel, blinking up at him, because he chuckles and raises his pierced eyebrow, clearly amused by your lack of response. 

"Come on, dollface," Jeongguk teases, leaning even closer and dropping his voice far too low for comfort. "Don't be shy."

Even as nervous as you are under his piercing stare, you like the attention he gives you. But continuing what was started between you without Yoongi or Namjoon present feels wrong, and it stirs up guilt and shame, starting in your tummy and working its way to your throat. You want to show Jeongguk your moves and crawl to him, grind your hips over his lap until he calls you noona and begs you for more. But not here. Not like this. 

Luckily, the click-clack that actually belongs to Jimin's boots storms down the hallway and into the room, giving you an out. 

"I told you to meet me in my office," Jimin complains, approaching with his hands on his hips, one balled into a fist that holds onto a manilla envelope. "Why did you come here? To bother her?"

"I must have misread the text," Jeongguk responds, eyes still on you while they glimmer mischievously before turning his attention to Jimin. "Office…dance studio…same thing."

Jimin lunges forward and slaps the envelope against the back of Jeongguk's head, saying, "Not the same thing, and you know it!" before shoving the document into his hands. 

You watch somewhat stunned as Jeongguk's mouth falls agape, and he chuckles. Then, as he begins to open and read through the contents of the folder, you take your leave, rolling the yoga mat in your hands as you walk away. Draped over one of the black chairs in the corner is a black hoodie and sweatpants, and you pad over, set the mat onto a chair, and slink into the garments, keeping your hair tucked into the shirt and the hood pulled low over your face.

"Gonna head back to work," Jimin says in a flurry, exiting just as fast as he arrived with the folder in his hand. "Come to the club if you want. Or call me if you need anything."

With a nod, you turn on your toes and begin for the door.

"And just where are you going?" Jeongguk asks, stopping you in your tracks and pushing a sigh from your lungs.

"Home," you say before your lips flounder, and you correct yourself, heavy-blinking. "Jimin's place."

With a hum, Jeongguk stands and says, "I'll drive you," picking up his chair to bring it back to where he got it from. 

Although you have made no plans for a ride, you know that Hoseok was at the club earlier, and you had planned to call and see if he was around. Jeongguk giving you a ride would definitely be convenient, but is that something you want right now?

"You have work to do," you insist, shaking your head and feeling nervous at the thought of being in a vehicle alone with him. 

But Jeongguk sets the chair down, takes you by the back of the arm, and begins to usher you rather forcefully out the door. As your sneaker heels dig into the wooden floor, rubber squeaking with each step he makes you take, you feel petulant, and you are dragged to the dark hallway before you manage to yank yourself out of his grasp and take an uneasy step back.

"What the fuck are you doing?" you ask, feeling anger rise and fighting the urge to slap him. 

"What?" Jeongguk says through a chuckle, looming over you while he steps forward, closing the distance with each step you take backward until you hit the wall. "You're dancing like a whore now, so I figured you wanted to be treated like one, too."

Although you feel anger buzzing through you like a livewire, sending every nerve on high alert, more than anything, you feel deflated. Despite Jimin jokingly using that word to tease you, there is something about the way Jeongguk says it—something almost sardonic and mocking in his tone, met with how forcefully he dragged you out of the room. It settles like bile in your guts and makes you feel extremely uncomfortable. 

But, rather than put up a fight and challenge him, you storm away, shoving past his weak attempt to hold you back as you stomp toward the door. 

"Hey," Jeongguk calls, heavy footsteps trailing behind you. "What's the matter with you?"

Unable to hold in your rage, you spin on your toes, shoving your palms against Jeongguk's chest as you say, "What's the matter with you?"

Jeongguk hardly flinches, and when you step forward to push him again, he grips onto your wrists and holds you still, tugging you close to him but not in a way that is meant to be rough or suggestive. He almost looks worried, brows knit as he studies your face. 

"Hey, hey," he mutters, holding onto you just tight enough that you have no choice but to stop lashing out. 

Somehow it works. Maybe because you are exhausted, or maybe it is the floral, musky scent of his cologne—or a combination of things wrecking your tiny sense of sanity—but you hold still and let Jeongguk softly shush you while rubbing his thumbs over the knobby joints in your wrists.

"I don't like it when you talk about women that way," you say, feeling a swell of sadness fill your chest. You are aware that this is likely a trauma response to the way men have treated you in the past, but you need to at least attempt to establish a boundary. "I know we joke about it at the club, but the way you said it, I—" You close your eyes and shake your head. 

"When have I ever talked about women that way?" Jeongguk asks, voice sounding more defensive than apologetic. "Look, I was joking. I'm sorry."

"Just don't do it, okay?" you insist, yanking your hands away until Jeongguk relents and folding your arms over your chest. "I was a whore before, Jeongguk. Is it so terrible? Do you really need to make it sound so demeaning? Yoongi's mother was a whore, too, you know."

Jeongguk's face pales, and he appears angry for a split moment, but you do not attempt to argue. Perhaps it is out of pocket to bring up Yoongi's dead mother, but you were a part of the honey bees who came after her; you belonged to the same organization, come hell and high water. 

"You're right," he says, taking a step back and sliding his hands into his pockets. "I don't look down on sex workers, and I shouldn't talk as if I do. I'm sorry I offended you. I know that we make jokes, and I guess I got carried away. I didn't consider how even playful actions might bring up bad memories for you, and I get what that's like."

Surprised and unsure what to say, you rock on your feet a little before settling on, "Okay."

"My mother was a whore too," Jeongguk adds, stepping forward slowly. "I never held it against her. Even when it got her killed, I never thought badly about her."

There it is, once more—the taste of guilt.

"Jeongguk," you say, taking a step forward, but he holds up his hand and shakes his head. 

"I offended you. I'm the one apologizing. Let me make it up to you by driving you home?"

You nod, conceding. "Alright."

The walk to Jeongguk's black sports car is quiet in a way that feels charged and awkward, but as you settle in, you begin to relax. Silence continues to hang during most of the drive, and all the while, you think of Yoongi. As you stare out at the city lights that fade the further you get from the city, you wonder how he must be doing and whether he will return home soon. 

"Did you supply the heroin?" you ask without thinking, staring out at the dark roads past the city line. 

As silence stretches, part of you worries that Jeongguk might be offended by your question, and you keep your eyes on the shadowed hints of trees, refusing to acknowledge the expression on his face. 

Finally, Jeongguk mutters a simple, "No," and you allow yourself to regard him. 

Jeongguk's jaw is tense, and he stares ahead at the road, tonguing on the inside of his mouth while both hands tightly grip the steering wheel.

"I didn't think you did," you respond softly, watching as his pierced eyebrow raises. "I don't know why I felt compelled to ask."

Jeongguk's gaze flicks to you, then back on the road. "Because you overheard my conversation with Namjoon that morning outside your bedroom. And because I was the one in charge of the drug operations."

"Yeah," you respond with a shrug. "But I don't think you would be that careless."

With a hum from Jeongguk, silence settles once more. You relax back in your seat, watching the road curve and become a little hilly before evening out. By now, you are familiar with this stretch, anticipating the sight of the property to come into view very soon. 

Whenever you pass the mansion these days, it is dark and quiet. If not for the outdoor security lights, it would be nothing more than a looming shadow—a silhouetted remnant of lives at a standstill. Namjoon must sleep in his own home, and from time to time, you consider walking down the dirt and gravel path to his property to see him.

But everything feels off balance in a way that you struggle to reconcile, and you feel like you need a little more time. You fish your phone from your hoodie pocket and check his Instagram feed, sad to see he has not posted anything to his story. 

Namjoon likes to post his workout routines, what he is listening to, and shots from trips to museums. Lately, though, he barely shares anything, making the lack of his presence feel heavier. You nearly ask Jeongguk to drop you off at his place, but you cannot seem to open your mouth to get the words out.

Instead, you text him. 

You: It's hard to keep tabs on you when you don't post story updates.

The message feels stupid, and you chew on the inside of your mouth once you hit send, staring at the screen and hoping that when he sees it, he does not find it annoying. Is there a chance of him being offended?

Three dots appear and disappear, over and over, making the anxiety in your tummy frantically build and crash like a wave pool that has just been switched on. But then he sends a simple little sentence that stirs both immense joy and deep, profound sadness— 

Namjoon: I miss you too, sweetheart.

—and you stare down at it until your vision blurs with tears.

As you open your mouth to ask to be taken to Namjoon's house, the dots appear and disappear again, and rather than speak, you clear your throat and wait for him to say more. 

"What is it?" Jeongguk asks, and you turn your head to him, confused at first, then realize he may have taken the sound as a feeble attempt at starting a conversation. 

"Oh," you respond, "Uh, nothing."

"Alright," Jeongguk says simply as he begins to turn into Jimin's driveway, waiting as the metal gate opens and allows you entrance.

As you pull into the drive, listening to the gate close behind you, the urge to cry becomes more difficult to tamp down. You swallow thickly, blinking away tears as Jeongguk stalls in front of the door. 

"You good?" Jeongguk asks, and you turn to regard him, but as soon as you open your mouth to tell him you are fine, the sounds die in your throat, and you have to swallow everything back down again. 

"Th-thanks for the ride," you manage to mutter as you get out of the vehicle and run to Jimin's door, punching in an eight-digit code and holding your eyes open as wide as you can manage for the retina scan. 

Once inside the dark, empty mansion, you sink against the cold, wooden door, feeling your chest heave with emotion so deep, you become nauseated. Gripped in your fist, your cell phone vibrates, and you lift the device in a shaking hand, checking the notification—

Namjoon: I miss your voice. And your smile. I hope you're taking care of yourself.

—which sends you crashing over the edge as tears pour and your voice comes out in a loud, terrible sob.

Your heart pounds as you cry, feeling the crushing weight of how deeply you miss Namjoon. Although each breath that enters and exits your lungs is a storm, rattling and shaking you to the core, you sniffle and hold your phone tightly in both hands as you place a call. It is late, but Namjoon is responding to texts, so perhaps he is free to talk. 

Namjoon picks up on the first ring, and when his deep, surprised voice says, "Hey, sweetheart," you sob even harder. How is it that something so tiny could make his absence feel so much heavier?

"Hey," Namjoon says, sweet and alert, "are you alright? Where are you?"

"I'm okay," you cry, punctuated by a sniffle. "I'm at Jimin's. Everything is fine."

"Everything does not sound fine," Namjoon insists, and you smile softly at his concern, taking in a deep breath. "Do you need something? Can I…can I do anything?"

Namjoon still owes you an explanation, and it is not something you will easily let slip. But you are certain that you cannot continue to keep him at a distance, even if it means putting the much-needed conversation on the back burner. Although life with Jimin has been fun and a little exciting, the loneliness you feel from being away from Namjoon and Yoongi has a tendency to become excruciating. 

"Can I see you?" you ask weakly, like a child who is afraid of being scolded. 

The soft chuckle that proceeds, "Of course, you can," warms your heart, and you close your eyes and smile wide, clutching your phone tightly to your ear. "Give me ten minutes? I'll be right there."

With a wet, disgusting sniffle, you say, "Okay," and rub the back of your hand against your nose. 

"I'll be there soon," Namjoon says as he ends the call, and you nod to nobody as you drop your phone down and clench it to your heart. 

It takes effort, but you peel yourself from the floor and kick off your shoes before heading up the stairs to your borrowed bedroom, squinting as you switch on the light. The room is similar to your room in Yoongi's mansion, but the bedding and curtains are pinks and oranges—a permanent sunrise. 

As you cross the room to the walk-in closet, you pull off the joggers and athleticwear from earlier and find a cute, soft pair of pink sleep shorts and a matching, loose pink tee. Then you run into the bathroom to brush your teeth. Even though you did not drink anything tonight, you want to kiss Namjoon until your lips bruise, and you need to be minty fresh. 

By the time you are rinsing your mouth and wiping your chin off, you hear a loud knocking on the front door, surprised that ten minutes could have passed so quickly. You run out of the ensuite and find your phone on the bed to shoot off a message before heading down to let Namjoon in.

You: One minute!

Although the rest of the mansion is dark, Jimin also has security lights on outside, and they shine through the windows enough to cast a silver glow over the small mezzanine and down the steps. You scurry down quickly, feet carrying you light and fast, and when you get to the front door and fling it open, you hardly have a chance to take in the sight of Namjoon before he is crossing the threshold and lifting you into his arms. 

A sob quakes through you as you wrap your arms and legs around him, burying your face into his neck. He smells musky—a bit sweaty—but the bright cologne with gentle floral hints you are used to are present. Namjoon closes the front door, haphazardly steps from his shoes, and makes his way to the stairs, stepping slowly as he holds you tight. If you are not mistaken, it feels like his breathing shutters through him, and you wonder if he may also be crying. 

"I'm sorry," you find yourself muttering when the silence stretches on long and oppressive. 

Namjoon squeezes you harder. 

"No," he says softly, voice trembling, "sweetheart, you have nothing to be sorry for."

"I made you cry," you sob, feeling guilt and sadness fill your lungs until it hurts to breathe.

Namjoon chuckles and sniffles, reaching the top landing of the stairs and turning to the right, toward the only light in the home that is on. He says, "Making someone cry is a side-effect of being in love, I'm afraid," and your heart goes wild behind your ribs, bursting with affection. 

"I've missed you so much," you whimper against Namjoon's skin, and when he leans forward and attempts to put you down onto the bed, you tighten your limbs, clinging to him like a koala.

"Let me set you down so we can get comfortable," Namjoon suggests, and you shake your head, groaning as you hold on tighter. He sighs, and tries, "Come on, I want to see you. I want to kiss you."

Once his attempts are futile, Namjoon gets onto his knees on the bed and bends until you are lying on your back with him towering over you. You finally move your head away from his neck and heavy-blink as you meet his eyes—which are bloodshot and blinking back tears.

"I've missed you too," Namjoon says as he kisses you, soft and sweet and warm. "I'm so sorry for everything that happened. I should have told you about everything, but I was scared to."

Namjoon's kisses are salty and wet, and he trembles above you, gripping the blanket tightly in his fists on either side of your head. Finally, you concede to his need to get comfortable, and you press against his chest, rubbing your fingers over soft black cotton. 

"Hey, lay down," you say softly, pushing a little harder. "You were right, let's get comfortable."

Namjoon sighs through his tears and gets up onto his knees, then crawls over to the pillows and makes a feeble attempt at moving the bright pink and orange floral comforter away. You sit up and help him, then run to the door to close it before adjusting the dimmer switch, lowering the lights just enough so that you can still see him. 

When you turn back to the bed, Namjoon has figured out the comforter, which is bunched up at the end of the against his feet, and he is sitting against the wooden headboard with his hands in his lap, watching you with a soft expression while tear tracks shimmer against his cheeks. He wears a black tee and black joggers, with his legs extended out but one leg bent slightly at the knee, and he is breathtaking—just as you remembered him. Maybe even more so. 

He has gotten a haircut recently, just above his ears, making him look younger. And it is darker; a more natural color. Some time ago—maybe a few days, or maybe a week—Namjoon posted a mirror selfie of the cut, obstructed mostly by his phone, and you are happy to finally see it in person. 

As you get onto the bed, on your knees, Namjoon reaches for you, pulling against the backs of your thighs until you have no choice but to straddle his lap, giggling at his insistence. You settle and drape your wrists over his shoulders to rub your fingertips over the short hairs on his nape while Namjoon's smile oscillates between joy and sadness. 

"I want to tell you I'm sorry," you begin, without giving him a chance to speak. You have been thinking about this every sober waking moment of however much time has passed—and some intoxicated moments, as well—and you feel it is necessary to get it off your chest. Emotions rise as you gather your thoughts, and your next exhale comes out shaky. "I was angry in Paris, but the things I said to you and Yoongi did not come from the heart. I was hurt, and I still am, but…I don't understand addiction. I have no idea what Yoongi must be going through, and I—"

You choke on a sob suddenly as a flash of Yoongi's face comes into view. The hurt way in which he stared ahead, straight through you, while you screamed and cried and demanded to be taken home.

Gently, Namjoon rubs his hands up and down your back, covering you in comforting warmth. His smile is sad, but he does his best to show that he is listening and that he is receptive to what you need to say.

"I just feel so awful," you continue as tears fall. You are so tired of crying and hurting, but it is a necessary step in healing, and you do your best to let it quake through you and settle into your bones. "I love Yoongi. I don't want him to be in pain."

"He knows," Namjoon finally says, but you screw your eyes closed and shake your head. He may have an idea of what you are going through, but he needs to hear from you that you are sorry. You need to tell him, yourself. "Yoongi using again was a bit of a surprise to all of us. Although it is something I always fear may happen again, I really had no idea it would happen like that, especially on vacation."

"When is he coming home?" you ask, feeling hopeful.

"Less than a week," Namjoon responds, smiling sweetly as he lifts his hands to thumb away the tears on your cheeks. "I have cleaned out the mansion, and Jeongguk has made sure the team taking over his responsibilities knows that heroin and other opioids are off limits. Jeongguk was already avoiding selling either in the first place, but he has reiterated that fact, to be on the safe side."

"That day, outside my room, you said there was a package with what looked like heroin," you say, watching as Namjoon's face screws up with worry. You grimace, adding, "I'm sorry I was eavesdropping."

"That…I still don't have all the details ironed out," Namjoon responds sullenly, "but I am certain that Jeongguk had nothing to do with it. Yoongi admitted that he had sent for the package on his own, and it arrived from overseas with a bunch of tailored suits. I don't know how he got a connect in Italy, but I really shouldn't be surprised; Yoongi knows people everywhere."

You nod somewhat listlessly, waiting for the crucial detail where Namjoon tells you he threatened the Italian guy, or found some way to rough him up—whatever the case—in order to keep him from sending Yoongi junk again. But when he does not continue, worry and sadness sink into your tummy like a brick. 

"So…" you begin, heavy-blinking and feeling at a loss for words before settling on, "...how do we make sure he doesn't use again?"

Although Namjoon continues to smile, his eyebrows pinch sympathetically, and he returns to rubbing your back. 

"We just love and support him," he offers, which feels both gigantic and minuscule, all things considered. "We continue to be there for him and…hope that it is enough."

"That's it, huh," you sigh, defeated. 

"Yeah."

Silence hangs, and you let your vision blur, attempting to sort out what you could possibly do. What if loving Yoongi is not enough? What if the pressures of his lifestyle only continue to press and press on him until he sinks another needle into his vein, desperate for relief?

"I wish he could just…not do this anymore," you mutter, blinking Namjoon back into focus. "Maybe having all this power and responsibility is too much."

With a sad chuckle, Namjoon nods. "Yeah, well…the only way out of a life like his is death."

Although that is not the response you want, it is the one you expect, and you lean heavily into Namjoon, accepting it for now. There is not much more to say until Yoongi is back. 

"Can we sleep?" you ask, feeling your body become weighted down with exhaustion and warm with a comfort you have not felt in what has seemed like eons. 

"I would love to sleep," Namjoon responds sweetly, releasing you from his hold as you slide down to the bed and begin to reach for the comforter. 

Namjoon gets out of bed to turn off the light, and for a split moment, in the cold, crushing dark, you begin to feel anxiety rush over you. In the cold, crushing dark, you are alone, alone, alone, isolated and heavy and so terribly scared. But then the bed dips, and warmth slides into place beside you. Limbs settle with a familiar weight, and suddenly, the darkness feels and smells like home.

"I love you," you tell the darkness, gasping when lips graze your cheek, your nose, and finally, your mouth. 

"I love you, too," the darkness tells you sweetly as you begin to drift to sleep.

Tonight, you did not get to kiss Namjoon until your lips bruised, but you feel satisfied with the fact that you were able to lighten the burden of heavy sadness just a little. And, in a matter of days, when you have the same conversation with Yoongi, it may not go the same way, but at least the three of you can continue to take steps in the right direction, and that allows you to sink into sleep with a smile on your face. 

When you wake up alone, your first instinct is to panic. You sit up with a start and check for any sign of Namjoon, but the ensuite door is wide open, and there is no sound coming from inside. The spot where he had slept is cold, and you begin to worry that it was all a dream and that he was never here at all. 

Frantically, you begin to search for your phone, which is not on your bedside table where you usually keep it, feeling the overwhelming urge to cry take over. What happened last night, and why is there no trace of him to be found?

With a deep breath, you close your eyes and run over the events of the night. You came in and changed, then you messaged Namjoon to let him know you were going down to let him in. Vaguely, you remember tossing your phone to the bed, and you begin yanking at your comforter, desperate to find it. 

Your phone must have been wrapped up in the bedding, because after only a moment of tussling and searching, you hear a nice loud thunk against the floor, at the foot of the bed. You let out an exasperated sigh and crawl to the edge, draping your body over the end as you reach and search for the device that has managed to find its way just under the bed frame. 

As soon as it is in your hand, you turn on the screen, eager to find evidence of Namjoon's existence, with your torso suspended in air. As soon as you see a notification from two hours ago, you smile and wiggle backward into a seated position to properly read it.

Namjoon: Hey, sweetheart, I'm so sorry I left while you were still asleep. I tried to wake you, but you were out cold. I'll be visiting Yoongi this afternoon. If you want to come along and you see this before 2 PM, let me know. Otherwise, I hope to talk to you soon. Thank you for letting me in this morning; I slept better than I have in weeks. I love you. 

Although affection blooms brightly in your chest, you feel sadness squeeze you tight, like an old friend. You do want to see Yoongi. You want to see him so badly, it hurts. But you are not sure you want to see him before he comes home. Wherever he is staying, and whatever state he may be in…you are not sure that you are prepared for that. 

It is only 1:45 PM, so you decide to call Namjoon. Not only are you eager to hear his voice once more, but you are not eager to voice what is in your heart over text. 

He picks up on the second ring, sounding a bit winded when he says, "Hey, sweetheart."

"Namjoon," you respond brightly, smiling widely. "Hey, I just woke up and saw your message."

"Ah," he responds, breathing heavily, "what time is it?" After a pause, he shouts, "Oh, shit, Gguk, I gotta go!" 

You laugh as you hear them chatter lowly, then say their goodbyes, imagining how adorable Namjoon becomes when he is frantic—eyes wide and worried while he flails his muscular limbs around somewhat aimlessly. 

"Gguek and I were working out," Namjoon says as you hear the sound of a door open and shut. "Lost track of time."

You smile, nibbling your lip. "Good thing I called."

"Good thing, indeed. So, did you—"

You don't mean to cut Namjoon off, but there is enough of a break between his statements, that you say, "Listen, Namjoon, I'm—" then halt, realizing you had spoken over him.

"Go on," Namjoon urges, and you close your eyes, listening to the sounds of his breathing, of birds singing around him, and of feet walking somewhat frantically down the dirt and gravel path between mansions. 

"I don't think I can go," you finally say, feeling meek and embarrassed as your voice drops and comes out with a tremble. "It's just…I don't know what to expect, and it…it scares me."

Namjoon says nothing for a few moments, and it makes you worry. But then you hear him keying in the passcode to his home and let yourself breathe. He is probably too stressed to be multitasking while in a rush. 

"Can I call you back? Or maybe we can talk about this later?" Namjoon finally asks, and you let out an even deeper sigh in relief. "I don't blame you at all for not wanting to come, but it feels like there is more you need to get off your chest. I have to take the fastest shower of my life, though, so that I can leave soon."

"Yeah, no…yeah. That's…" you stammer, squeezing your eyes closed and allowing yourself to smile while hot tears run from your eyes. Namjoon is so kind and understanding—so caring and giving. Affection burns for him, and you want to hug him so tight and never let him go. "If you want to tell Yoongi that we talked, I think it might make things easier for me later, but do whatever feels right…I don't know."

"I'll tell him what we discussed," Namjoon responds breathily as feet storm up a flight of stairs. "I know it'll make him happy to hear how you are doing, and how you have been handling things. I'm bringing him home in four days, so we can all sit down whenever you feel ready."

Four days is not soon enough, yet it feels like no time at all. Looming and terrifying, yet promising. 

"Okay, sounds good. Thank you, Namjoon."

When Namjoon says, "I love you so much, sweetheart. Thank you for calling," your heart squeezes, and more tears fall, cascading like tiny waterfalls. 

"I love you, Namjoon. Drive safe."

"Will do. Bye."

You mutter, "Bye," but your finger is already pressing the end call button, giving Namjoon all the time and space he needs to get ready. And then you hug your phone tight to your chest and continue to cry. 

Somehow, the happy tears feel thicker and hotter than sad tears—more present and urgent. If Yoongi comes back in four days, that means it has been just over two weeks in Jimin's home. You heavy-blink in an attempt to conceptualize the time, feeling ashamed by how little of it you remember. Briefly, you worry that you may have imposed, but Jimin has never so much as hinted at that fact, so you allow yourself to let the idea go.

It is difficult, at times, to accept the many ways in which you are loved. It feels strange to look back on how you ended up tangled in this web, with these men. Part of you wishes you and Yoongi could start over—meet organically and fall together not because of proximity and a need to cure a deep, aching loneliness that had built over years, but because you simply want to.

But could you simply want to fall in love with the head of a crime syndicate? No, you think. Probably not. 

Still, how do you explain that to someone who asks? I was kidnapped as collateral, but we fell in love feels like a story not too many people would understand. Probably, the average person would ask if you were alright and attempt to help you find refuge. Probably, they would be in their right mind to do so. 

The next three days drag. Knowing that you will see Yoongi and Namjoon again soon has you a little on edge, but not necessarily in a bad way. Your dancing suffers for it, and you find your movements too stiff, too off-beat; your head and your heart are clouded, and you cannot seem to get your body to do anything. Still, you try. Wasting away drinking at Paradise does not feel like the best way to spend your lonely nights, but you want to wait for Yoongi's return before spending too much time with Namjoon. 

Although the three of you have different bonds and dynamics, you almost feel guilty at the thought of hogging Namjoon to yourself while Yoongi is out healing in the countryside. Despite knowing he would tell you not to worry—to be with Namjoon and keep him company. 

And, part of you thinks of this time as getting your last moments in with Jimin before moving out of his space. You have not voiced it, but you have been going out of your way to spend just a little more time with him after work, before the two of you crash for the morning and sleep, curled up on the couch with whichever anime he feels like playing in the background—currently, Chainsaw Man. 

Jimin is phenomenal company, and you have really enjoyed following him around the house while he cooks, practices impromptu dance moves around furniture, and talks about nothing and everything. Even in quiet, still moments eating ice cream in the glow of the television, you feel the bond that has formed quickly and effortlessly, thankful to have a friend and ally on your side.

Despite the budding friendship, Jimin remains a somewhat secretive person. You have learned that his upbringing was privileged and full of wealth, but his parents were not kind about his desire to chase his own dreams instead of taking over the family business, and they quickly cut him off when he went to school for contemporary dance. It took no time at all for Jimin to wind up houseless, using his beauty to sleep with wealthy men and women for a meal and a warm bed. 

When Yoongi's mother found Jimin on the streets, she took him in with the promise of a better life, but how he came to replace her is unknown. How long Jimin spent on the streets, the kinds of things he saw in that time…all of those details, he hides behind a bright, practiced smile, only given away by the sadness that pours from his beautiful, round eyes. 

"I see myself in you, dove," Jimin says often, usually accompanied by a side hug or a kiss on the cheek. 

And at first, it made you feel strange. Jimin has come so far that maybe, you had originally thought, he sees you as a pet project; someone who needs to be fixed and turned into something beautiful. But now, you know that is not true. You know that Jimin sees persistence and survival; he sees someone imperfect but caring who just needs a little push to understand and figure things out, at times. 

Everything he has, he gained with persistence and survival; nothing was handed to him. Yoongi and his men, and possibly Yoongi's mother, taught Jimin the skills he knows today, that make him who he is. None of them became this successful alone; all seven of them play a crucial role. Eight, now, with you. 

You feel sentimental tonight when you lean against the bar cradling a glass of whiskey that you have been nursing for the last hour. Tomorrow, Yoongi returns home, and although it has not been voiced aloud, you can tell that the prospect has Jimin and Jeongguk in a better mood. You even spot Seokjin, Hoseok, and Taehyung coming in and out of Paradise, and they all seem chipper. 

Jimin is done up with pink and silver stage makeup, with his eyes and lips bright and shining. He wears his standard black satin top tucked into tight, leather black jeans, and tonight, he has a thick black rhinestone choker around his neck. 

Jeongguk, on the other hand, is pattern-clashing in a way that is both alluring and confusing. As standalone items, his silk, long-sleeve, plunging neckline leopard print shirt, and tight silver and blue floral lurex pants are solid choices. The shirt's neck falls nearly to his navel, showing beautiful topography of his chest—dips and hills of muscle and golden-tanned skin, accentuated by several mismatched gold necklaces; and the pants shine brightly in every light that dares grace his figure, drawing the eye to his muscular thighs and perky, round ass. But they look so strange and mismatched together, you cannot help but question what on earth he was thinking. 

"You sure have a staring problem, tonight," Jeongguk chides as he walks by, sending an inviting wink that makes you laugh far too boisterously.

"Just trying to figure out what you have going on, here," you respond with an incredulous smirk. "Did you get dressed in the dark, Gguk?"

With a roll of his eyes, Jeongguk responds, "Both items are Dolce and Gabbana, but okay."

And, without missing a beat, you say, "Pretty sure Dolce and Gabbana also produce plain clothes that would match better than this. Your black satin shirts would look really good with those pants, and…well, anything else would look good with that shirt."

"I don't expect you to understand fashion," Jeongguk teases, raking his eyes over your form as he takes a step closer. 

"Black, Jeongguk," you say, chin tilted high. "You have a closet full of black that would look phenomenal with both pieces."

With Jeongguk stepping into your personal space, that damned cologne hits you, and you begin to lose your composure. He really is suitable for smelling like a bouquet of wildflowers, especially with the spicy musk underneath; it is perfectly him. 

"I don't expect someone in boring Vuitton rags to appreciate the nuance," Jeongguk teases, voice dropping lower as he towers before you. 

"This dress costs as much as both that shirt and those pants combined," you bicker more quietly than before. The dress you wear tonight is certainly less flattering or flashy than what he wears—a Louis Vuitton brown and black knit mini dress with glitter thread mottling throughout. It has a square, rolled neckline and thin straps, but it hugs your curves nicely, falling mid-thigh. You raise your eyebrow to add, "Boss Min happens to like the way I look in Vuitton rags."

At the mention of Yoongi, Jeongguk softens, and you know you have won this round. Jeongguk scoffs, then slams back the rest of his drink, spinning on his shiny black leather boots before stomping off to where Hyejin and the dancers are congregated behind the main stage, going over something pertaining to the newly installed dance cages on either side of the bar, judging by how she points to them. 

You watch as Jeongguk walks away, allowing your gaze to linger on how those gaudy, silver-blue pants shimmer when they hug his ass, thanking your lucky stars that his silly fashion sense has, at the very least, provided you with a good show. 

When you turn back to the bar, you drink the rest of your whiskey and ask for another. The night is still young; the club has barely just opened and only a few patrons linger during the hours before the dancers take to the stages, but you have a feeling you are going to need to at least have a steady buzz to handle whatever bullshit Jeongguk is on. 

Two hours into your night, you are proven correct during a very flirty conversation with Hyejin about the dance cages—about how she thinks you should make your Paradise debut in one, asking if you would ever let her handcuff you to the bars—when the bartender informs you that the boss would like to see you in his office. 

Jimin seldom calls you to his office, but he is the only one who properly has one, so you head toward the back of the main room, past a security guard, and into a hallway that leads to Jimin's office, the dressing rooms for the dancers, and a meeting room that Hyejin and Jeongguk use when they need to. 

As you make your way to the door, you can hear the sounds of dancers chattering and laughing coming down the hall, and you assume that Jeongguk must be giving them their nightly pep talk in one of the dressing rooms. You knock twice on the office door, then try the handle. To your surprise, when you enter, the room is empty. 

Jimin has allowed you in his space alone plenty of times, so you make your way to have a seat in the leather armchair just in front of his desk. You decide to check your notifications while you wait and pull your phone from a small black purse that is slung over your shoulder.

The door opens and closes behind you, so you put the phone away before you have a chance to turn the screen on. And, instinctively, you stand to greet Jimin, surprised when you turn to find Jeongguk closing in, fast. 

Before you have a chance to speak, Jeongguk has the armchair shoved away, caging you against Jimin's desk, leaning close and low with both of his hands gripping the wooden surface. You practically sit against the edge, doing your best to lean back and away from Jeongguk, but he is a persistent, towering presence, and he wastes no time dragging his lips over your neck, just below your ear, sending a rush of arousal tingling through you at the touch. The scent of his cologne has your senses simultaneously dulled and on high alert.

"Jeongguk," you gasp, attempting to twist away but finding you do not want him to stop. "We can't—"

"I know," Jeongguk responds, voice deep and silky, lips dipping lower, dragging across your throat and leaving only the faintest hint of a spit trail. "Just want to tease you a little; make you squirm."

"Why?" you breathe, leaning back to create more space. 

When Jeongguk does not move, you lift your hands and press against his chest, attempting to push him back, but your palms slide on the silk shirt, and you wind up rubbing over his nipples, feeling metal under the drag of skin, causing Jeongguk to hiss as you gasp. Arousal builds and builds, and you squeeze your tights together, desperate to stave off the effect he has on you; you are, admittedly, touch-starved and somewhat feral. 

"I know you feel it, too," Jeongguk practically groans, still leaning way too close, voice spoken beside your ear. "We have undeniable chemistry."

"Of course I feel it," you respond, closing your eyes in an attempt to get your bearings while your heart pounds dizzyingly fast. 

Jeongguk asks, "Do you know how fucking hard it is to keep my hands off you?" in a tone that almost seems steeped in pain.

"Yes," you mutter softly, nodding shallowly. "I think I do."

With a sigh, Jeongguk finally takes a step back, but he stays close enough that you have to crane your neck; there is no room for you to stand away from the desk. The two of you stare at one another, and then Jeongguk scoffs and shakes his head. 

"Seeing you around so much has been…god, you drive me insane."

You chuckle, though you feel somewhat awkward being faced with his admission. Although, truth be told, being in Jeongguk's proximity so much during the last few weeks has also made you want to see him more and more; you know that, once you return to your normal life, you will come to miss him a lot. Or, perhaps, you can continue spending time at Paradise; there is nothing saying you cannot. 

"Last night, when I dropped you off," Jeongguk says, reaching up to gently cradle your chin in his hand, surprising you with his shift in demeanor, "were you crying?"

Although you glance away to respond, shyness rises, you nod slightly and say, "Yeah."

"Was it something I said?"

Quickly, you nod and return your gaze to Jeongguk, who looks genuinely concerned. "No. I was crying because I was missing Yoongi and Namjoon."

Jeongguk hums, drops his hand away, and takes a step back. 

Suddenly, the silence feels heavy, and you struggle to identify his reaction. He very clearly knows your involvement with both men, so why tense up at the mention of them?

"What's the matter?" you ask, unwilling to let anything weird hang between you. 

Jeongguk shrugs, but his eyes are on the floor, and it is clear that something is bothering him. 

"Jeongguk," you insist.

He sighs, and, without looking at you, says, "It just sucks that when things become normal again with you guys…I just…it's been nice to see you here."

"Ah," you respond. And you get it; it has been great to be around here and see him, Jimin, and Hyejin regularly. 

"But Yoongi will return and demand all your attention—" Jeongguk practically snarls, and you tut your tongue at him, staring incredulously as he balks at the interruption. 

"Yoongi does not demand anything from me," you say, standing up straight now that there is some space between the two of you. You feel defensive, but you can understand where Jeongguk is coming from; you really have not had any independence since moving into the mansion, but part of that is not having any direction or much desire to venture out, finding comfort and safety behind the familiarity of those walls. "Honestly, I have been loving it here. It's nice to leave the house for no occasion and see other people. I consider Hyejin and Jimin friends, and it has been so great having friends again. I don't want to suddenly stop seeing them. Or you."

"Won't you have your hands full with both of your boyfriends?" Jeongguk teases, and you are glad to see his mood has at least somewhat lightened; his smile has returned, even if his gaze remains sad. 

"Oh they definitely know how to keep my hands full," you respond with a wink, watching as Jeongguk's eyes and mouth widen comically. "But it is also nice having some space. Although I hate how all of this came about, I think taking a step back and allowing myself to really miss them and think about the many facets of our relationship has been important. I needed it."

"So I might actually see you from time to time?" Jeongguk asks, stepping close once more, seeming hopeful. It still amuses you when Jeongguk is all soft edges after so much time spent bickering with one another. 

This time, you step in close and rub your palms over his chest, making sure to drag your hands over his pierced nipples, smiling when he shivers beneath your touch. 

"We still have to finish what we started in Hong Kong," you say, voice dropped low and intentionally sultry. "I just haven't wanted to do anything without the others present…we haven't really discussed that, and I would feel too guilty leaving them out."

"I understand," Jeongguk responds, leaning into your touch and surprising you with a very soft, very chaste kiss on the lips before he mutters, "Taehyung will fucking kill me if we do anything without him."

Warmth floods your cheeks, and you drop your hands while taking a step back. Even after such a tiny taste, the urge to kiss Jeongguk is too great to stay in such close proximity. 

"We're going to have an entire audience, huh?" you ask, feeling more turned on by the prospect than shy.

Jeongguk chuckles and says, "Sounds like we will."

It almost feels surreal to discuss the topic of you and Jeongguk having sex so openly. Although you have had enough whiskey to give you a steady buzz, you are still clear-headed enough to spiral just a little over the thought of his body, and having it all to yourself. That is, unless the others want to play, as well; you really have no idea what to expect, and you are not certain you would deny them if they wanted to.

As you search for a way to end this conversation and return to the main bar before someone begins to notice the two of you are missing, Jimin comes barging in with his brows knit. Although you have done nothing wrong, there is a split moment of panic over how this may look, with the two of you in Jimin's office alone. 

But he simply glances between you and Jeongguk, huffs out a sigh, and says, "Oh, thank god. I was hoping to find you two in here."

"What's up?" Jeongguk asks, and you straighten out, worried that something may be wrong. 

"One of the regulars came in piss drunk and started harassing Hyejin. He groped her ass and when she slapped him, he got in her face. Security was able to intervene, but I need you to take him out back and fuck him up. Let him know shit like that doesn't fly at Boss Min's lovely establishment." 

Anger spikes heavily in your chest, and when Jimin turns to you and adds, "Dove, if you don't mind, I think she could use a friend," you nod, determined to do whatever it takes to make Hyejin feel safe. 

"On it," you say, walking past the men, down the short hallway, and out into the bar. 

Loud R&B music with a quick, enticing trap beat plays, and you stomp in your overpriced patent leather chelsea boots to the beat, storming into the main bar room like you own the joint and scanning the room for your girl. 

Standing at the main bar with her arms pulled tightly over her chest, is Hyejin surrounded by dancers. As soon as you approach, a girl who goes by Lily backs up and opens her arm wide to welcome you into the space. Hyejin is shaking when you drape your arm around her, hugging it loosely across her chest.

"Hey, beautiful," you say, and she turns and melts into you, throwing her arms over your shoulders and letting out a deep sigh. "Want to go out back and have a smoke?"

Hyejin hugs you tight and shakes her head, and you rub your hands over her back, waiting for her response. The dancers begin trickling out, having to get ready to perform, leaving pats on your and Hyejin's backs and soft words of support and encouragement. Once there is more space for her to breathe, Hyejin stands up straight and lets out another deep breath.

She is not crying, though her eyes are red, and when she looks at you with a frown, you gently place your hands at her temples and thumb at the smudged mascara under her eyes before muttering, "Perfect," with a grin. 

"I hate men," Hyejin says with a fake snarl, and you roll your eyes and nod dramatically, making her giggle. 

"Wanna talk about it?" you ask, and Hyejin shakes her head and says, "No. I want to dance."

Sitting on the bar is a half-empty pint of something bright blue, and Hyejin chugs it back, then leaves the empty glass behind and takes your hand, dragging you to one of the dance cages. The floor of the cage is raised about three feet from the ground and is a glowing octagon of rainbow color. Hyejin, wearing only a black satin bodysuit with lace trim and black stiletto heels, walks around to the back of the cage, closest to the nearby wall, and opens a door that blends in with the bars, then she takes a step up and hoists herself onto the platform. 

You follow behind and step up and into the cage, moving to the other side of the space to allow Hyejin to close the door. Although you are no stranger to dancing in sight of others, being in an elevated cage has your nerves spiked, and you wish you had taken a shot or three at the bar before agreeing to follow her. 

Hyejin wastes no time closing in on you with her fists around bars on either side of your head, and she holds on as she drops her hips low and swishes back up, all the while keeping her eyes on you. You sway to the beat with slower movements than the ones you watch Hyejin make, feeling entranced by her beauty and struggling to actually move the way she does. 

"Are you shy?" she asks with a raise of her eyebrow, and you chuckle, letting go of some of your anxiety while you nod and mutter, "A little."

Hyejin spins with her arms still lifted, and wraps them over your shoulders, then dips down again, rubbing her ass against your thighs before standing up straight. You realize too late that you are frozen in place with your arms somewhat bent, like a Barbie doll, and Hyejin turns and immediately starts to laugh, bending and flinging her hair in front of her face. 

"I'm not apologizing for who I am," you whine as you join her in laughing, feeling embarrassed by your inability to act like a normal person around her. 

"I would never dream of asking you to," Hyejin says as she leans back against the bars across from you, swaying her hips with an amused grin. "But it is very cute how flustered you get."

You roll your eyes and smile, glad to at least be considered cute. Flirting and being flirted with is hardly an issue, and you would probably relax more around her if things were not so uncertain at the moment, in your love life. You are sure Yoongi and Namjoon would not mind, but it is a conversation you would like to have before you allow yourself to get carried away. 

Or, perhaps, there is nothing to allow. Probably, there is no way in which things could get carried away, but you are once again spiraling because Jeongguk has gotten under your skin. With a deep inhale, you remind yourself that Hyejin is likely just being friendly and that you are allowed to relax and have fun with her. 

So have fun, you do. The song changes to something with more of a club beat, and Hyejin begins to pump her hands in front of her chest while shaking her ass in overexaggerated movements, gyrating in a chaotic circle. With your hands pulled over your head, you begin doing some wiggle-shake move creating waves all the way down to your legs, laughing as Hyejin throws her hands over her head in an attempt to do the same. 

"What do you call this one?" She shouts over the music, and you shake your head and say, "I don't know! The overcooked noodle?" 

Hyejin practically throws her body against yours with laughter, and you trip backward, catching yourself with a hand on one of the bars to lessen your collision. There are definitely patrons behind you who have a view of whatever it is the two of you are doing, and you try not to feel too embarrassed. 

"Yah," Jeongguk calls, making you attempt to turn around, trapped in place by a hysterical Hyejin. He rounds the platform enough to come into view and grabs onto two of the bars as he teasingly says, "You girls are gonna scare away the customers."

You raise one hand toward him as if threatening to strike him, shouting, "Oh, shut u—" but the word dies as soon as your eyes fall to Jeongguk's knuckles, which are scraped and bloodied. 

"Jeongguk, what the fuck?" you ask, reaching for the nearest hand, which he slides away. 

Hyejin stands alert, then squats to be at eye-level with Jeongguk, and you fully turn, checking to make sure he has no other cuts or bruises, glad that he seems otherwise perfectly fine. 

"Relax," Jeongguk grumbles, tonguing the inside of his mouth while he cracks the knuckles of one fist against his palm, then switches to the other side. "This is nothing; scuff marks. That guy didn't land a single punch before he was lights out."

You sigh but accept that there is nothing you would be able to do to convince Jeongguk not to fuck someone up. It is, after all, something he has likely been trained to do and is celebrated for within the ranks of the family. Still, you hate to see his pretty hands bloodied. 

"Well, you know I don't condone violence," Hyejin says, reaching her hands between two bars, smiling when Jeongguk steps closer and allows her to grab onto his wrists. "But I really appreciate you sticking up for me."

"Of course," Jeongguk grumbles, smiling the soft smile that he does when he is attempting to hide the sweetness that festers inside him, threatening to burst. Cute. 

With a sigh, Hyejin lifts the wrist that Jeongguk wears his watch on, yanking it close while tilting her head to get a look. "I should go tend to the girls," she grumbles, releasing Jeongguk and standing to give you a kiss on the cheek.

You follow Hyejin's movements, watching which bars are part of the door, nervous that they blend in well enough and that you could be trapped in this cage for the rest of eternity, then you turn back to Jeongguk, who has two hands on two bars, and is staring up at you. 

"So," he says, stretching himself tall to speak to you, arching his back and tipping his chin upward. "I was wondering…"

Since you are already in the cage, and Jeongguk had already been a menace to your health and well-being earlier, you decide to take a page out of Hyejin's book and swish your body in an inviting wave as you squat, dragging your hands down the bars but keeping them lifted above your head. 

Jeongguk visibly swallows, losing what he was just in the process of saying, and you watch as his eyes trail to where your short skirt hugs your thighs, undoubtedly giving him a view of the black panties you wear underneath. And although you do not mind letting Jeongguk sneak a peek, you are glad that the lights are fairly dim in the club.

"What was that?" you ask, tilting your head to the side and giving a look that feigns innocence. 

The expression on Jeongguk's face flashes comically from needy to pained to frustrated, and he huffs out a sigh, shaking his head as if trying to rattle his thoughts free.

 "What I was going to say before you so rudely interrupted me, is that we should have dinner soon."

Jeongguk's offer takes a moment to compute, and you stare at him, heavy-blinking, trying to determine whether he is asking you on a date, or if we means more than just the two of you. 

"We, as in…"

"You, me, and our men."

"Ah," you respond; that makes sense. "Yeah, we should. That would be fun."

Jeongguk nods, letting his gaze fall once more to your legs before drifting slowly back to your face. "I'll talk to Taehyungah. Perhaps he can host, and I'll cook."

With an incredulous raise of your brow you ask, "Oh, you cook?" in a mocking tone of sheer disbelief. 

Jeongguk reaches up and holds his hands over yours, gripping firmly while he leans in, head between the bars and close. From here, you smell his cologne; from here you resist the urge to lean in close and kiss him. 

"I happen to be an excellent cook, dollface."

"Is that so?" you ask, voice much less confident than a moment ago.

"That is so," Jeongguk says, then he leans in somehow even closer, making your head spin. "So, it's a date?"

"Yeah," you respond, feeling your heart go wild behind your ribs. "It's a date."

What you did to me made me see the world differently Mis lágrimas se secan solos, solos Pues mírame a los ojos Dime si ves el vacío que deja amor perdido Yo no duermo hasta que mis sueño' están cumplidos Sé que estoy perdiendo, pero el juеgo no ha concluido

🎵 visit the playlist

ahhhh!!! how are we feeling??? i presonally really love this chapter. the next one containing the promised smut™ is coming very, very soon!!!! i promise. i was sad to leave Yoongi out of this chapter, and it was not my intention to have a full chapter without him, but it made sense to split the mega chapter this way, and it felt wrong to rush him back without mc taking time to sort her thoughts out and attempt to gain some independence.

thank you for reading!!! 💜💜💜 reblogs and comments make the world go 'round, and likes are nice too!!!

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Collateral is copyright 2022-2023 theharrowing, all rights reserved.

[unniekiwi]

Platonic spider x male reader who is kinda like experimental reader except he has black tattoos all around his body and long at hair that reaches his back and stuff, reader has adapted nicely and has a life style like the navi but stays in solitude trying to use the materials in pandora to become as advanced as the stuff on earth, and until spider comes along they both get attached since there is no other humans and teaches spider how to play chess and tells stories of Norse mythology (I really like them :))

𝖠𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝖲𝗉𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗑 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖾! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖯𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖼. 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝟤.

IM SO SORRY FOR TAKING FOREVER!!! I went with school on a trip for a week and later on, I had lots of exams, homeworks and projects. So I apologise again, and I hope you like it. ♡

꒱࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ꒱࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ꒱࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ

꒱࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ꒱࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ꒱࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ

After living with Spider for several months, you were just like his father. He had thought of telling you about his father's thing, that he is a clone and so on, but he never found the right moment.

Right now Spider was observing how Kiri was taking care of Lo'ak's wounds, he got a huge kick in the ass, anyway, Lo'ak.

- Do you want some kisses on the wounds? - the human approaches the Na'vi turning his head. The blue being simply replies with a - Fuck u man, I fell down because you told me to go to the right, was it an evil plan to dislocate my neck? - Kiri rolls her eyes at her brother's assumptions, which were not very coherent. Spider simply played along and they continued to argue. Until Kiri decided to make the conversation more interesting.

- Spider. - the boy looks at Kiri, Lo'ak just keeps quiet. - When do you plan to tell you-know-who about your father? - Spider tensed and looked to the side.

- Don't know. I never find the time to tell him, I just don't know how he's going to take it… - Spider looks at the ground, Kiri and Lo'ak look at him already knowing what to answer.

- Y/N is the most understanding and intelligent person you can find, do you really think he won't understand you? -

- Mmh. I wish Dad was like that with us… - Lo'ak whispered quietly, Kiri and Spider remained silent.

- I'll see what I do… - he changes the subject quickly, he'll figure out what to do on the way, after all they are right, why would you get angry or upset? - Anyway, Y/N has taught me how to play chess. And wow, it's really hard to beat him. He's too smart. - sits just the brothers and they listen, the Sullys love to hear Spider when he talks about you, his eyes sparkle and he's always smiling, they're glad to know you make him so happy.

- What's the game about? - Kiri asks with a smile and Lo'ak while still in his bubble.

- It's a board with squares. Each opponent has eight pieces and it's about eliminating the other's pieces. His pieces are from… Mmh - shit, names of cultures, he always has trouble remembering the names. - Ah! Yes! Basque, Basque pieces. I like those, they're shaped like humans. He also has the Nordic chess ones but… it's harder. - Lo'ak looks at Spider with an annoyed look on his face. - I'm learning! - Spider pushes Lo'ak's shoulder, just like Kiri he just laughs. Spider had so many things to comment on, he almost forgot the most important thing. Your advanced technology projects with Pandora's natural materials. - Mmh. Do you guys know if any of Pandora's materials have the ability to produce energy? Like humans do? - Kiri and Lo'ak looked thoughtfully at the human. They knew about your projects and wanted to help you, so sometimes they indirectly ask their grandmother and parents about powerful materials, then tell Spider and he tells you. - We'll ask Dad later. - Spider got up and said goodbye. The brothers said goodbye and looked at each other, they understood each other at once, they know you will appreciate Spider's honesty.

Spider, on the other hand, was nervous, he started sweating and didn't know whether to tell you. By the time he realized it, he had arrived at your sweet abode. There you were, sitting there waiting, reading a book, next to the chessboard. You looked at him with a warm smile, he was happy to see you glad and sat down across from you. You started the game, Spider was concentrated from the beginning but little by little he got more and more distracted, he looked so worried that he was sweating. That's when you stopped. - Spider. Are you okay, little one? - you ask him and put your hand on his arm, Spider just looked at you static. His hands were sweating and he was stuttering.

- I-I have to tell you something… I should have told you when we first met, but… it's hard, it's hard even for me to accept. - You answered with a nod and sat down next to him. - My real father is Quarich Miles. My real name is Miles Socorro. Spider is the nickname I got from the Sullys. I'm sorry to tell you now and ruin the moment, but- - you cut him off. It didn't matter to you, it was shocking that he was the son of the most psychopathic person in Pandora, but Spider surely isn't like that. You knew he would never be like him.

- It's all right. I don't care, I'm still going to love you. Because you are my boy. Miles or not Miles, you are who you decide to be. - You tousled his dreadlocks and Spider hugged you with all his strength, he was thanking Eywa for sending you into his life.

The day went by, you were in your hammock with a small blanket. You told him stories of the Vikings, Spider listened and ran his fingers over your black tattoos.

- Freya is the one you like the most? - Spider asked tracing the tattoos.

- That's right. - Spider asked "why?" - She was manifested by humans because she brought regeneration and freedom, as well as fertility, love, lust and beauty. - Spider looked at you with encouragement to keep talking, so you did. - She has wavy golden hair and brown eyes, her skin is as white as snow and she also moved around with a chariot pulled by two big cats: Trjegul and Bygul. She also had a boar, Hildisvini, which acted as a protective talisman in wars. She was a warrior and in her palace, in Asgard, she sheltered half of the soldiers fallen in combat.

- It's very you, that's why you like her so much. - The young boy chuckled under his breath and yawned. - Now… let's go to sleep, I'm exhausted. - You nodded and cuddled together, until you both fell asleep.

[redahlia-writes]

work song. | joel miller

Abstract: He wishes he could reach over as he does in darkness, wrap his arms around her and pull her to him, making her gasp and giggle and fall into him, finding her place in the bent of his arms, head tucked under his chin so that they’re locked together like puzzle pieces.

But he can’t move, and the gasp that falls from her lips is not the one he wants to hear.

Words: 1.8k

Content: f!reader; MAJOR tlou2 spoilers, character’s death, mentions of child’s death, blood and wounds, angst, mentions of explicit scenes but nothing graphic, mentions of alcohol

A/N: heavily inspired by hozier’s work song. i don’t know where this came from and i’m sorry. writing is a little experimental

also on AO3 - masterlist

reblogs and feedback are always greatly appreciated. you can send it here, too

Joel, get up.

It echoes distantly, the words in a voice so familiar it almost pulls him back from the dull pain all across his body - Ellie, his Ellie.

Joel, fucking get up.

One breath, two. There’s a coppery taste in his mouth, and he can’t see her, but she’s there, his Ellie. Angry and pleading, she sounds like she’s just out of reach, and his hand twitches. Maybe he can get to her, crawl across the floor to where she’s breathing hard and please stop! Please don’t do this… Joel, please get up!

It doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s oddly quiet, and then the ringing starts - there’s no more blood coating his tongue, or his teeth, but it’s still awfully dark, and where’s Ellie?

A scream, a sob, the low-lit room spins around him and there she is, pinned to the ground as her shoulders shake with her sobs as the ringing goes on and on and on and -

I’ll fucking kill you…

No, he wants to say, don’t do that, don’t go down that road, sweet girl, it’s alright, it was going to be this way sooner or later. There’s no point in being angry, it was bound to happen - he knew that, he still does, it’s alright. Besides, he should add, you know she doesn’t like to see you angry. Either of us, really.

He wonders where she is. When the room is empty but for him and Ellie, he wonders where she is - she’s never too far from either of them, she’s always looking out for them, looking after them, caring for them, even when they drift apart. Sweet as the cherries that grow as a miracle in their backyard.

He wonders where she is.

When she first found him, Jackson still felt like a fever dream, too good to be true.

The alcohol didn’t taste as cheap as the one from the QZ, and he drank and drank and drank and yet it was her he got drunk on - her laughter (how could someone laugh so brightly after all that happened?) and her smile (how long had those lines etched themselves into her skin?) and her jokes (how drunk are you, really, to find this funny? whispered with her shoulder pressed to his).

He knew Tommy and Maria had set them up, his brother had said it loud and clear - and so did she, Maria fixing her hair at the door when she first got there making her laugh.

“I don’t mind,” they were alone when she said it, the glass in her hand almost empty as she leaned into him. “It’s a bit like old times, is it not? Meddling younger brothers and friends.”

Christ, he could lose himself in her smile.

He went home with her that night, his jacket resting over her shoulders and a kiss at the front door - like old times. He would’ve lingered there, before. He would’ve whispered goodnight in the doorway, letting the word echo in the house before walking away. He would’ve looked over his shoulder, would’ve seen his jacket still on her and grinned - a promise of returning, a thread keeping them together.

But it was not just like old times, because time was not something he thought he had just yet. Every day could be the last, could it not? That’s what he had gotten used to outside.

And so the kiss turned into two and three and more and the door closed behind them both, with his jacket falling to the floor where it’d stay the night, while he’d spend it trapped in the space between her thighs, a warm embrace more dizzying than any alcohol had ever been - before, in the QZ, in Jackson.

In the morning he’d notice an empty room across the corridor from hers, the door open to show a single bed and some old toys - that thread he thought could belong only to the past wrapped itself around him. It kept them together, day after night after day, with whispers in the crook of his neck of what once was, what would never be again.

But they had one another.

“Don’t you ever worry I might’ve done something awful to get here?”

“To get to me?” sometimes she touched his face as if to make sure he was real. He’d kiss her hands then, hardened by time, by the fight. “We’ve all done awful things. You can’t survive out there if you’re a nice person.”

“You’re a good person.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t nice,” he had forgotten what cherries tasted like - he remembered each time she kissed him that summer. “You did what you had to to survive. To help Ellie survive. You’re a good person, too.”

He could die knowing she believed him good, but he did not want to anymore.

She still believed him good, even after Ellie told her what he’d done.

He should’ve known Ellie was going to - the kid loved her as much as he did. Why would she want her to be with a selfish liar? With someone who’d taken away the possibility of salvation? With the man who was the reason her kid had turned?

“Nothing could’ve saved my son, Joel,” a bitter whisper, a knowledge she lived with daily and still hurt in the middle of the night. “But you saved Ellie. That girl is alive because of you.”

“At what cost?”

“Her life - she was just a kid. She still is. The weight of the world should’ve never rested on her shoulders,” it was such a drastic difference, her soft voice in the lowlights of their porch (he had not dared getting inside the house to confess, because he feared having to walk out) compared to Ellie’s anger thrown in screams at his face. “You’re not a bad person for caring about her - you’re just still human. She’ll come around.”

“She won’t. She’s right. And she’s stubborn.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” soft and sweet she took his hand and led him towards the door, a home he did not expect to have ever again and that she still offered to him, in spite of everything. “Anger doesn’t suit either of you.”

Was that the forgiveness he deserved? Still having a house, a bed, still having her?

Her steps echo around him like they do at night when she gets up to go drink, because she always forgets to bring a glass to her nightstand.

He wishes he could reach over as he does in darkness, wrap his arms around her and pull her to him, making her gasp and giggle and fall into him, finding her place in the bent of his arms, head tucked under his chin so that they’re locked together like puzzle pieces.

But he can’t move, and the gasp that falls from her lips is not the one he wants to hear.

It gets stuck in the back of her throat and he feels her gaze on him with Ellie’s, and the tears in their eyes make his still heart ache.

“Shit,” it’s Dina holding her up for a moment - he likes Dina. They both do. She’s good, a good person, good for Ellie.

“Go to Ellie,” her voice sounds so different. Leveled and cold and foreign - it lacks her joy. It almost isn’t her voice at all. “That’s alright - go to Ellie. I’m alright.”

Her lips twitch when she lies - it’s an almost imperceptible movement, the corner of her mouth going up and down once the lie gets past her lips. It’s funny, he thinks, how he got to know her so deeply - he spent over 20 years believing he would never get close enough to anybody else to do that, but now he can tell by the quirk of her lips that she’s lying.

That she’s not alright.

That when she kneels by Ellie and brushes her tears away, her hair back, the thread is about to snap. That when she rests her forehead to Ellie’s and calls her baby girl, the crack in her voice is the reason she says nothing else - she can’t, not without falling apart.

He hates it. He hates to see Ellie cry, he hates to see her hands tremble as she and Dina help her up. He hates that she has to be strong, put on a brave face. He’s the one who’s supposed to do that.

Perhaps he can still crawl to them. Hold them both. Carry them home.

“You got her?” Dina nods to her, her arms holding Ellie’s almost limp body. “I’m staying with him, I - just leave me a moment.”

She makes her way across the floor slowly, without even getting up, and her shoulders are shaking as she reaches his side. The door closes behind Dina and Ellie, and she lets out a broken sob as their steps get more distant.

He wants to tell her to not get any closer, that she’ll get blood on her clothes and that’s impossible to take out nowadays, but she’s lowering her head to his and now tears are dwelling in her eyes and her jeans are getting soaked at the knees as she brushes her lips to his forehead. He can almost feel it.

She should say something, she thinks, but words tangle and twist in her chest, making it ache as she cradles his broken face, trying and trying and trying to get the blood off but the wounds are still open, still bleeding, and he’s still warm, and her sleeves can only get so much away.

She keeps trying, even when tears blur her vision and she almost can’t recognise him anymore, her touch so soft and gentle as if she’s afraid of hurting him, her Joel, her love.

She’ll stay there until the others will find Tommy, and then, even if he’s as broken as she is, he’ll pull her away from his brother’s body - it becomes a chain, one trying to be strong for the other.

Eventually, all will fail.

It’ll be Tommy finding her again, days later, kneeling on the cold dark earth by Joel’s headstone - the tears will have long dried, but her hands will still tremble.

For a while, Joel is grateful for his brother, same way as he’s grateful for Dina - they care for his girls the way he was supposed to, and they try and take care of each other, because it’s each other they need the most in his absence.

Eventually, that’ll fail too - for a while.

“Revenge will not bring him back, Ellie,” she’s still gentle in the face of Ellie’s fury - yet it’s all for nothing. For a while.

Months later, she’ll still be there to wait for her and pick up Joel’s guitar. She’ll still be there to welcome her home and hold her through the night on a single bed, surrounded by old toys, and a broken watch on her wrist.

[moe-broey]

And since I'm like, not entirely satisfied w her design, I have. Some scraps I made after

I highkey wish I stuck to my main vision, that's been with me since day one. Which is, the layered ribbons. In the main piece, I tried reducing them so you can see more bones and some more Hel-like "armor" underneath (though it's generous to call it that lmfao). It was an impulse decision, and like... idk, you kinda miss the point without it.

Point being, there's like... A Lot, going on here.

> The white dress? Completely imagined. I could have fucking SWORN she was wearing a white dress in the Book 3 key art. But one thing about me is I'm a sucker for the symbolism, behind the white dress. So it's a staple of her design, still. Not to mention, something that was always a strong vision was being able to see through the dress, somewhat (ghostly glowy effect)

> The Biggest Thing though. Again, I regret changing last minute LMFAO. Is that front piece. Like an open wound, as if she was slashed and split down the middle. Messy layered ribbons, in pink and flesh tones, to mimic "guts" (ESP strong in her damaged art, where the ribbons would "spill out"/come undone). The ribbons also are keeping the dress tied together -- as if it were mended. Then, there's the frills! The torn fabric! I'm always iffy about How heavily I want to lean into it, but in the back of my mind. It has a vaguely yonic shape. But Mostly, it's meant to also just look torn open LMFAO (and then decorated 🥰)

Everything else is just vague and experimental. Like nods to a variety of chara's designs (the shorts/thigh highs lifted from her base art, the shape of her dress/the tattered ends lifted from Lif, the sleeves kinda lifted from Henriette, and also the hairstyle VERY much lifted from Henriette -- with just the tiiiiiniest hint of Alfonse in there, with a long strand of bangs to the side, opposite of his). Also experimenting with sharp teeth like accents on her outfit... (hard to notice here, but. Thinking about it)

Another sketch I did afterward, again. Just. Fucking around/finding out. Though I do like the shapes here, more.... and it does have a closer resemblance to Henriette, actually (in dress shape). Not sure where that collar connects to, though LMFAO

In the final piece you don't even see much of the armor I designed anyway... some parts I just ended up omitting regardless, due to the complexity/business. There was a concept for it to be like. Winding around her body. But like. Her design is already so complicated. It really wasn't worth it to fuck it up more 😔💔 (and yet......... that's what I did................. I should have just stuck to my guns.............)

@sharenaweek

[burntortilla]

Alfred casually being the safest man on Gotham because he accidentally gets so well with criminals and it’s just a basic rule at this point that the “Old British guy that carries around bandages” is off-limits for anyone

Like, he walks around Gotham late at night when Batman or any Robin is on patrol for late night groceries or for a small stroll until he notices wounded criminals that Batman had left for the police to take (judging by the batarang stuck on their arm and broken leg)

So y’know, Alfred being Alfred he strikes up a small conversation with them while doing the best he can with their injuries, avoiding any questions on why he’s keeping the batarang before calling ab ambulance and taking his leave, leaving behind a very confused and nearly-crying 45 year-old mugger that turned out to just be on the gig to pay off child support

And you know, since he’s just “Bruce Wayne’s Butler” He isn’t really seen on camera because, Well, He’s just a butler, is relatively anonymous in a way or two (except for the mayor villains of course)

This goes on a couple of days, just him patching up anyone he’s able on the streets while also taking the opportunity to take back some Batarangs and other pieces of fallen equipment, even going as far as to sitting besides one of the mayor villains Batman is usually against, so he naturally just knows random facts about them

The scarecrow? Oh yeah, he actually enjoys the motions of cooking once in a while, more because he enjoys watching the more experimental part of it

Harley Quinn? Yeah, Alfred consoled her when she accidentally almost killed one of Ivy’s plants, he has yet to know if she apologized though

So you know, one day Alfred is on his usual stroll while Bruce is out doing patrol, and Bruce almost has a heart attack when he notices fucking Killer Croc so near the butler. So Bruce is expecting the worst and is just ready to call backup if things got crappy, swearing to god that if Alfred got wounded in any way he’d never forget it

But what he isn’t expecting, is Alfred sitting down next to the meta, who is seemingly on the middle of an intense therapy session with the butler.

Out of all things Bruce expected, it wasn’t that

[theravequeen]

Hey gang

I made a horrifying symbiote AU where my shapeshifter OC, Raven, gets caught mid shift by Widow, a symbiote, and I'm the process they both absorbed Peter and made a terrifying amalgamation :)!! And then Harley has to find them like this and he and Stephen have to figure out a way to fix it :))

.

Anyways enjoy the read and the experimental art I'm stupidly proud of!

TW FOR: BODY HORROR, EYE CONTACT, GORE

Harley couldn't believe he was doing this.

The old Hydra base was completely run down, crumbling beneath itself. Hazard signs and sharp fences were put all around it, like some sort of nuclear fallout plot.

Something was in here that Hydra didn't want them to see.

But this is where his siblings disappeared to. Everyone told him Hydra killed them. That they were killed in the midst of Armageddon by Schneider and his horrid organization of criminals. Of sick and twisted beings.

Nat had said they dissapeared one day, never coming back home. It was Hydra, Harley had found out.

Now here he stands, face to face with the building that apparently was his siblings' tomb.

Wish a deep, shaky breath in, he began to walk into the crumbled building, flashlight gripped tightly in his hand.

Traveling through the beginning of the Hydra base, he didn't find much else other than the broken down walls and shattered glass of the facility. Occasionally he'd find traces of an odd substance, purple, and almost gel-like, though he dare not touch it himself.

Soon, he reached a large, open room, with machinery and equipment everywhere. Some broken off from the ceiling, leaving dead wires dangling down. Others, large computers and control panels, smashed to pieces and torn apart.

The floor was covered with a smelly, black sludge, the same purple gel, and lots and lots of dried blood.

Harley's stomach churned. The only beast large enough to do this that he could think of Hydra getting their hands on was Raven, if she was made very, ::very:: angry.

Something deep down inside of him was trying to tell him that she was already gone. That all of this is just a lost cause. But he pushed past it, because he had to. Because he still felt like they were still out there...

The farther he traveled, the more the building became destroyed, to the point where he was having to climb over rubble, ducking and squeezing through tight cracks just to continue.

His mind was ***screaming*** for him to turn back, but he couldn't stop now.

He made his way through a thick wall of rubble, only to be met with the very distinct smell of rotten flesh that almost made him throw up there on the spot.

He gagged, pulling the mask he had brought with him up over his face, before continuing. What in the *world* could be the source of that smell??

As he looked around, shining his flashlight over the floor, he got his answer, jumping back at the sight of it.

What had to be at least ten Hydra guards lay on the floor in front of him, flies and maggots crawling all over their bodies, now rotting away after being left for too long, hollowed out sockets and rotten eyes staring back at him.

Harley turned, most definitely going to be sick. He had to turn around--- *he had too*. This was too much. Too dangerous.

Taking one last glance, he noticed a number of the bodies had massive chunks taken out of them, wounds only teeth from a massive monster could cause. Something had been *eating them.*

His previous hypothesis as to who that "beast" could have been flashes in his mind, and he fights down more bile, quickly turning away and beginning to try to escape.

But that's when he heard the breathing.

A deep, shuddering sound. Rattling around in massive, laboured lungs.

Harley froze, before swallowing and turning around, despite what his muscles were *screaming* for him to do. He's seen enough horror movies-- this is the part where you *run.*

But God, he was so curious-- ***what if it was her?***

He shone his flashlight around, until suddenly his light landed on something that looked like eyes. He jumped, almost dropping the flashlight.

He began to back up, eyes never leaving the hollow, *human* eye looking back at him, towering above him in an impossible hight.

Surrounding the eye was the same purple substance, forming a body around it. As his shaking light went over the thing's body, he noticed at least one arm sticking out of the thing, which was mostly a pile of sludge.

The thing's mouth hung open, gaping jaws filled with sharp, canid teeth, as well as human teeth stretched into the skin around, in unnatural and uncomfortable looking positions.

Then, it *moved.*

It pulled itself towards him, the breathing echoing in his ears. As it moved, a sickening, squelching sound reverberated around the room, as it's body morphed and changed to grow more limbs.

He had to get out of there.

He quickly turned and began running, hearing the thing screech in protest as he did. Heart thundering in his chest, he scrambled for the wall of rubble, squeezing back through it as fast as he could.

Just before he got out, his jacket got stuck, trapping him in the rubble. He could hear the squelching of the thing getting closer, as tears began to form he pulled at the jacket, frankly not caring if it tore.

And then, a weak, haunting voice echoed throughout the room, one that froze Harley's blood solid.

"H...ar...l.e...y?"

It knew his name.

***How did it know his name???***

He pulled free finally, and began backing away, gasping for air as he did. He looked around, as the sound processed more in his brain.

Why did that seem so familiar. Why was the voice so familiar????

Eyes widening in horror, he quickly began to realize what was happening.

That mutant abomination---that. Amalgamation of parts and pieces, an alien of mutation---

***That thing was his siblings.***

[lacontroller1991]

WHUMPTOBER 2023

ITS SPOOKY SEASON BITCHES AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS???? WHUMPTOBER

Main Master List

SOOOOO I am giving it a go again this year. That being said, I don't have all the days planned out and I might not post on all of the days, but the ones I do have planned out I do plan on posting. So HUGE SHOUTOUT to @ailesswhumptober for supplying the prompts I will be using this year.

They are as follows:

1) Drugged/Sick/Poisoned (Sub: Bloody Knuckles) - Johnny Lawrence

You got in a fight for your life and the only thing you could think about is going to the comfort of your sensei, unknowing of your wounds.

2) Overworked/Insomnia/Exhaustion - Ernest Lawrence

Lawrence has been working very long and very hard hours to produce the first nuclear bomb. Long enough hours to forget a very important celebration.

3) Sensory Deprivation/Overstimulation/Isolation - Ed Baldwin

Being on the moon by yourself is tricky as is, dealing with the loss of you however? It’s downright insufferable.

4) Hiding an Injury/Betrayal/Lying - N/A

5) Hostage/Kidnapping/Held at Gunpoint - Roman Sionis

With you now being known as Roman Sionis’s girlfriend, you becomes an easy target.

6) Conditioning/Mind Control/Forced to Hurt Someone - N/A

7) Flatline/Restrained/CPR - Rick Flag

Rick and you have always had prank competitions, but this year, you take it a little too far.

8) Panic Attacks/Dissociation/Seizure - Gordo Stevens

You wait at the restaurant for 30 minutes and are very irritated that Gordo doesn’t show up. Deciding to give him a piece of your mind, you go to his house only to find that Gordo is in the middle of a panic attack.

9) Scar Reveal/Interrogation/Presumed Dead - N/A

10) Branding/Scarring/Collar - N/A

11) Fainting/Paralyzed/Adrenaline - Ernest Lawrence

Feeling the buzz of finally completing the first nuclear bomb, Lawrence comes home to you and fucks you.

12) Self Harm/Sacrifice/Character Death - Gordo Stevens

After a night of heavy drinking, Gordo reflects on his life and how pathetic he has become. Wanting to hurt himself but not go through with it, he calls you, who he knows will help out.

13) Earthquake/Flood/Crushed - N/A

14) Bleeding through the bandage/Field Medicine/No Anesthesia - N/A

15) Experimentation/Muzzle/Transformation - Jonathan Crane

You decide to be a test subject for his new toxin.

16) Amputation/Chronic Pain/Hospital - N/A

17) Hypothermia/Heat Stroke/"You Look a Little Pale" - J. Robert Oppenheimer

In which the detonation of the atomic bomb is successful but the one person who should be celebrating isn’t looking too hot.

18) Fever/Vomiting/Warm Soup - Gordo Stevens

Gordo survived Jamestown but at what cost?

19) Taken for Granted/Left Behind/”Why wasn’t I enough?” - Stephen Holder

Holder is smitten by a fellow detective and so he does all of your paperwork at your request. Linden confronts Holder about this behavior but Holder deflects it. When he goes to ask you out, you reject, leaving a heartbroken Holder.

20) Dehumanization/Stockholm Syndrome/Master and Servant - N/A

21) Blood Loss/Shock/Near Death Experience - Gordo Stevens

Follows the events of season 2 where instead of Ed’s plane catching on fire, Gordo’s plane catches on fire and he’s forced to eject, causing him to land in the middle of the ocean. You are nearly devastated, Gordo has never felt more alive.

22) Whipping/Punishment/Stress position - N/A

23) Begging/”Take me Instead”/Forced to Watch - N/A

24) Failed Escape/Hunted Down/Too exhausted to keep running - N/A

25) Nightmares/Flashback/”Why didn’t you save me?” - Joe Pickett

In which Joe has recurrent nightmares about his childhood and you try to help him.

26) Magical Exhaustion/Curse/Came Back Wrong - N/A

27) Forgotten/Locked Away/Immortal - N/A

28) Whumpee Hair Pulling/Oxygen Deprivation/Sweating - N/A

29) “The easy or the hard way?”/Bargaining/Force To Choose - Obi Wan Kenobi

Maul is holding both you and the Duchess Satine Hostage and forces Kenobi to choose one, the woman he “loves” or the woman he loved.

30) Possession/Mind Games/Coma - Rick Flag

The Enchantress control’s Rick’s mind and knowing Rick’s connection with you, his best friend, the Enchantress decides to get rid of you.

31) PTSD/Headaches/Crying - N/A

If you guys have any thoughts about the ones I have unnamed, please send me an Ask or DM if you would like to see someone in that slot!!!!