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casuallyimagining · 6 months

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Set Me Free || myg

min yoongi x female reader

Summary: Tired of being told how to live his life and unsure of where he stands in the world, Yoongi--your soulmate--yearns to be free. When you give him what he wants, it causes a rift in your relationship that seems irreparable. 12 years later, you find him back in your life. Can you mend your relationship? Do you even want to? Word Count: 14,377 Genre: friends to enemies to lovers, supernatural au, witch & familiar au, soulmate au, angst, fluff Warnings: death of a parent (brief mention), alcohol, soulmate breakup, smooching

Notes: banner by @itaeewon. thank you to @daechwitatamic and @oddinary4bts for beta-ing and listening to me struggle my way through this. as always. and extra thanks to ella for helping me write Yoongi's letters and to my friend tanya for giving me a super helpful base for the ending.

It’s cold. The late autumn wind rustles through amber-brown-orange-yellow leaves, swirling the fallen ones into little tornadoes that scuttle across the pavement. The cold doesn’t bother Yoongi, necessarily. It’s been a while since he’s been here, in this town, on this street, but even after so much time, his body remembers the chill of November in the same way his feet remember the way to his destination. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and pauses at the street corner.

It’s strange being back here. He’d once known this neighborhood so intimately, he could map it in his sleep. Not much has changed in the almost 13 years he’s been gone. The park on the corner is the same. The playground, massive to an eight-year-old with a near-infinite imagination, stands resolute, its plastic and paint sun-faded and weathered. Further up the block is the head of the trail that snakes its way through the forest, where he’d spent countless hours playing pirates as a kid and exploring as a teen. And there, at the end of the street, is his destination.

The closer he gets, the more his stomach roils with nerves. Thirteen years since he’d walked down this sidewalk. Thirteen years since he’d walked onto that front porch. Or rather, 12 years, 5 months, and 11 days.

But who’s counting?

There’s a light on in the front room of the house, he can see it through the big window despite the shades being pulled closed. He hesitates. He’s spent days–no, weeks–playing out in his head how this was going to go. In a moment, he’ll know if any of those scenarios were correct. And frankly, right now, he’s terrified.

What if you start to cry? What if you slam the door in his face? What if you hug him? What if you yell at him? What if you don’t answer? What if you want to talk? What if you never want to see him again? What if you invite him in? What if you have someone over?

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

It takes a second. He can hear shuffling around on the other side of the door, so he knows his knock was heard. But the longer it takes, the sweatier his hands get, and the more he considers turning and running away. The door opens before he can make a move.

You stand in the doorway, bathed in the warm light of the living room lamp behind you. And shit, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. In many ways, you haven’t changed since the last time he saw you, but at the same time, you look so different. He can see in your eyes the moment the realization hits, and your expression changes drastically. You looked tired–and Yoongi can sense that it goes deeper than just physical exhaustion–and you were slouching, but now, you’re standing ramrod straight, and there’s a hard look in your eyes. One he knows all too well.

“Hey.” He raises a hand, offers a wave that, in hindsight, is rather pathetic. You stare at him, unblinking, and slowly, he lowers his hand. “I uh… I heard about your parents,” he says softly, scuffing his shoe against the wood of the porch. “I’m sorry you have to go through it.”

“Brave of you to show up.” You sound almost bored, but Yoongi knows–he senses, in that kind of primal, gut feeling he gets when it comes to you–that it’s an act. “You know I could turn you into a bug and squash you if I wanted to.”

“I know.”

There’s a tense moment where you stare at each other, the scowl you wear pulling your lips downward and creasing your brow. But then you heave an exhausted sigh.

“Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I…”

I want to apologize.

I’m so sorry.

I miss you.

It all catches in his throat. He coughs in a meager attempt to entice something–anything–to come out of his mouth. “I wanted you to have this.”

He holds out his hands, and in an instant, he’s holding a box. It’s full but not heavy, and he thrusts it out in front of him in your direction.

“A 10-year-old shoebox?” You do nothing to mask your surprise.

“Letters,” he corrects. “You don’t have to read them but… I wanted you to have them.” He pushes the box into your arms, leaving you no choice but to take it. Then, he steps away and nods his head. “Thank you for not turning me into a bug. I am sorry about your parents. I… guess I’ll go.”

Without another word, he trots down the porch steps. And then, in a blink, he’s gone. Disappeared into the night.

You sigh and shut the door, the box he’d given you cradled in the crook of your arm. You don’t have the energy for this right now. Honestly, you aren’t sure that you’ll ever have the energy for it, but certainly not the day before your parents’ funeral.

Whoever had decided that witches and their familiars die together clearly never thought of the ones left behind.

You collapse onto the couch, placing the box beside you. This would be easier if you weren’t alone. It would be easier with Yoongi, your brain supplies less than helpfully. You curse yourself. You curse him. After all these years, you thought you were over it, over the abandonment, over the betrayal. But all it takes is for him to show his stupid face, and you can feel it all bubbling up anew. Angrily, you push the box off the couch. It explodes when it hits the floor, what seems like thousands of pieces of paper tumble out and scatter from the force.

The forest was almost silent as you stalked the trail. Not even the birds were happy that day. Twigs snapped under your feet. You weren’t even paying attention to where you were going, your feet carrying you along the path that you’d hiked countless times before. You needed to get away, to escape, to calm down. But you couldn’t, because what you were running away from was hot on your heels.

“Would you slow down?” You could hear the frustration in Yoongi’s voice as he followed you. You ignored him. “Goddamnit,” he breathed, picking up his pace. “Will you at least listen to me?”

Quite frankly, you didn’t care what he had to say in that moment.

“It wouldn’t be a permanent thing,” he continued. “I just… I don’t know. I need to do this.”

You stopped, sliding a little on the damp new growth below your feet. “What the fuck are you talking about? You’re not being oppressed, Yoongi. No one’s stopping you from going out and exploring the world.”

“Maybe this way of life isn’t for everyone. Maybe not everyone wants their whole existence to be predetermined at birth. Maybe not everyone wants the universe to choose who they’re supposed to be with and how they’re supposed to live.”

His words stung, and until then, you weren’t quite sure why. Rejection. Not just of how you lived, and who he was, and how things had always been. But of you. Yoongi was your familiar, you were destined to be together in some way since you were six years old and the bond gem first appeared. Not all witches and familiars were in romantic relationships–your parents were, sure, and Yoongi’s parents–but plenty of them had other partners, lives separate from each other. Platonic soulmates navigating the world together.

Until a few months before, you’d been content with that. There was no doubt you’d been best friends from the jump. You’d been practically inseparable through school. Then, months before, he’d kissed you at the winter market. Right there in the park, under the aurora. Before that, you hadn’t thought of him as any more than your best friend. But the kiss had unlocked something inside you. And now…

Now he wanted you gone.

“You want to be free that badly?” By some miracle, your voice sounded positively venomous, even though you felt like you could crumble at any moment. “Fine.”

“Wh-”

There’s a saying your mother told you once, back when you were a child. You and Yoongi had found a turtle in the woods, stuck in the mud. His little turtle leg had been hurt, and you’d rushed it to your mother immediately. Familiars were excellent with animals, and she was no exception, healing the turtle in days when it should have taken weeks. You and Yoongi had both cried when you had to release it back into the wild–you’d both so wanted it to be your friend. ‘If you love something, set it free,’ your mother had said, ‘Sometimes it’s the kindest option.’

Kinder for whom?

The chain around your wrist snapped easily when you wrapped your fingers around it. The incantation meant to keep the bond gem safe became meaningless as soon as you wanted it gone. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been without it around your wrist. You loved it, with its gem of swirling, inky black and navy blue. It reminded you so much of Yoongi, deep and calm and unwavering.

Without a word, you tossed the bracelet to the ground. Yoongi’s eyes widened as it hit and the gem cracked. For good measure, you stepped on it, crushed it into dust. There was a pitiful swirl of blue magic that puffed up from the dirt. When you moved your foot, there was nothing left of the bond gem or its chain.

“What the fuck?” Yoongi’s eyes were glassy when you finally looked at him. He looked almost as crushed as you felt. “What the fuck?”

“You’re free.” And this time, you couldn’t hide your sadness behind your anger.

He didn’t follow you as you walked away, and honestly, it was for the best. It was faint, but you could still feel his emotions, and you weren’t sure you could handle that kind of heartache in person.

There is paper everywhere. Hundreds of pieces, folded neatly in thirds. You have no idea how Yoongi had fit them all into the shoebox. He must’ve enchanted it. Groaning, you start to pick them up.

Letters, he’d said. You flip through some as you gather them up. Now that they’re on the floor, they aren’t in any particular order, but it quickly becomes clear that these letters span years. There are some from 12 years ago, written shortly after he’d left. Some are more recent. You stare at one, from December of the year he left. Glancing through it, you expect it to unearth your anger, your rage. But it doesn’t. Just like seeing him again, all Yoongi’s letter brings is sadness. Grief.

You’d spent the past 12 years grieving. Sure, he hadn’t died, but when he left, you’d lost the closest relationship you would ever have. In 17 years, you’d grown so accustomed to having him there, that when he was gone, there was a Yoongi-sized hole left in your life that you had to learn to fill. And you did your best, sewing yourself back together and moving on. But it wasn’t the same.

Glancing through his letter, it seems you weren’t the only one struggling. You aren’t sure if that’s a comfort or not.

It’s been almost a year since the night market–one year since everything started crumbling around us. I still remember it like it was yesterday. It felt right in the moment, didn’t it? I really thought you would understand.

I’ve tried to figure out where things went wrong. But shit, I can’t wrap my head around it. Why did you react like that when I told you I just wanted to be free?

At the end of the day, I guess we didn’t understand each other as much as I thought we did. As much as this bond brings us together, I guess it doesn’t reveal everything. But… that night I just wanted to kiss you, and so I did. Maybe it was selfish. Sometimes I wish the bond didn’t exist, that we could just be free to choose things for ourselves. That we weren't forced into what the universe wants from us… Maybe that’s selfish, too.

Why couldn’t you understand? I just wish I could turn back time and make you understand. Maybe then you wouldn’t hate me, and maybe then I’d stop hating myself too.

Because watching you destroy the gem nearly killed me, but it wasn’t half as bad as watching you walk away. Should I have run after you?

Would you still be there if I had?

You sigh and lean back against your couch. That damn night market. You hadn’t been back to it since the year he’d kissed you. It’s silly, but a part of you blames it for everything that happened. Because Yoongi’s letter is right. It had marked the beginning of everything going wrong. It wouldn’t change anything, but there’s a part of you that won’t listen to logic, that refuses to believe that maybe, if he hadn’t kissed you–if you hadn’t kissed him back–he wouldn’t have left.

The night market was beautiful. It always was, but that year was particularly beautiful. The park had been decorated in all of its sparkling, winter glory. Candles twinkled in the trees, suspended by sheer force of will. Through some magic you weren’t familiar with, they’d enchanted the sky, and an aurora shimmered far above, slowly swirling in greens and blues and purples. Snow fell gently, and you weren’t sure if it was natural, or if it was also magic.

You browsed the various tents and tables, going from one to the other to see the different things people were selling. Some had crafts, others baked goods, and some were even selling things like potion ingredients and spellbooks. There were a few tables dedicated to familiars–books on shifting and specialty items and insets and jewelry for bond gems.

Yoongi followed you closely, clutching a hot chocolate. You knew he wasn’t cold, the temperature was nowhere near low enough for either of you to be uncomfortable, but the way his fingers tapped against the paper cup, you knew something was up. You could sense his anxiety, could feel it in the pit of your own stomach.

“Want to go sit?” you asked softly, gesturing over to the picnic tables they’d set up under one of the sparkling trees.

His eyes widened. “No, that’s okay. You’re looking.”

“I’m done. Let’s go sit.”

“I-” He deflated a little and didn’t argue further, allowing you to lead him over to one of the tables.

You sat side by side on the bench, backs against the table, and watched the snow fall around you. The night was peaceful, quiet for the most part except for the occasional laughter that bubbled up. Most of the older crowd had left, leaving only the teens and young adults to explore the market. You watched the other festival goers in silence, Yoongi’s arm pressed against your own.

“You okay?” you asked softly, bumping your shoulder into his own.

Yoongi being quiet was nothing new. He was an observer, a listener, he took in information like a sponge. Which wasn’t to say that he was never loud and boisterous, that he didn’t talk incessantly to the people he cared about. But he was absolutely the calmest presence you’d ever been around, even compared to the adults in your life.

But you could sense what he was feeling, could feel his nerves and unease and conflict. And you knew that he’d rather explode than burden anyone with his feelings. So you prodded. Ever so gently. Because he was your best friend, and when he was suffering, you were too.

He stayed quiet, and when you turned to look at him, he was much closer than you were expecting. A moment passed. You shared a look. You’d always thought that Yoongi’s eyes were pretty, but in the twinkling light of the candles above, they were deep pools of warm, dark cedar and flecks of honey. Slowly, subtly, he leaned in–or maybe you did, you weren’t sure– as though some mysterious force was drawing you together. An emotion flashed in his eyes, but you couldn’t quite take the time to consider what it may have been because he was kissing you. Lips chapped from the bitter wind moulded against your own for the shortest of moments. It was tentative and delicate and brief, but as he pulled away, your mind reeled.

That day had affected you in ways you never would have expected. Before, you’d never considered Yoongi as anything more than your best friend, the platonic other half of yourself. And then the kiss, and suddenly, it was like you’d been awakened. For as long as you could remember, your thoughts had been filled with Yoongi. Of the things he liked, the things he didn’t, of spending time with him, of the academy (with him). Suddenly, you were suspecting that maybe there was more to that, more than just the bond of a witch and their familiar.

You sigh. The letters are all finally back in the box, though nowhere near as nicely as they’d been before you’d kicked it and it had exploded. You should get up. You should go to bed. You have to be up fairly early for the funeral. But you stay seated, the box of letters in your lap.

Seeing him again was hard. You’re willing to admit that. You’d spent 12 years convincing yourself that you were fine, harboring anger and resentment and frustration, all for it to melt away the second you saw him. The bond makes it tough to stay mad at him, but it doesn’t let you forget the betrayal.

You stand out of the way, looking out over the funeral attendees in the park. Your parents didn’t have a lot of friends, but there are enough people here that you’d officially call it a crowd. They’re all mingling–you’d bought beer and wine, and if you didn’t know any better, it could maybe be a party and not a wake. You tighten your fist around the bond gem in your hand. For as long as you could remember, your dad had worn it around his neck, tucked under his shirt. The gem is like your mother–bright pink, fiery orange, deep yellow–and when you were a child, you’d loved to look at it, mesmerized by the swirling, glittering colors.

The gems have always been a gift from a familiar to their witch, given to symbolize the soulmate-like bonds between them. Most witches–especially those who were romantically involved with their familiars–wear them as jewelry. They don’t really do anything, though some people claim it made their magic stronger (you aren’t really sure about that, seeing as most gems appear in childhood).

As a child, you hadn’t been particularly close with your parents. Especially as a teen, you would have much rather hung out with Yoongi than them. But they were kind, and supportive, and for the most part, they left you to do your own thing. They’d been almost as devastated as you when you’d crushed your bond gem.

Days after your fight with Yoongi, the doorbell rang. Your mother had opened the door. You were upstairs. You’d stayed home from school that day–sick, but not in the way the administrators would have accepted. For a few brief moments, you’d ignored whatever visitor was downstairs. But then-

“She’s not here.” Your mother’s voice drifted up to you. She sounded disappointed.

“Please.” It was Yoongi, you’d recognize his baritone from miles away.

Quietly, you’d slipped out of your room and crept down the hall, sitting at the top of the stairs. You could hear your mother sigh, could see her shift her weight from one foot to the other. Your father appeared from the kitchen and joined your mother at the door.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned against the doorknob, pulling it a little more shut in the process so it blocked you completely from the door’s sight.

A long moment of silence passed before your mother called, “Yoongi?” You couldn’t hear his response–he must have already gone down the porch steps. Your mother continued, “It can be scary, and you’re both still young. Give it time.”

The door shut quietly, and both of your parents looked to where you were sitting. You could see it in both of their eyes. Sadness, but something else. Something that looked a little close to pity.

A laugh draws your attention, and you smile sadly as you watch your mother’s coworkers laugh at some memory. But then you notice, just behind them, a shadow close to the ground and suddenly, you’re distracted all over again. Because there, half-hidden by a bush, sits a black cat. Cedar and honey eyes watch you intently, its dark fur swirling and shining like a thousand galaxies. Your hand tightens around your parents’ bond gem, the chain pressing sharply into the flesh of your hand.

He doesn’t move, just sits there patiently. Watching. He’s there as people approach you, offering condolences and hugs that you don’t particularly want; he’s there when people start trickling out. And he’s there when you’re the last one left, all alone under the large oak tree in the center of the park.

It’s quiet as you stand there, staring down at the bond gem in your hands. This is the part you’ve been dreading. Because you don’t want to keep the damn thing–you could if you wanted to, but there’s also tradition to think about. But it’s also weird to give up the one thing that is so emblematic of your parents. You wonder if they’d felt like this when your grandparents had died.

At least they’d had each other during it.

You can sense him approach, even though his steps are completely silent. And though he comes closer, he keeps his distance. On one hand, you appreciate it. On the other…

“If you’re going to be here, the least you could do is be here,” you say quietly, looking down at the gem in your hand. It sparkles a little in the light.

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask you to explain. He takes a few slow steps forward until he’s standing beside you. It’s weird, having him this close again. You’d been too overwhelmed last night to actually observe, but now, you’re exhausted, yet alert.

His hair is longer–as a teen, he’d kept it short, but the ends curl and sit just above his shoulders now. He’s filled out and put on some muscle, and though he’s still a little on the lankier side, his shoulders have broadened. He wears cologne now, the scent light, like lavender, citrus, and sage. So much has changed, and yet it’s the same eyes that watch you with a soft curiosity.

You look up to the tree, watch its branches wave in the wind. You used to think that the centenarian boughs touched the sky, and even still, it towers above everything else in the park. The leaves sparkle, their iridescence catching the light to make the tree look like something out of a fairy tale. You sigh and tighten your fist around your parents’ bond gem one more time before opening your hand.

At first, nothing happens, but then the gem glistens and rises out of your grasp. It joins the other leaves close to the top of the tree, becoming just another sparkle in the prism.

For a while, not even the birds make a noise. You just stand there, looking up at the tree that has stood sentinel over most of your life. The wind rustles the leaves, and they shimmer as they move. You have no idea how many leaves are up there, how many bond gems have been placed over time. Thousands–maybe hundreds of thousands–of witches and their familiars, most forgotten to the annals of time.

It’s strange, knowing that you would never be memorialized by the tree.

“Let me buy you a coffee,” Yoongi whispers from beside you, husky baritone cutting through the silence.

Yoongi isn’t sure why you say yes, but soon enough, you’re walking into the Green Bean just behind him. He’s uncomfortable, people have been watching you since the park, and their stares are starting to burn holes in his back. He says nothing about it until you’re in line at the cafe.

“What are they staring at?” he whispers, leaning close so that only you can hear in the semi-busy cafe. He chooses to ignore how you tense up ever so slightly.

“You’ve been gone for 12 years, what did you expect?”

Right. He supposes he should have expected their animosity. But it’s not just him they’re watching. He doesn’t miss the way people stare at you, watch you warily as you simply exist. His mind races. Was that his fault? Did his absence cause so many unintended consequences?

You order a coffee and choose a table in the far corner of the cafe, away from everyone but still near the window. He sits in the chair across from you, the hard metal shockingly comfortable despite its harsh lines. An awkward silence settles over you both, but Yoongi’s not sure what to say, so he lets it linger. He watches you stare out the window. Which is a little weird, right? But he can’t bring himself to drag his gaze away. It’s like after 12 years of being away, he just wants to look at you.

The barista calls out your orders and Yoongi stands to grab both of them from the counter. He places one oversized ceramic mug down in front of you, and the other, he wraps his hands around. It’s warm, almost hot, and he dares not take a drink yet. You stare down at the foam on top of your drink, one finger hooked around the handle of the cup.

“What happened to them?” he asks softly. When you look up, surprised, he clarifies. “Your parents, I mean. I… didn’t hear how they…”

You sigh, tap your mug. He can sense the deep sadness you struggle with and is just about to tell you to forget he asked when you speak. “I always kind of thought it would be dad who’d go first.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “He was always so frail when we were kids. But mom got sick last year and…” You shrug. “One of the neighbors found them.”

“I’m so sorry.” You wave him off. “No. Honestly. They were nice.”

“Thanks.”

He nods, and silence settles again. But then something you said pops into his mind, striking him as strange. “You aren’t living here anymore?” Mentally, he slaps himself. Why did it come out like he’s surprised? He supposes that he’s always just kind of pictured you still… here, in town.

“I’m over in Ashland,” you say, generally gesturing west, toward the city. “I work at the library at the university.”

“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. “How’s that?”

You shrug. “Mostly good. It’s a job. The library’s usually pretty quiet, so…”

“That’s really cool.”

Ashland is big, much bigger than here in square feet and at least 10 times the people. It’s a real city, with skyscrapers and functioning public transportation and one of the country’s top medical universities. He’s proud of you, he realizes. You’d always planned to leave for the city, too constrained by life in such a small town. For the longest time, he’d planned on going with you. And then, of course, he’d ruined it. It stings a little to know that you’d gone without him like that, that your life had continued as planned, that maybe he hadn’t meant that much in the grand scheme of things.

But then your eyes meet, and he’s confronted by the anxiety and sadness you’re feeling, and he knows he’s just being stupid. Again.

“So, uh…” He feels a wave of nerves wash over him–they aren’t his own. You tap your half-empty mug. “What have you been up to?”

If he’s honest, Yoongi wasn’t expecting you to ask about him. He’s shocked enough that you’d even agreed to be here, let alone that you were interested in his life. “I was traveling,” he starts cautiously, gauging your reaction. You blink slowly, watching his every move. If you can sense his apprehension, you don’t react. “But now I’m up north in Ulmae. I’ve got a pretty good thing going at this restaurant on the North Shore.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, uh…” He chuckles, a little nervous. “They’ve got me bartending on the weekends and let me do music during the week.”

Your eyes widen a little, and you lean forward. “They let you play?”

“It’s only like an hour a night-”

“No, shut up. That’s amazing!” You grin, big and genuine, but Yoongi can sense a tinge of sadness in it.

He’s disappointed when you both finish your coffees and you stand up to put your cup in the little tub by the counter. It’s starting to get late, the sun is starting to set and the streetlights have turned on. It was nice, catching up with you, short though it may have been. It’s not lost on him how strange it is, having to catch up with someone that was once practically a part of him.

Together, you stand outside in the chilly early evening air, looking down the street toward the park. Over the roofs of the shops and houses, Yoongi can just barely see the centinel tree with its sparkling leaves. People walk past–people he recognizes but couldn’t possibly name–some are more subtle about it, but others practically break their necks to stare at the two of you. Suddenly, Yoongi feels exposed outside the cafe, like there are eyes everywhere. He hates this, hates feeling like he’s doing something wrong just for wanting to talk to you more.

You sigh, scuff your shoe against the concrete of the sidewalk, shove your hands deep into the pockets of your dark jeans. “I… probably shouldn’t even ask,” you start warily. “But do you want to come back for a drink?”

The house is the same, yet somehow also different, like one of those spot the difference puzzles come to life. The layout of the living room is the same, but the couch is a different style and color. There’s a blanket folded the same way under the coffee table, but it’s clearly a different pattern than he remembers. Most of the photos are the same, but there are 12 years’ worth of more of them.

Apparently, the stash of alcohol your father kept in the built in cabinet beside the television hasn’t changed.

You pull out a bottle of whisky and two glasses, setting them on the coffee table with a gentle ‘clink.” The shoebox he’d given you sits on the floor. The lid is off, the letters contained within are a mess. Have you read them, or did they spill out? There’s no way for him to really know.

Silently, you hand him a glass and sit on the other side of the couch, grabbing one of the throw pillows to hug in your lap. You sip at the double in your glass stoically, and for a moment, you stare at him. He has to resist the urge to squirm under your gaze. There’s something different about how you’re sitting, something in your aura that he didn’t notice in the cafe. Maybe you’d been saving it for private, but he can sense that you’re reining your emotions in.

But then finally, after what feels like an eternity, you turn over your hand. Two pieces of paper sit in your palm. “I’m going to need you to explain these.” The two letters float over to him and open themselves in front of him.

The first is dated only a few years after he’d left.

I’ve been struck by a thought. I had tacos earlier, and I just know you would have loved them. Which made me realize that there’s still part of me that thinks about you at every turn. Your friendship was such an integral part of my life, and not having it anymore feels like there’s a piece missing. Last week it was a song on the radio. Before that, a stray cat I saw that I know for certain you would have loved. Everything reminds me of you, everything leads back to you. You’re everywhere and nowhere, and…

I would like to see you again. Someday.

How have you been doing? Where has your life taken you? I can only hope it’s treated you kindly. It’s what you deserve.

The other is from the day he turned 25.

A quarter of a century, and for some reason I feel incredibly old. With it comes some realizations, things I didn’t understand before. Maybe I was too young, too blinded by my own need to feel free… but it never was about being free from you. I can’t even begin to imagine how hurtful it must have been for you…

I never wanted to make you feel like I was giving up on you, like I didn’t want you. I never wanted to make you feel rejected, because it wasn’t you I was trying to be free from.

I was so scared of having my whole life laid out in front of me. I never took the time to think what my life could be with the bond–I only ever thought about what the bond meant for my life. All of the expectations, what comes with being a familiar, our roles in society and the universe…

I realize now that I could have–should have–communicated it all better. If only so that I wouldn’t have lost you. So that it wouldn’t have led to me making you feel like I was rejecting you. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered; at the end of the day I was still walking away from you. But at least maybe I could have made it more clear that it was never you that I wanted to be free from.

I’m sorry. I feel like it’s useless to say, but I am so sorry for not realizing any of this before.

Wherever you are, I hope you’ll understand. Take care until I see you again.

I hope I see you again.

Yoongi sighs. The letters–all of them, not just these two–tended to be rambling diatribes, a snapshot of his thoughts as he worked through his feelings about his own life and everything and you. He’d been an idiot when he left–he was 17 and full of himself and terrified of the world but too proud to admit it–and it had taken him far too long to realize a lot of important things.

For a moment, it’s quiet as he thinks of what to say. How should he even begin? But apparently, he’s quiet for too long, because you wave your hand and the letters fold themselves back up and float back down to the shoebox. When you speak, you sound exhausted. “Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I-”

“Because if the roles were reversed, I don’t know that I’d have the balls to come back. On one hand, I’m impressed. On the other…” You trail off and shrug.

He’s quiet, not sure how to respond. He’s got lots of thoughts, lots of feelings–of course he does–but right now, you’re a wall, and he’s not sure how to read the situation. He’s not sure what you need to hear right now. So he says nothing.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it, and you look down at the glass in your hand, stare into the dregs of the amber whisky you’ve nearly finished. “I’m running on like two hours’ sleep,” you admit. “But fuck, Yoongi, I… I was so convinced that I’d never see you again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.” Then, softer. “I’m still not sure.”

“Why?” It’s out of his mouth before he can even think and god, he just wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

It takes a second for you to process his absolute trash heap of an asinine question. But when you do, your face contorts into somewhere between anger, disappointment, and heartbreak. “What do you mean, ‘why’?” You practically spit the question at him. “You… you… Do you know what it’s like to have the most important person in your life tell you that he wants rid of you?”

“I never said-”

“You wanted to be free. From all of it. From me.” You pick at the corner of the pillow in your lap. “And then you just come back out of the blue like nothing happened and drop this damn shoebox at my feet-” from where it sits on the floor, the shoebox explodes, letters flying everywhere, “-and you just… What did you expect, Yoongi? What do you want?”

“I don’t know!” He sounds a little desperate when he says it, and he hates that, hates how pathetic it makes him sound. So he shrugs, takes a deep breath, leans back a little. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I just… I missed you. And then mom told me about your parents, and…” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and out of his eyes. “And then I was on a train.”

You stare at him for a moment, a little gobsmacked. You have no idea how to respond. What do you say to that? Where do you even start? There are a hundred things you could say. You’ve played this scenario out a thousand times in your head over the years–what would you do if he came back?–but somehow, it never played out like this. In your mind, he’d never told you that he missed you.

You’d never considered that he would miss you.

But you should say something, right? It’s weird that you’re sitting there, just staring at him in complete silence. Has your jaw been clenched the whole time? Does he think you’re angry with him? Quickly, you school your face into something a little more neutral and say the first thing that comes to mind.

“How long are you here for?”

Truthfully, you probably should have asked sooner. You’ve been wondering since he showed up on your doorstep last night, but it never seemed like a great time to ask.

He sighs. “‘Till tomorrow.”

You nod, probably longer than it makes sense to, but it takes you a bit to process. Tomorrow. He’s back in your life for two days, and then he’s gone again. That’s not even enough time to catch up, let alone actually talk with him. And that’s… you aren’t sure how to feel.

Yoongi watches you quietly and takes a sip of his drink. He’s barely touched it. “Maybe…” he says after a moment, leaning forward to put his glass on the coffee table. “Maybe I should go?”

Part of you wants to tell him no, to ask him to stay, to tell you more about his gig working at the bar. Anything to keep him here and talking to you. But there’s a more logical part of you that’s overwhelmed, that needs some time to think. He’s offering to go, which means that he’s either uncomfortable or his train leaves early in the morning. Or both. He stands, thanks you for the drink, and you follow him to the door. He hesitates just outside, opens his mouth as if to say something and closes it almost as quickly.

You say nothing. And for the second time in as many days, you watch him leave without another word.

The playground was almost empty. Mama said it was supposed to rain, but she’d also said that you would go anyway, for a little bit. You were trying to learn how to swing on your own, and plus Yoongi and his mom were going to be there, and he’d said he’d bring his trucks to play in the sand.

But he wasn’t there yet, so you were on the swing. Mama pushed you, her hand firm on your back, and you closed your eyes. You were flying, wind in your face as you launched forward into the air. And then, just as suddenly, you were falling, swinging backward.

“Remember what I said,” mama said softly. “Kick your legs.”

You weren’t quite sure what she meant by that. Your legs were little, and when you kicked out, you felt more like you were going to slide out of the swing seat than anything. You heard her laugh a little, but her hand was on your back once again, propelling you forward.

A few minutes passed in a blur of forwards and backwards. You still didn’t quite understand the whole swinging on your own thing, but mama’s rhythmic pushes kept you going. But then, a small voice at the edge of the playground yelled your name, and you heard excited footsteps in the wood chips. Mama helped you slow to a stop, and you jumped off the swing.

A little boy, his dark hair cut short by his own mom, ran toward you. He was carrying an armful of small cars and larger trucks. He skidded to a stop in front of you, a wide, gummy grin engulfing his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“I brought all my trucks!” he announced, looking down at the toys in his arms. “You can be the green one. Here.” He tried to hand it to you, and another fell in the process.

You picked it up and took the green truck from him. It was bright green–the same shade as the lime popsicles Yoongi’s mom usually bought–and it had big wheels. You followed him to the sandbox and you both plopped down. It didn’t take long to have a whole city constructed. Granted, it was all made from rocks and wood chips and other small things you found around the sandbox. But it was a city and it was beautiful.

Yoongi drove his truck over a bump, making engine noises as he pushed it toward you. As he drove the truck down another sand hill, bumping and bouncing it over sticks and rocks, something fell out of the sleeve of his jacket. It was perfectly round, and it rolled to a stop in front of you. You picked it up and inspected it. It was some kind of rock, hard and shiny, but it was also colorful, and you were pretty sure rocks couldn’t be blue.

One look at the rock and he frowned, calling for his mom. She came over immediately and crouched down to see what he was so concerned about. Your mama followed her, and she was the one that saw the rock in your hand first.

“Oh,” she said, her hand gently smoothing down your hair. “You two have found your gem.”

“Wha’s that mean?” Yoongi asked, looking up at his mom.

She smiled and sat in the sand beside him, pulling him into her lap. She held out her arm, twisted her bracelet around so that he could see it. “You know how I have this from your dad? It’s like that.”

“But-”

“Your friendship is special,” she continued, pinching his cheek. Yoongi laughed. “It means you’ve gotta look out for each other now.”

For a moment, he was quiet. But then he nodded, just once. “Okay!” He held out his hand to you, tiny palm face up. “Can I have it?”

“It’s not yours anymore,” his mom said softly, brushing his short hair back. “It’s a gift.”

You looked to your mama and she nodded. “Take care of it,” she told you. “You only get one.”

Middle school was the worst. Everything was difficult. Social situations, interactions with your parents, school. At the time, it all seemed like it was unfairly hard. Making it worse, of course, was getting sick. As a kid, you were never sick that often. Yoongi was a different story. For whatever reason, familiars were just more susceptible to illness, and when he got sick, he got sick.

It was the middle of the semester, and Yoongi hadn’t been to school in days. Your teachers hadn’t even asked, they’d just started giving you packets–homework and printouts of their lessons and extra materials–so he wouldn’t fall behind. So you stopped by his house after school. His mom let you in, offering you some of the snacks she was making for Yoongi before you headed up the stairs to his room.

You knocked gently before entering. The knock was a politeness–you were close enough with him and familiar enough with his room at this point in your life that you could just barge in without warning and you knew he wouldn’t mind. He looked like hell, stuck in his bed buried in blankets. It was clear he’d had a fever at some point, because his hair looked damp and sweaty.

But he sat up when you walked in, coughing deeply before speaking. “You’re going to get sick, too,” he protested weakly.

You waved him off. “Everyone’s sick.” You pulled over his desk chair to the side of his bed and started to go through your bag. “Ms. Miller gave me your math homework, but if you understand it, you’ll have to explain it to me because I have no idea what she’s talking about.” He giggled at that, gummy smile soon hidden by his hand as he coughed. “Here’s the novel for Brown’s class. She said she’d talk to you about making up the paper when you’re back.”

It took a surprisingly long time to go through eight classes’ worth of homework and assignments, but you’d put sticky notes at the front of each packet explaining things, too, so the fact that he was half-asleep for most of your explanation didn’t really matter.

“Will you stay?” he asked when you were done. “Help me with some of this?”

“What happened to not wanting me to get sick?” you teased.

“I mean, you don’t have to. If you want to go home, that’s fine, too. I just-” He coughed, burying his face in his blankets.

“You staying for dinner, hon?” Yoongi’s mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes please!” you responded, shuffling through the stack of packets you’d brought for Yoongi. “Wanna take a stab at math?”

Halfway through the fall of your senior year, Yoongi started to get… weird. Cagey. Like he was trying to hide something and figure out particle physics at the same time. You’d tried asking him about it a few times, only for him to wave you off with a quiet “just thinking about some things.” After that, he’d be back to normal for a few days. But every time, like clockwork, he would fall back into it.

Finally, on the third day of the new year, he pulled you aside. Tucked back into the dormant foliage of the park, away from prying eyes, he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was nervous, you could feel it deep inside you, but to be honest, you didn’t really need your bond to tell you what was plain to see.

“I…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. His brows furrowed in thought, and after a moment, he motioned for you to sit. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay?” You sat on the edge of a big rock, confused.

“I…” he started again, sitting beside you. You could feel a spike of nerves, and he took a breath to steady himself. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think… fuck, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

“You can just say it,” you told him. “It’s just me.”

He nodded and mumbled something that sounded a lot like ‘that’s the problem,’ but after a moment, he continued. “I need to be free of all of this.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you ever thought that maybe the universe doesn’t know what it’s talking about? That maybe you’d be happier if you chose things for yourself?” He frowned. “There’s rules for gifts. We’re only good at certain types of magic because of how we were born. We have to celebrate holidays certain ways, we have to do specific things on our birthdays-”

“-and we get told who we’re to bond to.”

He recoiled at your words. “That’s not-”

“But it’s true, right?” Your gaze fell from him to your hands. “It’s just one more thing you don’t get to control.”

Yoongi sighed. “I just… want to be able to choose for myself.”

Suddenly, you were sick to your stomach. This was the last thing you’d expected. You didn’t particularly like all of the traditions, either, but you were 17. What the hell were you going to do about it? But this felt like he was saying he didn’t want you. You hadn’t yet talked about the kiss at the night market a few weeks prior, but you’d never guessed that he’d do such a sudden about-face.

“Right,” you said softly.

“Just… think about it?” he asked, dark eyes pleading.

You didn’t like where this was going, didn’t like how it made you feel. But you nodded anyway. Maybe he would change his mind.

Days gave way to weeks and months, and before you knew it, spring had come. Yoongi hadn’t changed his mind. If anything, he’d gotten more insistent.

“I want to find myself,” he’d told you once. “I need to make sure this is how I want to live my life.”

“I just need to get away,” he’d said one day while you were doing homework together. “Start fresh somewhere new.”

And then, on the way home from school one day, he’d said, “I need to be free of it all.”

And you’d snapped. Three months of hearing him talk about it, three months of him basically saying that your entire way of life was wrong and that he was chafing to get away. You couldn’t help it.

“Fuck off,” you’d told him, taking the trail behind the houses at a faster pace. Despite being so attuned with nature thanks to his familiar genes, he’d had trouble keeping up with you.

He’d pushed. And eventually, you’d given in. Because despite everything, you’d loved him, and if he was unhappy, you wanted to fix that. And now…

Now you’re sitting alone at the train station at ass o’clock in the morning. The train station has just barely opened, and already you’re inside, clutching a cup of coffee. There are a few other people here, milling around, waiting for their early trains to god knows where. You can feel them watching you, can feel them trying to make it subtle that they’re staring. At this point, you’re used to it. Word travels fast in small towns, especially when that word is as earth-shattering as a broken bond gem and a falling out between a witch and their familiar.

You try to ignore them, focus on your coffee and the posters across the waiting area from you.

Report any unattended or suspicious luggage to National Rail personnel.

Bags larger than this poster must be checked into the train’s luggage car.

Please remain seated until your train is announced and National Rail personnel give authorization to enter the platform.

You scroll through the news on your phone. Read the posters again. Stare out the window at the coffee shop across the street. And wait. A train arrives, and the couple that had been staring at you leaves. You sigh and stand to throw out your now empty cup.

Just as you do, the door to the train station opens. You turn to look, and there stands Yoongi. He’s wearing a black shirt, a bag slung across his body. His hair is pushed back off his face and he’s wearing his glasses. He’s clutching an absolutely massive travel mug and his phone in one hand, the other rolls a small suitcase behind him. He looks sleepy, but the second his dark eyes land on you, he jolts a little, as if electrocuted into being awake and alert.

“Hey,” he says cautiously, approaching you.

“Hey.” You wave slightly–awkwardly.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is soft, still a little gruff from sleep. You get the sense that maybe he hasn’t said much of anything to anyone this morning.

You sigh and gesture for him to follow you to a bench. The next train–his, you presume–isn’t due for another 20 minutes. You have time, but not much.

“I didn’t like how we left things,” you admit. “I… I wasn't sure if you were serious.”

“Serious?” His head falls to the side slightly, confused. But then, it seems, he understands, and he nods. “I did miss you–I do. I spent the entire ride here thinking about how seeing you again was going to go.”

“Were you right?”

He chuckles. “Not exactly.”

You hum and nod, and for the briefest of moments, silence settles over you. The stationmaster types away at his computer, the clacking of the keyboard the only sound in the entire station. But then you force yourself to say something that’s been on your mind since he showed up on your doorstep two days ago.

“It’s been good seeing you again,” you say, and even though you mean it, you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “I… think in a way, after so long, I made you the villain in my head. It’s good to see that you’re… not that.”

“I am sorry,” he whispers. “That was the worst thing I have ever done, and I just…”

“I get it.”

“What?”

“I think I kind of always did, but… it just hurt too much to think that you were including me in everything that you wanted to get away from, and I just-”

“You were the last thing I wanted to get away from.” Maybe it’s the waver in his voice, maybe it’s the way he ducks his head to make sure he makes eye contact, but you believe him. He sits his mug down on the bench beside him and gathers your hands in his. “I was so fucking dumb. I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat, but god I was too stupid and selfish to take ten minutes to think.”

“I thought maybe I’d done something,” you admit quietly. “I thought that maybe after the night market-”

“No! Oh my god, no,” he exclaims, his hands tightening around your own. “You’re my best friend! I lo-”

“Train 49–the Northern Limited–will be arriving on the platform in five minutes,” the stationmaster announces, not even bothering to use the building’s intercom. “I’ll take you over to the platform when you’re ready.”

Yoongi groans.

“Here.” You pull your hands away from him and immediately miss the warmth of him. But you reach into your pocket, unlocking your phone and shoving it into his hands in one motion. “Put your number in.”

For a moment, he stares at you, dumbfounded. But then the stationmaster opens the door to his office, and the noise jolts Yoongi into action. He types quickly and hands you your phone. You don’t even look at it, just lock it and shove it into your pocket. He hands you his phone and you enter your own contact information before giving it back.

You stand at the same time, and for one brief, quiet moment, you worry that maybe he’s just going to leave it at that. But then he rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the stationmaster.

“I’ll text you,” he promises.

You nod, almost mechanically. You weren’t expecting it to hurt this much to see him leave again. As he turns to gather his things, something comes over you.

“I- Can we-” You sigh, take a deep breath. “Can I have a hug?”

He makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a squeak, and it takes almost no time for the pink to start blossoming on his cheeks. He sputters for a second, and you can feel his shock. But then he opens his arms, and you find yourself taking a small step forward.

It’s shockingly easy to fall back into him, to step into his arms. He’s warm, and solid, but still also somehow soft. His cologne lingers on his clothes, all lavender-y and citrus-y and sage-y. Your arms fit around his waist, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is normal, that nothing ever happened and that he isn’t leaving. But you hear the train horn in the distance and you pull away. You kiss his cheek as you part, and his eyes go wide in shock.

“Text me,” you tell him firmly, reaching down to grab his coffee mug and hand it to him.

“I will. I promise.”

And with one last, fleeting look, he steps onto the elevator with the stationmaster to go over to the platform.

You stand outside the station long after the train departs, feeling very much like you did when he’d left the first time. You should be feeling optimistic–for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe there’s hope. For you, for your friendship, for… whatever comes next. But it’s hard to feel any sort of positive when he’s on a train back to a city seven hours away, and you have to go home in the exact opposite direction in a few short days.

As you’re walking back to your car in the lot down the street, your phone dings. When you unlock it, you get the sudden feeling that you’re flying, like a horde of butterflies have erupted within you. It’s nerves and it’s excitement and maybe, it’s also a little bit of hope.

Yoongi 💙: thanks again for not turning me into a bug

“I’ve been thinking,” Yoongi says one late night, his deep, sleep-deprived voice distorted ever so slightly by the distance and the speakers of your phone. You can barely see him–there’s a dim light that just slightly illuminates his face, but the rest of the room is dark.

“Dangerous,” you joke.

“Rude.” He nuzzles down further into his pillow. “I’d like to come visit,” he admits softly.

For a moment, your mind goes blank. There’s a fluttering in your stomach, hundreds of butterflies trying to escape at once. He’d kept his word after the train station, texting and calling you frequently over the past couple weeks. You’d text throughout the week–little messages about bad days and delicious lunches and cute dogs–and then on the weekends, one of you would inevitably end up calling each other. You’d spend hours on the phone, sometimes talking, sometimes just existing in the silence between you.

The video calls were a recent development. Since they began, you’d watched him cook dinner, he’d played piano while you worked on a spreadsheet for work, and one early morning, he’d called you on his way home after bartending so he wouldn’t fall asleep on the train.

“What do you mean?” You laugh a little. Maybe it was a little obvious what he meant, but you wanted to hear him say it.

He groans a little, stretches one arm up before covering his eyes with it. He peeks out at you through the cook in his elbow, one singular, dark eye sparkling, even in the poor quality of the video. “I miss you,” he mumbles, and you almost don’t catch it, it’s so muffled by his arm and your phone’s speaker.

You hum. The butterflies in your stomach make themselves known again. “I guess you could come.”

“I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.”

“Hey now. It’s against the rules to take something like that back.”

He laughs. “What rules?”

“You know. The rules.” You gesture vaguely before pulling your blanket up a little further on your body. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the rules?” He grunts. “Being away for so long has rotted your brain, I’m afraid.”

“So rude.” His arm is still obscuring his face slightly, but you can see his big, gummy smile as he laughs. “No, but seriously. Are you busy next weekend?”

You frown. You’d been trying to forget about next weekend. “Normally I’d go home for the new year,” you say softly.

“Why don’t,” he begins, stifling a yawn. You’re a little surprised he’s made it this long without seeming tired. It’s almost 3am. “Why don’t I come hang out? We can do new year’s stuff together.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“What about work?”

He shifts, the arm that was over his face now supporting his head under his pillow. “I make the schedule. They’ll deal with it.”

“Yoongi.”

He continues on, ignoring you. “I can work the day shift and get a train right after work on Friday, but I wouldn’t get there until late, is that okay?”

You sigh. It would be nice to not spend the holiday alone. And it would be nice to see him again. Sure, you’ve been talking to him in one way or another, but it’s different than having him in person. You finally agree, and he shoots you a smug, sleepy smile.

The week passes at a glacial pace. Work is slow because of the break in classes for the upcoming holiday, and spending time in an empty library is infinitely less entertaining than you’d expect it to be. Most of your coworkers have taken off, so you’re mostly alone with your thoughts. You fill the time with paperwork, completing literature loan requests for the University’s faculty and doing intake for the newly released journals the library has subscriptions for.

In the small handful of weeks since you’d seen him last, you’d replayed things in your mind. But mostly, you’ve been stuck on how nice it is to have him in your life again. You aren’t fooling yourself. You haven’t forgotten. But there’s a part of you–a large part, if you’re honest with yourself–that hopes that this is a step forward, that you can be close again. Maybe not how you were, but something that resembles a friendship.

After an eternity, it’s Friday. You sit outside of the train station in your car, parked in one of the pick up spots just outside of the main door. The trickle of people into and out of the station has slowed significantly now that it’s dark out–you’ve never seen it this dead. It’s late, the station is getting ready to close, but there’s one last train that has yet to come in. There’s another car parked a few spaces to your left, and you wonder briefly about who they’re waiting to pick up, but it’s fleeting.

The door to the station opens automatically, and out steps Yoongi. He rolls a suitcase beside him, a messenger bag slung across his body, his other hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. He looks around, confused, his gaze going back and forth between your car and the one to your left. You turn on the dome light and wave and he nods.

He gives you a quick greeting as he opens the back door, shoving his bags in the back seat. When he finally climbs into the passenger seat, he sighs deeply, resting his head against the headrest for a moment before turning to you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey. How was the train?”

He groans. “Long.”

You hum. He’d worked a short, early shift so he could catch the last train from Ulmae to Ashland. He looks and sounds exhausted. But he’s here. He’s not a face on a screen, he’s in your car. You resist the urge to reach out and touch him. It’s strange. You’d been without him for nearly 13 years. It’s only been a few short weeks since you’d seen him last, but you’re giddy, practically bursting with excitement at the fact that, for the next two and a half days, he’s here. With you.

You drive in relative silence, willing the lights to be green more for Yoongi’s sake than your own. The radio plays a soft hip-hop song, and you vaguely recognize it as one of the bands he’d been obsessed with in high school, but you don’t turn it up. You’re fairly certain that he’s fallen asleep, his head lolled slightly to the side so that he’s facing the window.

It’s a damn miracle that there’s an open spot in front of your building, but you gladly take it. There are people in your building who don’t know how to parallel park—who refuse to do it—but you’d taught yourself just for instances like this. For a moment, you think you’re going to have to wake Yoongi up, but just as you cut the engine, he unbuckles his seat belt and stretches.

Your apartment isn’t large, but it’s bigger than most for what you pay for it. You’re on the seventh floor, the top floor of the building, and your bedroom has a lovely view of the building beside you. But if you lean a little to one side and press your face up against the glass, you can see out into the city beyond, and the university campus in the far distance.

He sits his bags down in your living room and plops down on the couch. You’ve already set out some blankets and a couple pillows for him. The clock on your microwave says 11:05.

“You’re probably exhausted,” you say. “I’ll let you get settled.”

Immediately, he picks his head up from the back cushion of the couch. “’m not tired.” Ever defiant. But you can tell he’s lying. You can see it in his eyes how groggy he is. Normally, he’s up much later than this–you know, because sometimes, he calls you–but between working an early shift and the six-hour train ride, you don’t blame him for being a little sleepy.

“I put some towels out in the bathroom,” you tell him, gesturing down the hall. “It’s the door on the left. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

And with that, you leave him there in your living room. You can hear him unzipping his bag as you retreat into your room.

An hour later, you find that you can’t sleep. Not that you’ve even tried. You aren’t even sure why you’re so wired. But you’re sitting in your bed, legs covered by a sheet, in the dim light of your bedside lamp. You’ve had friends stay over before. But this… you feel like you did as a kid, having your first sleepover. Except back then you were wired on soda and sugary snacks and it was a treat to stay up late. Now, you’re just…

You hear the bathroom door open and shut, and after a moment, Yoongi stands in the doorway to your room.

“You have the softest towels in the world,” he says, hair hanging in damp strands in front of his eyes. He pats and scrunches it dry with one of the fluffy grey towels you’d set out for him.

“Would you believe I got them on clearance?”

“I’ll just have to stuff one in my bag, then.”

“I charge a 5% fee for any towels that leave the premises.”

At that, he laughs, a groggy, squeaky sound that shakes his shoulders and crinkles his eyes and leaves a wide, gummy smile in its wake.

“So… what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” He shoots you a look that says he doesn’t believe you, and you relent. “Well,” you pat the bed beside you, inviting him to sit, “There’s this thing every year in the park to watch the meteors,” you say as Yoongi eases himself onto the mattress. “But it doesn’t start until late.” He hums. “Was there something you wanted to do?”

“No, just-” He stifles a yawn. “Curious.” He leans back against the headboard, settling in.

Just like that, you fall easily into conversation. It’s comfortable, calm. Just two old friends chatting. He likes your apartment, thinks the tile in your bathroom is really nice. He asks about your job, nods along as you tell him about working in the library and your coworkers.

And slowly, his reactions become slower, delayed, until he finally doesn’t respond at all. You look over, and his chin is tucked against his chest, his breathing gentle. Asleep.

For a moment, you consider going out to the couch. It would be weird, right, to stay here with him? But as you’re about to kick the blanket off, you pause.

We’re adults. Adults can share a bed. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You’re mature enough to let this just be two people sleeping in the same space.

At least, you think you are.

But as you settle in yourself, snuggling down into your blankets and turning off the light, you’re suddenly faced with the quiet peacefulness of his face. He’d always been handsome, and now that you’re both older, you can appreciate just how beautiful he really is. He sighs and slides down a little, his hand brushing against your arm as he gets more comfortable.

Oh no.

You sit on the floor of your living room, a box of pizza on the coffee table that you’ve shoved out of the way. Yoongi’s beside you, your backs against the couch as you watch some anime he’d been trying to convince you to watch back in high school. You’re three episodes in, and you don’t have the heart to tell him that you don’t really care for the basketball-themed show. Part of you is still afraid that if you say something wrong, he’ll be gone again.

His arm rests casually behind you on the cushions, far enough away that it’s more a comfortable way to sit than any sort of advance, but that doesn’t stop the smallest of butterflies from making itself known in your stomach. This Yoongi is so different from the Yoongi you knew—the one who, as a kid, got excited by construction equipment and the concept of ice cream, and as a teen spent his free time hiding from his parents, playing the piano and hanging out with you (though neither were mutually exclusive). He’s quiet, comfortable in the silence, comfortable with letting things linger.

You’re a little jealous of it, to be honest.

Yoongi leans forward slightly, and a piece of pizza meets him halfway, floating gently into his grasp. “Do you remember,” he begins, settling back in against the couch, “when we were 16 and we went camping?” You hum an affirmative. “We spent most of the week playing old board games with my parents.”

You smile at the memory. If anyone had asked back then, you would have told them it was lame that you’d had to spend the whole time with Yoongi’s parents. But now? That was one of the more fun summers you’d ever had. “What made you think of that?”

He shrugs, mouth full of pizza. “I dunno. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. Things were so much simpler then…”

You nod and hum softly, but ultimately, you say nothing. Much simpler indeed.

“You know,” Yoongi begins, zipping his coat up to his chin, “when you said ‘park’, I was kind of expecting it to be in the city.”

“I think technically it is.” You lock your car and meet him at the front of it.

“We drove for an hour!”

You shrug. “Big city.”

He laughs and shakes his head, incredulous. He can’t tell if you’re being serious or not, but there was a sign on the way in with the university logo on it, so he supposes that whether it’s part of the city or not, it doesn’t really matter. There’s a well-lit trail that runs from the shale parking lot up a hill slightly to a clearing that overlooks the city and the rest of the park. It’s busy–people mill about around the parking lot, and he can see a steady stream of visitors on the trail up to the clearing.

He adjusts his coat–it’s cold, and both his shoulder and his senses ache with the impending snow–and when he’s ready, the two of you start walking toward the trail. It’s astonishingly busy, and as you weave your way through the crowd, leading him up the hill, he grabs your hand.

So we don’t get separated, he tells himself. For a moment, he expects you to pull away. Not maliciously, he’s not expecting you to scoff and throw his hand away. But what he isn’t expecting is for you to tighten your grip on him and tug him this way and that as you get closer to the clearing. His hand is warm where your skin touches his, like he’s holding a candle a little too close to the flame.

The clearing is massive, mostly flat but not entirely, with gentle rolling slopes that provide some extra elevation here and there. On one of the little hills, a few food trucks are set up, though how they got there, Yoongi isn’t really sure. Someone must have magicked them through the path or up the hill or something. There are picnic tables scattered around, mostly near the food trucks, but throughout the clearing, as well. Towards the edge of the clearing, there’s a cliff with an overlook that has a spectacular view of the city vista below. People are everywhere. Of course, there are a lot of college-aged kids hanging out in big and small groups. But there’s also a shocking amount of people that are Yoongi’s age and older–professors, he assumes, and university staff here to enjoy the evening. Almost all of them are holding drinks, and just about every one of them seems to be paired with someone.

It’s subtle sometimes, seeing bonded witches and familiars. Of course, the ones who are romantically involved tend to be more obvious, but the ones that are just friends are just as easy to spot once you know what to look for. It’s the people who stand so close together they’re almost touching, the ones who lean in a little extra close to whisper something. And the clearing is full of pairs standing in each other’s personal spaces.

You tug on his hand to direct him off to the left and he blindly follows, squeezing your fingers ever so gently as a response.

There’s a pair of people at one of the tables by the food trucks. They spot you almost immediately, and one of them stands to greet you. He’s a little taller than you are, made even more obvious when he gives you an awkward, one-armed hug over the picnic table’s bench. The other one–a woman–remains seated, eyeing Yoongi.

For a hot minute, it’s weird, as he stands there in silence while you chat with the man and woman. It’s not even the side-eye that the woman’s shooting him. The man is handsome–Yoongi’s not blind–and you are friendly with him. But there’s a moment, the briefest of moments, where you gesture somewhere off to your left. And when your body moves, Yoongi’s arm moves, too, and a little part of him, a silly, childish, hopeful part, soars.

You’re still holding his hand.

Eventually, you introduce him to the two. Alice works the reference desk in your library while she’s doing a doctorate program in linguistics. Her partner is gone in the winter, fighting fires in the far south. Despite her harsh side-eye, she greets Yoongi with a smile and a polite handshake. Jihwan, on the other hand, is the head baseball coach at the university. How the two of you met, Yoongi can only guess, but you make no mention of Jihwan’s partner, and Yoongi doesn’t see a gem anywhere. He almost–almost–starts to feel bad for the guy, but then he opens his mouth.

You ask a simple question, gesturing with your head to the food trucks. “What do they have good?”

“The pierogi guy from last year is back-”

Jihwan interrupts Alice. “Too much butter.”

It’s not even what he says. It’s how he says it. Like you and Alice are toddlers, like you can’t be trusted not to drown yourselves in carbs. But you roll your eyes and Alice scoffs playfully, and Yoongi realizes that this is not the first time Jihwan has done something like this. And suddenly, Yoongi hates this guy.

“Apparently, he’s got a new flavor this year,” Alice says, continuing like Jihwan never interrupted. “But the taco guy is also back-”

“Is the popcorn guy back?” you ask. laughing. “Because I kind of want a front-row seat to that.” Yoongi must look confused, because you explain. “Pierogi guy’s daughter was engaged to taco guy’s daughter. But last year, pierogi guy and taco guy just started yelling at each other-”

“-It was amazing,” Alice adds.

“It was ridiculous,” Jihwan mumbles.

You push him. “It was a little like having our own little telenovela here.”

Cautiously, Yoongi asks, “Why were they fighting?”

“No one knows.” You shrug. “But it launched a campus-wide food war. Everyone was choosing sides. It was like the year the Moondance tried to change its logo.”

Jihwan and Alice look at you, a little confused. But Yoongi knows exactly what you’re talking about. Somewhere around when you were preteens, the owners of the Moondance diner decided that its logo was outdated and wanted to update it. The whole town had been in an uproar, whole neighborhoods entering into a Cold War-esque stand-off over their preferences. People who had been friends for 50 years were suddenly in an unsolvable, unending argument. All over a color palette swap and a slightly newer font. Yoongi hadn’t cared much one way or the other–all businesses change their logos at some point, right?–and he always suspected that you didn’t either, but you’d both gotten swept up in the chaos of it all. It was stupid, ridiculous fun, and he’s pretty sure that his parents still have the buttons you’d made somewhere in their house.

You finally let go of Yoongi’s hand when you’re standing in line at the taco truck, and he’s painfully aware of how empty it feels now. You don’t go far, though, standing close enough that your elbow brushes against his every once in a while. You’re scrolling through your phone, reading some news article to pass the time. It’s gotten darker since you’ve been there, and looking up, he can just barely make out a couple pinpricks of stars in the sky. The clearing is fairly bright, with little flickering balls of light criss-crossing the space like bistro lighting, and the lights from the city below don’t help to make the night sky visible.

You pay for his tacos–”I get an employee discount,” you say, brandishing your university id like it’s a black card–and Yoongi doesn’t think that you were in line that long, but when you return to the table, Alice and Jihwan are gone.

“Where’d-” He’s not even asked the question, but you’re already shrugging.

“Alice’s probably off calling her fiance,” you say it like you’re back in high school, all singsong-y and mockingly, “and who knows where Jihwan got to. Probably trying to take someone home tonight.”

“He seems…”

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“How’d you meet him?”

A pang of… something hits him. Your expression falls, ever so slightly, and he regrets asking. But after a brief moment, you clear your throat. “He and I are the only two on campus without gems.”

Oh.

Well.

That makes sense.

“So they…”

You pick a piece of red cabbage off your taco and eat it. “Yeah, they know.”

Which explains Alice’s side-eye earlier. The weird emotion he’d gotten from you is gone now, and you seem to have just brushed right past the awkward feelings.

He hums, not really sure what to say. What’s there to say? So instead of saying anything dumb, he does the safe thing. He changes the subject.

“No wonder they didn’t kick the taco guy out of the festival this year.” He takes another bite of his taco. “This is the best al pastor I’ve ever had.”

“His chimichangas are amazing, but he only makes them on special days.”

“More special than…?” He gestures vaguely. Around you, the lights have started to dim. Yoongi isn’t really sure when that started, but things are definitely less bright.

You laugh, and something inside of him warms.

He hasn’t even finished his tacos yet, but the vibe in the clearing starts to dramatically change. The crowd gathers tighter, a palpable buzz in the air. Alice has returned and stands alone near the head of the table. She’s looking up at the sky, and when Yoongi looks up, he sees why. There’s an aurora in the sky, gentle waves of effervescent greens and blues swirling through the heavens, just like the night market all those years ago. It has to be magic of some sort–the city isn’t far enough north for it to be natural–but he can’t tell who’s doing it.

A hand on his shoulder pulls his focus back to the ground. You’re there behind him, bathed in the dim glow of the floating lights around you. By now, it’s almost dark, but even in the low light and deep shadows, you’re beautiful.

“Come on,” you say softly. “Let’s get a good spot closer to the lookout.”

He follows you through the crowd, weaving around the bodies to get closer to the edge of the clearing. It’s tight, and you grab his hand so you don’t get separated. Normally, Yoongi isn’t a huge fan of crowds like this. You’re a small island in a sea of people, and he barely has room to turn in a circle without bumping into someone. You stand close–close enough that he can feel your warmth through the chill of the night.

The city spans the valley below, a forest of metal and windows and concrete. A bright spot in the middle of an otherwise dark night. But then, individually at first and then more, the buildings’ lights begin to flicker out.

“They’ve been doing this festival since before the city got public electricity,” you explain, answering his question before he could even ask. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

With the lights of the city mostly out, the stars above are much brighter. He can almost see them twinkling and winking as they burn, millions of billions of lightyears away. The night sky is beautiful, and his eyes drift around to locate the constellations he’d learned as a child. Almost immediately, he finds Perseus, right beside his wife Andromeda. You’d loved the myth of Perseus slaying Medusa when you were kids, and even though he hadn’t looked for the constellation in over a decade, finding it is still ingrained in him.

He nudges you slightly, pointing up to the constellation. But just as he does, a pinprick of light streaks across the sky. You squeeze his hand as more streaks start to appear and the gathered crowd buzzes with ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s. The meteors are all sizes. Big and bright. Small and thin. They aren’t constant, only a few show up every minute, but it’s beautiful to watch.

There’s a strange sensation growing in his chest, something warm and fluttering and all-encompassing. You lean a little closer and the feeling grows. You must sense something–he’s never really been sure what his emotions feel like for you–because you look up at him. For a moment, you look confused.

Yoongi isn’t really sure how it happens, but what he does know is that suddenly, your face is centimeters from his own. He thinks that maybe someone bumped you and you took a step closer, but maybe that’s just his brain trying to fill in the gaps. He also knows that he’s the one that closes the space between you, leans in and brushes his lips against yours. It’s quick, a little impulsive, and truthfully, it feels a little forbidden.

He pulls away, not far enough to make it seem like he’s made a mistake, but enough that it gives you an out, if you want it. His brain starts making all these calculations–what he should do if you back away, what he should do if you slap him, what if you don’t react.

But then you whisper, “Why’d you stop?” and your hand slides up his chest to grip the lapel of his coat. You tug with a surprising amount of force, and when your lips connect, he feels himself soaring.

His entire world narrows to the points where your bodies connect. The firm touch of your knuckles against his shirt, the way your leg presses against his, but mostly the heat from your lips as he deepens the kiss. You fit against him perfectly, as if you were made for each other. He’d only kissed you that one time, but somehow, he’d missed it, missed you.

When you finally pull away, you stay close, pressed against his chest–though whether that’s fully your choice or because of the crowd tightening around you is anyone’s guess. He can feel your heart pounding, and when you shoot him a small smirk, he’s pretty sure that you can feel the pace of his own pulse. Your grip loosens on the collar of his coat and you smooth it down coolly before your arm wraps around his back. Without a word, you cozy in, pressed close as your gaze returns to the sky and to the stars.

For a moment, he stands there, unmoving, mind empty. But then it’s like he snaps out of a trance, and he snakes an arm around your waist, holding you tightly. His focus shifts to the shooting stars above, catching one just as it streaks across the sky. As he stands there, staring at the heavens and feeling your steady breathing, his mind begins to wander.

12 years, 7 months, and 3 days. He’d spent most of that time wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t left. If, after he’d kissed you at the night market, he’d been satisfied with whatever life had come after that. He’d been so scared back then, of losing control, of his life not being his own. But now, none of that matters.

Now, he’d give up almost anything to stay here, in this moment, in your arms.

okay so like... what do we think? how are we feeling? I was originally planning on having this be much longer, but I was so stressed out from grad school, I just wanted to get it out now. I'm so excited to hear your thoughts! and let me know if you want to see a part 2 (and if so, what you might want to see in it!!)

#yoongi x reader #min yoongi x reader #bts x reader #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic #suga fic #suga fanfic #bts fanfic #bts fic #min yoongi fic #min yoongi fanfic #myg x reader #bts soulmate au #bts supernatural au #set me free

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hearts4renaa · 11 months

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OH MY, LOVE IS A LIE!

summary: it's all over now, but he's still thinking of you. featuring alhaitham, diluc, kamisato ayato, and zhongli. part 2 to you're losing me.

w/c: 2.1k in total a/n: i am really churning out angst for yall. inspired by hits different by taylor swift

I find the artifacts, cried over a hat. Curse the space that I needed.

“There’s no way you still have that.” Kaveh comments as he walks past Alhaitham in their little library of the home. Kaveh looks at the small crystal in the scholar's hands, cringing.

Alhaitham glares at the blonde. “Shut it.” He grumbles, twirling the gem in between his fingers. He intended to give it to you over dinner, as an apology for the stunt he pulled two weeks ago. The guilt took over his body like a fever. He was sleepless for a few nights, and you slept in the guest bedroom. Eventually, he drew to a conclusion. The two of you had been dating for quite a while; maybe it’s time to take it to the next step.

He invited you to a proper dinner that night, and you accepted despite the growing tension between the two of you. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t realize the two of you had very different plans for that night. He was there to take it further. You were there to end it.

Kaveh’s scoff takes Alhaitham out of the depths of his memory. “Don’t you have better things to do than nag me?” Alhaitham spit out. “Pay your rent, perhaps?”

Kaveh rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “It’s crazy how you’re talking to me how you talked to them.” A glare made its way into his amber eyes. “Thought you would’ve learned to watch your choice of words after what happened.”

Alhaitham had no rebuttal. He knew Kaveh was right. He didn’t think his words or actions carried much weight until you were crushed under them. His words and actions chipped away at what he loved until eventually, nothing was there at all. How did he not notice? How did he not see the storms in your eyes? How did he not hear the tiredness in your voice? How could he let you fight for the relationship alone, while he stood on the sidelines as it withered to nothingness? His eyes redirect from Kaveh to the gem in his hands. It’s like he can still see your face in the reflection. Like the love was still there, shimmering and sparkling the same way the gem did in the afternoon sun.

“And yes, I do have better things to do.” Kaveh says, walking towards the entrance of the house. “I’m heading to lunch with a friend of mine.” A knock pierces their conversation, effectively saving Alhaitham from having to face the harsh truth from Kaveh of all people. “Ah, they’re here!” Kaveh leaves the library entirely, leaving Alhaitham in the room alone. He hears the front door open. “Y/N!” Kaveh greets. Alhaitham freezes.

What the fuck?

“Just one second, I forgot something in the study.” He hears Kaveh say, and footsteps are fast approaching. Kaveh retrieves his left behind item, but not before Alhaitham stops him. The grip he has on Kaveh’s forearm is almost painful.

“What the hell?” Alhaitham’s voice is bitter. Jealous, even.

Kaveh yanks his arm away. “Just because you lost the love of your life Y/N doesn’t mean I have to lose my friend Y/N.” Kaveh’s voice is firm. Soon enough, he’s walking away and out the door.

Alhaitham feels the sorrow truly kick in. All the times he asked for space from you. All the time he could’ve spent with you. Now, the space between the two of you was farther than ever before. And he can’t do anything but look at the gem in his hand, wishing he could run to you more than ever.

I trace the evidence, make it make some sense, why the wound is still bleeding?

He won’t admit it, but Diluc’s hands were beginning to ache from the endless action of polishing the glasses. He insisted on working the bar tonight, letting the usual bar staff have some well deserved rest. Peering down, Diluc takes the time to examine the many scars on his hands. They were dotted on his skin, and they all held a story. A burn. A scab he kept picking at. An accidental cut. Either way, they all had an experience leading up to each wound.

He realizes how much of a hypocrite he is. Scolding you for wanting the adventure, for getting a minor injury as if he doesn’t do ten times more fighting than you did. Worried endlessly for your safety, as if he doesn’t risk his life on the daily. Diluc has faced many wounds over his life, but the worst one he’s experienced was losing you.

The breakup wasn’t dramatic. The two of you sat across from each other next to the fire, and you told him of how you lost the love. Of how the flame burned so slowly than it burned out. The two of you agreed to end things together; at least, that’s what you think. He didn’t lose anything. His flame still burns as brightly as it did in the beginning. Perhaps his flame burned so bright that it overtook yours. You packed your things and left Dawn Winery. He saw you off with a polite wave, but the moment the door shut, the dam burst and the tears flowed.

Now here he was, without you, repeating a stupid polishing action until the door opened. There you were, with the Traveler and Venti of all people. It’s awkward for a moment, both of your eyes darting around to avoid the other’s. Eventually, the three of you get a table to sit at. As your group passes by, he hears the Traveler quietly say something to you. “Sorry, Y/N. I didn’t think he’d be working today.” He hears you laugh. Oh, how he wishes he was the source.

“Don’t worry about it,” You say. “I’m basically over him.”

Diluc feels a sting in his chest, and he has to stop himself from dropping the glass in his hand. That hurt. He certainly wasn’t over you. The night passes, and you are engaged in conversation. Diluc takes the chance to steal fleeting glances in your direction.

The weapon on your back has more wear and tear. Your bag looks heavier, more used. He sees minor scars on your skin. A few on your arm, one on your cheek, some on your calves. It takes everything in him to not fret over you, but he knows he can’t. You’re not his to lose anymore. But most of all, Diluc sees the way you exude light. Cheer radiates from you, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you more beautiful than you were right now.

You may bear more scars than when you were with him, but he’s never seen you happier.

You were the one that I loved! Don’t need another metaphor, it’s simple enough.

Ayato runs a hand through his hair while walking the streets of Inazuma City. He was on the way to a wedding attire fitting, for his wedding to another Inazuman noblewoman. The wedding isn’t for another month, so it’s crucial to ensure that all clothing is prepared and ready to allow ample time for unforeseen circumstances. On the way to his appointment, Ayato passes by a familiar restaurant. He softly smiles, remembering how he used to visit often. Then, his smile is replaced with a frown when he realizes he hasn’t been in two months. There was no reason for him to eat there anymore- he used to eat there with you.

He’ll never forget how puffy your eyes were when you broke things off with him. It was obvious you were crying, and with how the conversation was going, Ayato was about to cry too. “I can’t do this anymore, Ayato.” Your voice sounded exhausted. Ayato hated knowing he was the reason for your sleepless nights. He didn’t understand why he snapped at your skepticism over the arranged marriage. He couldn't, and wouldn’t ever imagine you marrying someone else. He understood. The problem is, he understood too late. Now, it’s been two months and he still doesn’t go a single day without thinking of you.

Finally, Ayato arrived at his destination. The tailors was a quaint little shop in a less busy corner of Inazuma, but many of the locals purchased ceremonial clothing from the owners. They’re said to have a very keen eye, even when it comes to choosing employees. Ayato slides the door open, and he is greeted by a worker.

“Welcome! Are you here for a fitting or-”

He could recognize that voice. There’s no way. His eyes widened at the realization, and you did too, seeing how your words trailed off.

“Y/N.” He breathed out your name as if he had been suffocating prior. You take a second to compose yourself before putting your professional facade back on. He is a customer. He is no more than that.

“Are you here for an appointment?” You ask.

Your formal tone throws him off. He remembers your cheery usual tone from back then, and he wishes nothing more than to go back to those times.

“Yeah.” He nods. “It’s…wedding attire.”

You feel your breath hitch in your throat. Of course, he’s still going forward with the marriage. After all, he made it clear that you have nothing to offer for the Kamisatos.You nod curtly before gesturing him to a fitting station. “Please allow me to grab my tools.” You give a small bow, ignoring eye contact. You turn away to head towards the shop’s tool drawer with measuring tapes and such. When you’re certain he cannot see your face, you allow your bottom lip to tremble slightly.

Meanwhile, Ayato’s eyes stay trained on your figure. For the two of you to break up, then have you be the person attending to him during the wedding fitting? The Seven must be laughing at him as he experiences this cruel twist of fate. Suddenly, it hits him. The two of you are part of each other’s past. It’s over. You aren’t in each other’s present lives, and you most likely won’t be part of each other’s futures.

You might be a stranger now, but he will forever recognize your voice in a sea of people.

A wrinkle in time, like the crease by your eyes. This is why they shouldn’t kill off the main guy.

“Who do you think the lucky one is?” The women of Liyue gossip. Their eyes are fixed on Zhongli, following him like a hawk. The man in question is shopping for flowers. However, he seems to be interested in the large bouquets of flowers, the ones far too large to be classified as “just felt like it” flowers. He takes his time to examine each flower thoroughly. He checks the stems, petals, if they’re fully bloomed. Uncommon than most men nowadays, Zhongli was truly looking at every factor while shopping for these flowers, which is why the women were so interested to know who they were for.

On Zhongli’s end, his senses were being absolutely bombarded with the signature floral scent. Zhongli’s taste in flowers only gets incredibly picky around this time of year. After all, the anniversary of your death is upcoming. He only wants the best flowers for you, since he couldn’t give you the best when you were still alive. If there’s one memory he’ll never forget, it’ll be how you still told him that you loved him, even in your final moments.

“Excuse me, are you looking for anything in particular?” A worker asks him.

Normally, he’d politely decline and continue about his day. But he can’t. Not when said worker looks identical to you. His eyes are wide, scanning the person up and down. Same hair, eyes, facial structure. If he didn’t know better, he’d think you were right in front of him. Unfortunately, Zhongli does know better. He knows that you are no longer alive. And he knows that he is the reason for your death.

He regains his composure. “I’m alright, thank you.” His smile is polite, but not sincere.

"Ah, alright. I’m sorry if this sounds weird but…” The worker started. “Are you doing alright? I’m sorry, I just felt like I had to ask you. Gut feeling, I guess.”

For a second time, Zhongli was taken aback, but he answered nonetheless. “Yes, just trying to find some nice flowers.” The worker smiled. It amazes Zhongli how much they look like you.

“Are you buying flowers for someone?” They ask.

“Yes,” Zhongli pauses. “They’re for someone who is very dear to me.”

The worker points to a bouquet. “How about this one, then? It’s one of my favorites.”

Zhongli smiles. They were your favorite too. He lets out a chuckle at the situation. He had always hoped to see you again, but he didn’t think you’d visit him like this. “That one looks great.” He responds.

He looks up at the sky, and he hopes you know that in every other universe, he would’ve chosen you.

#genshin x reader #zhongli x reader #diluc x reader #kamisato ayato x reader #alhaitham x reader #al haitham x reader #ayato x reader #genshin angst #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin #morax x reader

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steddiealltheway · 5 months

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Eddie’s eyes are brown.

At least, that’s what Steve would’ve said before staring into his eyes for…ten seconds? Thirty seconds? Five minutes? … he’s lost track of time.

But the time is certainly not wasted.

Steve’s not sure how he’s never noticed that brown eyes aren’t just brown. It’s a silly thought, and he knows that he should probably know this considering he also has brown eyes, but maybe he’s been too focused on his hair. And maybe he’s been a little too focused on Eddie’s lips…

He fights to glance down at them as Eddie stares back at him, his pupils blown wide, but every now and then when he leans a little to the side, the sunlight from the windows hits his eyes just right and his pupils contract, showing off all the color in his eyes. And Steve loves when this happens.

The brown turns into an almost amber color, deep brown highlighted by hints of warm red and orange. And at the bottom of his eyes, there’s small patches of gold standing out against the deep brown ring that circles the whole iris.

Steve thinks he could get lost in it all and stare for hours.

He leans in a little closer, trying to see more of that gold, and nearly groaning when Eddie shifts away from the light again, eyes becoming such a deep brown that Steve can easily see his reflection.

But he doesn’t want to see himself, he wants to see how that dark chocolate turns into that gold and red in the sunlight.

Then, something Steve didn’t fathom happens.

Eddie closes his eyes.

“Steve won!” Dustin shouts, as the other kids carry on loudly, and Steve is harshly startled back into reality.

A staring contest. That’s what this was supposed to be. A staring contest, not a Steve gets lost in his friend’s eyes for so long that he forgets to blink contest. Christ.

He glances sheepishly at Eddie and takes in all his features, the furrowed brow and the slight frown to his lips as Eddie tugs at a stand of hair.

As the kids file out of the room, moving onto whatever activity is going to keep them entertained next, Steve asks, “Are you that upset about losing?”

Eddie shakes his head and leans forward, staring into Steve’s eyes again. Steve fights not to look too deeply, afraid he’ll get lost in the depths forever if he gives himself the chance.

“I saw something I hadn’t seen before,” Eddie comments, looking back and forth between his two eyes.

“I did too,” Steve admits, allowing himself to stare a bit. He reaches out and pulls Eddie closer to him, getting both his eyes directly in the sunlight. “I see a whiskey my dad used to always keep on his desk, with hints of gold that reminds me of the jewelry my dad got for my mom, back when they still loved each other.”

His heart pounds at the memories, back to a time when things almost seemed normal. When he thought he would always be happy.

Steve shakes his head and glances away, unsure of how the colors he saw before could bring up the deep memories he spewed to Eddie. He changes the subject and asks, “What did you see in mine?”

He expects maybe an analysis of green and brown, or hazel as many girls tell him after staring at him for long enough to make him feel uncomfortable. He wonders why Eddie doesn’t make him feel that way.

A finger lifts Steve’s chin, turning his gaze back to Eddie whose stare sends chills down his spines. “I saw longing,” Eddie states and continues, “Was it for those things? Those memories?”

Steve finds himself shaking his head as his eyes glance down to Eddie’s lips which twitch as he swallows. “Was it longing?” Eddie asks, nervousness seeping into his tone.

Steve glances back at his eyes and nods. It’s not like he’s unaware of his deeper feelings for Eddie, but he didn’t expect to fall so hard in just a few moments as he stared into his eyes. And he definitely didn’t expect to have those emotions read so clearly in his own eyes.

Eddie’s hand slowly moves to cup Steve’s face as he says, “Steve, read my own eyes for a moment. Please see the-”

“Can you guys give us a ride to the arcade?!” Dustin yells from the other room.

Steve sees Eddie’s eyes flash with annoyance which is much different from the loving expression from before.

Loving.

Steve takes a deep breath and steps back as he hears multiple footsteps hurriedly making their way back to the kitchen.

“Did you hear us?” Mike asks, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, “Get to the car.”

He lingers back with Eddie as he watches all the kids run to his car, and when Steve gets to the door with Eddie behind him, he yells, “Give me a minute, I need to grab my wallet!”

He closes the door quickly and rushes into Eddie’s space, cupping his face, and asking, “Am I reading this wrong?”

“Not at all,” Eddie says, hope and deep longing shining in his eyes.

“Good,” Steve says, leaning forward and meeting Eddie in the middle as they hurriedly kiss, pouring in all the longing they’ve both experienced for months now but were too oblivious to see before.

(Robin laughs for minutes on end when she hears that a staring contest is what got them together when they’ve been having multiple for months without the label. Steve just rolls his eyes, but as soon as Eddie asks, “Want to have another staring contest?” He can’t resist.)

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie ficlet

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soulofapatrick · 9 months

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Amortentia - Theodore Nott x Reader

Summary: You brew Amortentia and it leads somewhere you didn't ever expect Words: 1.7k Warnings: none really Notes: I am alive I promise, been really busy as we're getting ready to move house

Y/N’s POV

Amortentia. The most powerful love potion in the world. The way many people find their partners in Hogwarts and the most exciting class of the year. Everyone is buzzing around, whispering and giggling with their friends about the vial sat on Professor Slughorn’s desk, left completely unguarded. I take on glance at the shimmering blue liquid and cringe a little before finding the closest seat to the door, throwing my bag on the floor after pulling out the Potions book.

“Hey Y/N,” Harry slides into the seat beside me with his signature unruly black hair and this bright green eyes that seem to hold a hint of mischief and determination, and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. He wears his Gryffindor uniform somewhat neatly, his tie slightly askew adding to this charm.

Ron isn’t far behind, grumbling about the upcoming lesson. His fiery red hair is as untameable as ever, and his freckled face displaying nothing but annoyance as he throws his arms over mine and Harry’s shoulders and letting his knees buckle while pretending to swoon, “Oh Theodore, my love, it youuuuuu-“

“Oh shut up!” I push his arm off my shoulders and he falls with a cry of surprise, Harry trying to catch him but ending up letting Ron fall to snigger behind his hand, “You’re probably going to fall head over heels for Snape… oh Snape, oh how I love thee Sn-“

“Alright, let’s begin this lesson shall we?” Professor Slughorn comes breezing in, not as well as Snape as he’s just too happy for that. Ron squeezes my shoulder before he slinks off to sit in one of the only spaces next to Neville who looks like he would rather be anywhere else.

As the lesson commences, Slughorn goes over the instructions and safety precautions for handling Amortentia. The excitement in the room is palpable as we prepare to brew the potent love potion. The air is filled with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, but I find myself feeling grateful for Harry taking over, using his special edition of the potions book that is full of scribbles and notes presumably making the potion better. The simmering cauldrons and swirling concoctions coming together creates an almost enchanting atmosphere, the scents in the air shifting and blending, giving the room an ethereal quality.

A figure appears over my shoulder, surprise and curiosity coursing through my veins when I recognise that familiar scent of oranges, honeycomb and something darker like amber which can mean only one thing: Theodore Nott is standing behind me. His calm and composed demeanour a little intimidating as I don’t think I’ve ever seen him actually smile more than a very small lift of the corner of his lips. Oh his lips, so plump and flush and-

“How’s the potion going Mouse? Have you blown up-“ He stops abruptly, leaving forwards over my shoulder and taking a very deep breath, causing me to stumble a little over the response I was trying to formulate. His voice is low and husky, sending shivers down my spine at the nickname he calls me.

“Um, it’s, uh, it’s coming along.” I manage to stammer rout, feeling my cheeks heat up, “Haven’t blown anything up… yet.”

Theodore’s lips quirk upward ever so slightly, and I catch a glimpse of what could be a hint of amusement. He leans in a little closer, and I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, sending more shivers down my spine, but it’s a delicious kind nervousness, a feeling I can’t quite put into words. Before I can fully process the situation, Theodore buries his nose in the crook of my neck, taking a deep breath. My heart pounds in my chest so loud I’m sure Ron can hear it from across the room, and time seems to slow down. The scents of oranges, honeycomb and amber envelops us, creating an intimate and intoxicating moment.

I can hardly believe that Theodore, the stoic and straight-faced Slytherin, is here, so close to me, and that he’s showing this level of vulnerability. His actions are unexpected but oh so incredibly thrilling. I dare to steal a glance at his face, and I’m met with a sight I’ve never seen before - a softness in his expression, a hint of something more than his usual guarded demeanour. It’s as if he’s letting down his walls, revealing a side of himself he rarely shows to anyone.

My heart races, and I find myself yearning for more of this closeness, more of this connection. It’s like a spell has been cast, and I’m under Theodore’s enchantment. The excitement and nervousness intertwine, and I feel a sense of wonder at the unexpected turn of events, how close he is to me. I can feel his breath ghosting over my lips, knowing that I could just lean forwards ever so slightly and close the near non-existence space between us. The smell of oranges, honeycomb and amber suddenly gets so intense I have to grab the edge of the table and Theodore’s forearm.

“Aha! We did it!” Harry exclaims, breaking the moment and has Theodore pulling back. Theodore’s eyes meet mine, and I see a spark of something familiar and yet different. The air between us crackles with unspoken words, emotions swirling around us like the brewing potions in the classroom.

“Oh god.” I choke out and I think Theodore actually smiles for the first time, the corner of his lips tilting up into more of a smile than he’s ever shown before, “Wh-what do you smell Teddy?”

He leans in once more, his nose brushing against my collarbone and neck. His closeness sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine. And then, he presses a soft, gentle kiss to my jaw, sending shockwaves of sensation through me. It’s a sweet, tender touch that leaves me breathless.

“You.” He whispers, his voice barely audible, but the impact of his words reverberates within me. The world seems to stand still, and my heart swells with emotion.

Theodore Tiberius Nott, the guarded and enigmatic Slytherin, had just confessed, in his own subtle way, that he feels something for me. My cheeks flush with a. Mixture of excitement and disbelief. It’s a moment I never thought I’d experience - being so close to Theodore, sharing this intimate connection, and hearing him express his feelings in such a heartfelt manner. In the heart-stopping moment, I can see the turmoil of emotions playing across his face. His eyes meet mine with a mixture of vulnerability and determination. And then, without warning, he mumbles a single phrase that sets my heart racing even faster.

“Fuck it,” he whispers, and before I can process his intent, his hand cups my jaw, and he draws me up into a kiss. It’s a surprise, but the moment our lips meet, it’s as if everything falls into place.

The kiss is soft yet intense, filled with all the emotions that words can’t express. It feels like an explosion of passion and longing, an unspoken confession that’s now imprinted on our lips. Theodore’s lips are warm and inviting, and I respond with equal fervour, my heart soaring with joy and disbelief. Time seems to stand still, and the air crackles with the intensity of our shared emotions. It's a kiss that speaks volumes, a revelation of hidden desires and unspoken feelings. All the walls Theodore had erected to guard his heart have crumbled, and in this magical moment, he bares himself to me in the most intimate way.

Just as the world around us seems to disappear in the enchantment of the moment, reality crashes back in with an unexpected interruption. Ron, being the protective and ever-observant twin brother, appears out of nowhere and is shoving Theodore away from me.

“Hey! That’s my sister!” Ron’s voice is filled with shock and indignation, “You can’t just go around kissing my sister!”

“Ron!” I can’t help but practically facepalm at him as he’s… he’s being Ron, “Shove off,” I reach around Ron and manage to get a grip on Theodore’s sleeve enough to pull him back over to me. Ron's protectiveness is well-intentioned, but I can't let it ruin the magical moment that Theodore and I just shared.

“I’m not… She’s safe with me, I promise.” Theodore's words are reassuring, and I can see the sincerity in his eyes as he speaks. Despite his usual stoic demeanour, there's a tenderness in his touch as he holds my hand, a silent declaration of his feelings for me.

“I trust him.” I say firmly, giving my brother a pleading look. Ron just looks torn for a moment, clearly struggling between his protective instincts and his trust in me. But then, he takes a deep breath and nods reluctantly.

“Fine.” His says, his voice gruff but accepting, “But if he hurts you in any way, he’ll have me to deal with.” Ron eyes him warily but eventually takes a step back, giving us some space. ”Just remember, Y/N, he's a Slytherin," Ron says, his protective tone still evident.

"He's more than just his house," I reply, trying to convey the depth of my feelings for Theodore.

Ron studies me for a moment before he finally relents. ”Fine," he says, "But don't say I didn't warn you.”

With that, Ron turns and walks away, leaving Theodore and me standing there, still holding hands. I let out a sigh of relief, grateful that Ron didn't push the matter further.

“Ahhhh young love.” Slughorn’s voice floats across the room , filled with warmth and nostalgia, and I do the only thing I can: bury my face in Theodore’s sweater, feeling a laugh rumble in his chest.

“Indeed.” Theodore says, his voice laced with amusement as he wraps his arms around me in a gentle embrace. Slughorn giving us an indulgent smile before continuing with the class. The room seeming to take on a different atmosphere now, one that’s tinged with a newfound sweetness and magic. The shimmering cauldrons and swirling potions seem to mirror the emotions swirling within me, and I can’t help but realise how cliche this is. Expressing our feelings for each other during the lesson on amortentia…

“I’ll wait for you after class.” Theodore murmurs, kissing my forehead then my cheek before untangling himself from my embrace before heading back to his seat next to a predictably sneering Draco Malfoy.

“What just happened?’ I ask Harry, a little dazed still, his green eyes sparkling with amusement.

“I’m not actually sure.”

-----------

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incognit0slut · 7 months

Text

SILENT PLEA

Part 1 of kinktober | main masterlist

Being a few feet away from your friends wasn’t going to stop you from seeking pleasure with your professor.

softdom!spencer x fem reader; Thigh-riding, teasing, semi-public, praise, age gap, power imbalance with teacher/student dynamic

words: 2,932

a/n: this one is dedicated to those who just wants to sit on his lap while being praised 🖤 (also i has to repost this bcs of some error it was so weird)

IT WAS HIS EYES. The rich, earthy tones of his irises with subtle flecks of amber and gold held a comforting warmth that seemed to radiate within, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. You always found yourself captivated every time his gaze fell on you. It felt as if he had a secret language written in those brown orbs, one that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

Or it might've been his hands. You always knew he had nice, well-kept hands but the more you examined them, the more you noticed how enticing they truly were. The size of them always surprised you, as well as the length of his fingers, but it was the veins running along the backs of his hands that really made you dry at the mouth.

Maybe it was the age difference. The mature lines on his face, those crinkle lines around his eyes whenever he smiled only adding an appeal to his appearance. And the way he carried himself with a sense of authority was definitely a factor, one that never failed to make you weak in the knees.

But perhaps it was just him. All of him. The way he stood at his tall height. The way he laughed at his own joke. The way he spoke in his lectures—the enthusiasm palpable in his voice as he explained the difference between a trigger and a stressor while mentioning he was going to put them in the finals, something he shouldn't have probably done.

It was everything about him. His unruly hair. His tailored suit. His charming smile.

And there was the way that he called you, addressing your first name in a room full of people, yet every time you were alone with him, you felt special. You were always his good girl.

"You're such a good girl for me, you know that, right?"

You knew, because every time you did as you were told, he gave you more. More than what you wanted, more than what you needed. He knew you inside and out, and as much as you hated to admit what you were doing these past couple of months was deemed inappropriate, you still couldn't help it. Everything about him made you crave more.

That was why you found yourself perched on his lap after class. It was wrong on so many levels. Not only was it unprofessional for a faculty member to be sexually involved with a student, it was also looked down upon to be in a relationship with someone almost twice your age. But temptation won over rational thoughts, and you had to admit, the professor you had a crush on ever since he introduced himself in front of the class, was really good at tempting you.

"Spence..." You sighed out, hips squirming along his lap. Each of your legs was on either side of his thigh, and you sat there, waiting for him to do something because you were desperate. How could you not when he had been eying you throughout this morning? The subtle glint of mischief wasn't lost on you when he spoke in front of you and your peers, and now that you were finally alone with him, you wanted his undivided attention.

Spencer's hands gripped your thighs as his eyes swept along your body. They momentarily paused on the low dip of your shirt, your cleavage visible for his own pleasure, before he glanced back up to your face.

"We don't have much time," he reminded, yet his hands were sliding up your skirt. And he was right, there wasn't enough time. Staying in his class after everyone had left wasn't exactly ideal, but it didn't stop you from locking the door before you practically climbed on top of him. You knew his next class was about to start in fifteen—no, thirteen minutes. You had already spent the two minutes waiting impatiently for him to touch you.

Now you couldn't leave this room without having a part of him. You needed him, every fiber in your body was screaming for him, and if you had to beg for him to comply with your needs, you would gladly do it in a heartbeat.

"Please." Your voice was barely a whisper, yet he still heard you loud and clear. "I-I need you."

Your breath hitched as his thumb stroked along the outline of your underwear and it took a lot of self-control for you not to whine pathetically. "Yeah? Tell me what you need then."

You paused, opting to choose the right words that wouldn't sound so vulgar because, with the way your body was reacting, you could only think of wild, explicit things. Your eyes settled on his face, sinking in the way he was watching you intensely, and your words abruptly stopped at the tip of your tongue.

"Go on, use your words," he urged. "Tell me what you want me to do."

You let out a trembling sigh. Everything about him was already consuming you, but the moment his hands danced along your sides, you knew you had to have more. Lust surged within you like a relentless tide, pulling you deeper into its intoxicating depths. It was a feverish, aching hunger that clawed at your insides, demanding satisfaction. The simple warmth radiating from his hands gripping your thighs just wasn't enough. So you braved yourself and leaned closer, resting your hands on his shoulders.

"I-I want you to touch me."

A ghost of a smile played on his lips. "But I am touching you."

You looked at him through your lashes, biting down your bottom lip. "More," you pleaded. "Please."

He hummed a reply, his hands slowly leaving your hips before they trailed under your blouse, traveling up the length of your body before stopping right on your breasts. Your senses danced with anticipation, every nerve alert and quivering, as his hands cupped each flesh, squeezing them ever so slightly as you felt a thumb brush across a nipple over the thin layer of your bra.

"Like this?" All you could manage was a tiny nod and his smile grew wider. You couldn't help but buckle your hips when he rolled your nipples between his fingers, playing with them in a seductive tease.

"What else do you want?" He gently asked. You noticed the way his voice began to descend, gradually sinking into a deeper tone, and your eyes instinctively fell on his mouth. His lips were a perfect balance between fullness and subtlety. It was gently curved and so inviting that you wanted to feel the shape of them right against yours.

"I..." you started, your voice in a breathless whisper. "I want you to kiss me."

He let out a pleased sound, slowly sliding his hands out of your shirt. "I can definitely do that."

And then he was moving forward, pressing his lips to yours, caging you in with strong hands on either side of your face. You instantly melted like a puddle. You were ice and he was the sun, and the mere taste of him had your body dissipate in his arms.

He teased your bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, lightly tracing the pink skin until your mouth parted in invitation. You moan quietly as the taste of him—faint traces of coffee and something incredibly sweet—greeted you. His tongue slid against yours, hot and eager to taste you as pleasure surged throughout your body.

Spencer slowly pulled away, trailing his lips down your neck before he sucked on the spot right under your ear. You could practically feel the smile against your skin as his hands traveled down your arms, holding you gently as he whispered, "Tell me what else you want."

The ache between your legs was too much to handle. A simple kiss was enough for your body to burn with lust. You needed the pleasure, you needed the release, and he was the only one who could give it to you. He was the only one who knew your body as if you were made exactly for him to ravish. Your eyes smoldered with an insatiable longing and your breath came in shallow, hurried gasps, each one a desperate plea for fulfillment.

It was now or never.

"I want you to fuck me."

He leaned back, if he was surprised by your choice of words, he didn't show it. Instead, he let out a sigh as his hands continued to move down your sides again. "Oh, sweetheart, it's not that I don't want to, but we both know I would need more than..." His eyes swept over the watch around his wrist. "...eight minutes to fuck you properly."

Your breath hitched in your throat, then you watched as the curve of his lip turned upwards into a teasing smile.

"But I can't leave my sweet girl all desperate like this, can I?" Then his hands were back on your hips. "Why don't you ride my thigh instead?"

Your face heated up at the suggestion while your mouth slipped out a desperate whimper. Your skin flushed with a warm, feverish glow, and the world around you faded into obscurity as desire became your sole focus.

You were hesitant, but you were also desperate to find your release, so your body started moving on its own, hips rutting against the roughness of his pants. Pressing the growing heat surging between your legs onto his thigh sent a shiver in your system.

Much to his pleasure, Spencer's mouth stretched out into a thin and permissive smile, unable to hide his satisfaction. "That's it," he praised, fingers digging into your hips. His raspy voice only made you burn with red-hot desire. "Keep going."

Following his words, you moved your pelvis. What started out lazy and slow soon turned into sporadic thrusts as you tried to cling to any friction, grinding yourself against his leg with such fervor. It was too much, but at the same time, it wasn't enough.

Attempting to catch your breath, you buried your face into the crook of his neck to suppress your mewls of arousal as best as you could. But as he continued to massage your hips and manually move you back and forth on his leg, the effort quickly became useless.

"This feels good, doesn't it?" He murmured. "It's so cute how easily you get off with just my thigh, don't you think?" He said, giving your ass cheeks a firm squeeze.

You breathed his name as your eyes fluttered to a close. You grind your hips harder down onto his thigh, gasping against his lips when your clit caught on the material of his pants. Your toes curl as the fierce heat of pleasure overtook your senses. You were greedy with it, chasing after that spark as you rocked your hips steadily, bottom lip trapped between your teeth, and eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"Doing so well for me," he whispered against your ear, hands gripping your hips as you rubbed yourself against his thigh quickly. He smiled when a soft, strangled moan escaped your parted lips, which encouraged him even more. "Look at you, drooling over my leg."

And just to prove his point, he pushed your skirt up along your legs until its material lay loosely around your waist. His eyes took in the sight of you. The way you were grinding against his leg frantically, the thin fabric of your underwear pressing between your throbbing cunt from the constant friction, slightly showing off soft, bare skin glistening under the light.

"So fucking wet," he mused, his tongue swiping along his lower lip as he watched you drenching him. "Just the way I like it."

It felt as if you were floating, so pleasurably dizzy it turned your head to mush. It was hard to keep yourself upright, eyes rolling back, body nearly giving out. And the wisest thing to do for you was to stop because you could imagine the mess you were making. You could also imagine the wet patch of your arousal staining his pants, visible for everyone to see.

"P-People will talk," you whispered between bated breaths.

"Let them." He rocked your hips forward, encouraging you to move faster. "Let them know your sweet pussy made this mess on me."

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips. You rolled your hips again, and the beginnings of something heady and sweet swelled within you. But in that heat of the moment, a sudden hush fell over the room, and your heightened senses caught the faint sound of footsteps approaching from outside. Your body stilled, every muscle tensed, and your breathing became shallow as you strained to listen to the distant murmur of voices.

Spencer suddenly leaned closer and ran the tips of his teeth along the outer shell of your ear once he felt your momentum slow. "I didn't tell you to stop, did I?"

You shuddered in response and found your pace again, faster and longer, continuing to knead yourself against his thigh. But then the sudden jolt of the doorknob sent a bolt of panic through you.

"It's locked," a muffled voice echoed from behind the door. "Isn't class supposed to start soon?"

Your ears perked up at the familiar voice before a second voice chimed in, yet still holding a familiarity you also recognized. "Is he not here yet?"

A small groan escaped your lips. There was no denying who those voices belonged to. They were your friends, albeit not that close, yet you were still acquainted with them and the thought of having people you knew standing a few feet away from you while you continued to rut your hips against him was making your head delirious.

"Do you know them?"

You nodded helplessly.

"Then maybe you should keep your voice down," he suggested, holding you closer to him. "Don't want them to know what you're doing in here, do you?"

He noticed the way your body stiffened.

"Or is that what gets you off?" He asked. "Your friends standing a few feet away while you're grinding desperately on your professor?" His hand sits on your lower back, drifting down to the tops of your ass, forcing you to rut forward.

It was so, so wrong, yet you couldn't stop the pleasure coursing through your veins at the possibility of being caught. The knowledge that your friends were just outside, on the brink of discovering your intimate moment, added an exhilarating layer to your pleasure.

"Spencer," you whined. "Please."

"Naught minx," he mumbled. "I think I like seeing you like this."

Suddenly, he jerked his leg up, catching you off guard and you whined instantly, unprepared to counter the pressure pushing up onto your sore cunt. Muffled cries of ecstasy escaped your lips, your teeth clenched in a futile attempt to hold back your moan.

It didn't take long until a pulsating warmth began to radiate from the pit of your stomach. Each passing second brought a rising crescendo, a mounting tension that threatened to shatter your composure. You whimpered, thighs shaking slightly as you continued the abuse toward your clit, somehow the material of his pants made the stimulation even better and it almost caused you to lurch forward in shock.

"That's it, use me," he encouraged. "So, so good for me. My sweet girl."

Your breath came in short, shallow gasps, and your body quivered with a delicious ache. The intensity of it all was almost unbearable, and yet, you craved more, grinding yourself harder. Your muscles tightened, your breath quickened, your skin prickled with anticipation, and nothing could have prepared you for his next words.

"Cum on my thigh and I'll let you cum around my cock tonight."

That was it. You were instantly gone. The thought of having him stretching you was quickly engraved in your brain. The mental image of you spasming around his cock was enough for you to surrender into a blissful mess. The conversation outside continued and you made a concerted effort to keep your voice down, as waves of pleasure surged through you, causing your limbs to tremble and your muscles to spasm.

It wasn't until the sound of footsteps finally retreating from outside that a wave of relief ran through you, yet your breath still came in ragged gasps as he helped you ride out your orgasm and held you in place, making small ruts against himself with your spastic thighs gripping around him tighter.

"Oh my god—" he pulled you in for a kiss. Spencer's mouth devoured you, hot with a passion that made you dizzy. You whined into his mouth and bucked against him, little whimpers filling his throat. Then you felt his tongue on your bottom lip; you puckered your mouth, letting his tongue invade every corner of your entrance as a thrilling sensation shot right through your veins, finally riding out your orgasmic bliss.

When he finally pulled away, he watched as a string of saliva fell against your lips. He reached out and wiped the bottom of your lip with his thumb as his eyes glazed over your red and sweaty face. They flickered from your face down to your lower half as well as your equally drenched thighs. Yet despite the disheveled state of your hair and the sheen of sweat glistening on your skin, you radiated a raw and untamed beauty.

Spencer always thought you were beautiful, but nothing could compare to the sight before him. Your once-pristine hair was tumbled in disarray around your shoulders, framing your flushed face. Your eyes, half-closed and smoky with desire, held an irresistible allure that seemed to draw him closer with every glance. Then there were your lips, kissed to a plush, inviting fullness, beckoned with a promise of lingering sweetness. You looked wrecked, like a hot, beautiful mess.

And he couldn't wait to ravish you tonight.

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader

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reverieblondie · 3 months

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Seeking Advice

Pairing: Rolan x Fem!Tav Reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Fluff and Smut with Plot, Oral (fem receiving), Cum eating, Horn pulling?.

Summary: Asking out your crush can be difficult, Maybe you should seek advice from your friends on how to ask out your favorite wizard?

A/N: Look...I've been playing a lot of Baldur's Gate 3. Then this guy yelled at me and I fell. I have a thing for grumpy guys what can I say. Now do not worry! I still am writing for ATSV, TASM!Peter and my love Miguel, just I think I can squeeze the bg3 fandom on my blog. Trust I have plans for for all my fictional men. Plus I am working on request! Just had to get this story out, it was rotting my brain. Hope you enjoy it! Its kinda cheesy but its what I like, sorry.

Word Count: 6,957

The energy to the tavern is a welcomed one, All the noise you might have found irritating at a time is now a pleasant chime to your ears. How things can so easily change with time. Since becoming the city's hero many things have changed for you and your friends. The city is back to its wondrous glory. Finally, your life is starting to calm down, well for the most part…

There is no longer a squirming in your head and the threats to the world's damnation are at the time eased, things should be perfect, and you should be happy riding an inexplicable high. You are happy for the most part, however there is just one thing that is causing you trouble now. It's the ache that swirls within you that only grows when you see him, the now master of Ramazith’s Tower, Rolan.

The first time you felt it, it was simply a spark, harmless. It didn’t turn into this thrumming storm until the grove celebration after you defeated the goblin camp, and where he taught you his light spell. That night your fate was sealed, now as your friendship has grown you feel those glittering sparks storming through you more often.

With a sigh, you rest your hazy head in your palm as you watch him with his siblings. The amber lights of Elfsong make his crimson skin appear as if it's glowing, he looks good in any lighting with his striking features but at this moment he looks damn near ethereal. You're acutely aware that you are staring at the trio, but in your buzzed haze from four wine goblets, you can not bring yourself to care. People are properly catching you staring like a lovesick fool; you will move your eyes eventually, you just want to watch for a bit longer.

Rolan's journey to the city was different than yours but it was not without its hurdles, then when he got here he had to be met with the cruelty of Lorroakan. You won’t lie, you felt immense pleasure watching his spine get cracked in two for what he had done. Now with that horror over, the scars have faded and you see that Rolan is better, happier. He smiles just a bit wider and his eyes shine just a tad bit brighter. It only makes sense that the Tower and Sundries have become more successful with his influence, though you know he’s just happy that his family is now together and safe.

Blindly you bring the metal goblet to your lips and taste the tang of the red wine nursing you through your pinning. The drink was meant to boost your confidence to go over there and shoot your shot for a date, but it only makes your head cloud into hopeless romantics. Why can’t you just ask him out? You can take on a horde of knols but you can’t bring yourself to confess to the guy you like? Doesn't get more pathetic than that…

Your eyes stay fixed on Rolan as he smirks and rolls his eyes at what Cal is saying, his clawed hand grabs his goblet and you watch as he brings the drink to his lips. Feeling looser from drinking you see as the red wine slightly escapes the side of his lips as he chugs the drink down. The deep red rolls down his jaw and you have to bite your lip from the thoughts that erupt in your mind.

“Darling, you have got to stop staring.”

With a sigh, you turn your head to your pale companion with a devilish smile on his face. With a roll to your eyes, you take another drink of your wine trying your best to play unbothered by Astarion as you can.

“I wasn’t staring”

“Tav, let's not be coy, you haven’t moved your eyes from a particular wizard since he strolled in. Sighing and squeezing your thighs together like that's going to help your ache.”

The mentioning of the actions you thought were unnoticed makes your face blush from embarrassment. Asterion can only laugh at your fluster features as you look around the crowded tavern to see hints if others have noticed.

“I- wasn’t, you don’t-”

“Don’t be embarrassed, you could pick far worse. He’s a bit pompous for my taste, but the innocent little freckles on his face are pretty intriguing.”

Astarion gives you a smirk as you whip your head to face him giving him a look of ‘back off’, though he is hardly intimated by you.

“Relax, I am not going to take a bite out of your favorite wizard. I will leave that pleasure for you, however some advice, you won’t get him from just staring.”

You hate to admit it but Astarion might have a point, you have been wanting to confess your feelings you just don’t know how. Looking at Rolan you rake your mind with your past chances to open yourself up but always seem to back out at the last moment, his rejecting you would be painful but being in this limbo is excruciating. You have to get your feelings off your chest for some inner peace.

“Okay, Astarion…what's your advice?”

Astarion's smile spreads to his lips and he sits next to you quickly, “My suggestion is you make it your mission to get that Rolan in your sheets, my dear. You obviously have had trouble getting your…” Astarion grimaces “Feelings for him out, so why not go the seductive approach?”

You let out a laugh but Astarion just keeps his face neutral, “You think, I should seduce him? How am I supposed to do that?”

“Simple, give him an offer he can’t refuse.”

“Yeah like what?”

Astarion looks over at Rolan, seeming to think before his face lights up, he quickly wraps his arm around your shoulder moving your chin to face Rolan. Then he whispers in your ear, “You're going to go over to him, very calmly…place your hand on his shoulder and whisper in his ear very sweetly that you want to lick every ridge on his body.”

Your mouth goes dry and eyes go wide at the thought…running your tongue…down…his… You blush feeling your face grow hot, so hot you think it could be radiating off you.

“A-Astarion…I-I can’t do that…”

“Oh, but picture it, once you're done he will be so spent he will be the one confessing to you.”

An image of a panting Rolan looking down at you with a fist full of your hair sparks in your mind. Hells, maybe Astarion has a point…he has had plenty of experience seducing people, but you? The thought only makes it so you can’t even move. Astartion picks up on your dazed state and with a nudge he pops you from it.

“Lucky for you there's a creature in here I have had my eyes on, so just watch and learn,”

“Wait, you like someone?” You say it a bit shocked,

Astarion gives you a look, “Focus on your own love life, huh?”

With that, you say quite as you watch Astarion's ruby eyes land on a particularly pretty patron. With a smirk, he grabs your goblet keeping his eyes fixed on them like a predator studying its prey. Quickly downing your drink he releases a cool and steady breath then makes his approach. He practically glides across the room to them, very carefully he starts the conversation with a smile and you can already tell the person is interested. Do they know each other?

In What seems like a quick second he is placing his hand on their shoulder and leaning down to their ear. You can only imagine what he must be saying to have their faces fluster so quickly. Nobody quite had a way with words like him. Astarion leans back up to meet their eyes where they are feverishly nodding.

With that, he starts guiding them to the exit while turning back towards you to smirk. Well, looks like it's your turn…

Picking up your goblet you see he did finish it, okay next step. Standing you feel all the alcohol you consumed immediately go to your head, deep breath, then go. Making your way over you try to not stumble into people as you push to your destination. Keeping your eyes on Rolan you rehearse the lines in your head over and over, as you get closer.

Rolan almost like he can sense it then flicks his eyes to you, watching as you approach. Swallowing to ease your dry throat as you continue to make your way over still keeping your nerves despite your stomach being in knots. Then his lips curl into a slight smile and you freeze…shit…looking down at your hands reality hits you suddenly, you're drunk and about to proposition him, you can’t do this…he is just going to dismiss you… the thought makes your chest ache and the feeling of your drink coming back up.

Looking back at him he tilts his head looking at you concerned smile fading and that's when the fear of rejection rushes you. Opening your mouth you go to say anything, maybe smile at him something to mask your panic but it fails. Your lips tremble and before you know it you're rushing to the exit.

Finding the exit you look back to Rolan, he’s up from his table and seems to be trying to make his way toward you, he looks completely confused and maybe…hurt. You can’t do this…not when you're drunk and on the verge of puking.

With that, you're pushing out of the tavern and running off into the cool night of the city. As you're running past one of the city's allies you catch in your peripherals Astarion with that person pinned against the wall as he kisses against their neck leaving them moaning into his hand. You must have caught his attention from your running, he looks at your fleeing figure and calls out to you.

“I guess it didn’t go well?”

You don’t bother to give him a response, his advice might have worked for him but you're going to have to try a different tactic.

Note to self, do not try to drunkenly ask out your crushes, it only ends in you making an ass out of yourself and puking up all your stomach contents. Thinking back on it you can only think back on the look on Rolan's face…the confusion…the disappointment…Maybe you should go talk to him? You don’t want him to think that you're trying to ignore him. You were drunk and didn’t want to spill your guts all over him. Feeling freshly invigorated you decide that you should apologize for running off. Who knows maybe the conversion could lead to something.

Arriving at Sorcerous Sundries you're not even fully sure if he would even be there, the tower might have been the better bet. However, your guess is shown to be a good one when you see Rolan placing some tomes on the shelves. Gods, you could watch him work for hours…his dexterous hands placing everything so carefully. As you watch you think you almost see his tail wag before he’s fixing it down. The smile it causes to your face can’t be helped, though he is always so composed he still slips at times.

As you watch Rolan work you have the oddest sensation come over you that you too are being watched. Turning your head you jerk back slightly in surprise seeing that Lae’zel’s yellow eyes are piercing into you with her trademark intensity. It’s quite odd that she is in here, she's not one for spells but as you're looking past her you see that Shadowheart is with her thumbing through a tome. That makes more sense, you're happy those two have become better friends. Especially since they did try and kill each other.

Smiling you give Lae’zel a smile with a wave, she only narrows her eyes more at you as you move to go talk to Rolan. Approaching his tall figure you're taking in every inch of him.

He's beautiful, from face to physique, you watch as the muscles from underneath his robes flex from his movements. It’s funny wizards are not known for their strong builds but Rolan's arms and back are a dead giveaway to his hidden strength. Looking up you trace down the length of his horns to where they disappear into his soft chestnut hair, twisted in that half-up style. You wonder if you two get closer in the way you hope he will let you play with his hair, it appears so tantalizing and soft…everything about him is tantalizing…

In your approach your mind is running through a quick daydream of running your fingers along his horns and through his hair; it causes you not to pay attention to where you are stepping. With the perfect explanation for the night at Elfsong in your mind, you're ready to smooth things over with him. Just as you're reaching out you suddenly see Rolan's shoulders shoot up teasing like something just hit him. Confused you lean forward more but that's when you feel it, something is wiggling under your foot.

Looking down you see that your boot is crushing his poor tail underneath your weight. Mortified, you quickly step off of it. Karlach had told you how sensitive her tail was when she yelped when someone sat on it, so having it crushed underneath a boot sure is not a great feeling. Rolan's back stays teased as he turns slowly, his tail swiftly moving away from you to go to his hands. His eyes look as if he could thunder wave you out of the building.

“I-I am so sorry Rolan, I- I didn’t see your tail.” you ramble out as quickly as possible

“How do you not see the appendage handed down from my-!” Rolan stops his yelling and takes a breath, his hands tightening on his tail. There is now a mark from where you stepped and you feel even worse.

“Here let me-” Reaching out for his tail you are quickly stopped by Rolan holding up his hand and shaking his head. Rolan tail in hands starts walking away mumbling a language you don’t know.

“I’m sorry!” You call out to his fleeing figure as he ascends the stairs.

Running your hands down your face, your intentions of apologizing to him for Elfsong completely disappear as you make yourself look like a complete ass again to him. Looking through your fingers you see that not only is Lae’zel still staring at you but now Shadowheart has joined her in watching your screw-up. You make your way over to them with your head down silently standing with them as Shadowheart keeps at her browsing.

After a couple of moments, you see Rolan coming back down to the shop, his eyes meet yours. A part of you thinks you should go back over to him and apologize but you don’t want to annoy him further so you give him an apologetic wave. Rolan just huffs slightly with a nod before turning his back to you to get back to work. Leaning against the shelved wall you let out a long sigh.

“What am I going to do…”

“You mean about your crush on the new master of the tower?”

You turn your head to stare at Shadowheart for her comment but she doesn’t even bother lifting her eyes away from the spines of the tomes.

“How…what…”

Lae’zel cuts in “Your lusting is obvious, sighing with your head in the sky with your pathetic pinning,” -wow ouch…

A stray giggle leaves Shadowheart and you're quick to narrow your eyes at her as she bites her lip to silence herself. Crossing your arms you look back at Lae’zel

“I am probably going to regret this, but Lae’zel what is your advice? How should I go about asking Rolan out then?”

The question is intriguing enough to make Shadowheart put her tome down and look at Lae’zel as well. Lae’zel rolls her eyes for a second before folding her arms and moving her fierce gaze to where Rolan is now helping out a customer. Lae’zel eyes narrow at him, sizing him up as she studies him before she turns back to you with a huff.

“I would not ask, I would grab that teeth-ling by the horns and command him to do as I say.” The direct advice makes Shadowheart burst into laughter drawing attention from people near you, though you can’t seem to meet their eyes because you're too busy giving Lae’zel a confused look.

“I don’t think that would work with him…”

“Tis’k, you do not know this unless you try. Now go grab him by the tail and mount him forming a flesh bond with your desired.”

You're staring at Lae’zel gobsmacked while Shadowheart practically rolls on the floor with laughter.

“Lae’zel! I can’t just mount him!” you whisper yell at her.

“I don’t know, she might have something to the direct approach” Shadowheart soothes

You glare at her “Oh you're done laughing on the floor?” She smirks with a shrug, absolutely no help.

“Fine, I will gather him for you.” -what?

Lae’zel starts going towards Rolan but you are quick to grab her and drag her out. As the puzzled patrons watch you carry out the githyanki fighter cussing you in her native tongue with Shadowheart trailing behind you, smirk on her face. You try to rush out as quickly as you can mortified that Rolan might be seeing the display.

Once outside you put her down with an apology, Shadowheart quickly places a hand on Lae’zel’s shoulder to prevent her from cutting off your head. “Why not try talking to the guys for advice? Maybe they can give you the male perspective on things.” Shadowheart offers.

Thinking for a moment you find that she might have a point, it might help to ask the guys for some advice.

Piercing your lips you study the smiling wizard in front of you waiting for your question.

“Actually Gale I don’t know if I should ask you for advice on this.”

Gale's face changes from a smile into hurt then moves to irritation, “Wh- and why not?” he practically huffs.

“Because the last time you tried to get a person to like you you ended up with a bomb in your chest.”

“Magic orb…” he mutters while Wyll laughs, nearly choking on his wine.

“Okay, Tav what advice are you needing? We can try our best to help aid you.” Wyll smooths out the tension of the room.

“Well…the thing is I need some advice on asking someone out. I figured our most intelligent and most charismatic party members would have some great advice.”

Wyll and Gale look at each other like they can detect each other's thoughts before they turn back to you “You're talking about asking out Rolan aren't you?”

You purse your lips and narrow your eyes at the duo, “Who told you I was coming?”

“Astarion and Shadowheart, they sang like canaries. Told us about your ...Mishaps” Gale says somewhat sing-songy.

Sure he might have gotten a bomb in his chest but at least he got some for the goddess… And Wyll Mr. Prince Charming, half the girls in the city who were in love with him and his fancy footwork. Hopefully, they will have some good advice. You watch as the two men start pacing along rubbing their chins deep in thought. You appreciate they are taking this so seriously for your sake.

“So have you at least tried? Asking him out? I know you two are pals but have you ever eluded to it.”

You give Wyll an unamused look “Yeah I tried, but then something horrid goes wrong, I’m either stepping on his tail or about to puke.”

Wyll nods trying to understand, “Maybe you could try to do an action, like an impromptu dance at the tavern between friends? The music is plentiful, and as you two sway along the music you can tell him with your eyes.”

You watch as Wyll mimics the swaying of a dance keeping intense eye contact with you, but Gale comes behind him and places a hand on his shoulder stopping him. “Don’t think that will work with Rolan, he's….kinda dense…”

Gale then lights up with the idea, “Why not ask him for some magic lessons? He can show you the ways of the weave and as you two flow through it, you can send him your thoughts.”

You think for a moment, you have had him teach you magic before but…that was at the grove…and things were different. You hold that memory when he taught you his trick dear and you're about to agree to it. But you stop…if Rolan rejects you during that…it would ruin that spell for you forever…

“Yeah…he's a strict teacher…can we think of something else…Something that can explain how I feel but I don’t have to choke over the words too.”

Gale and Wyll sit and think for a minute, then Wyll is snapping his fingers with an idea, “Why don’t you write him a letter!”

You look at Wyll a bit skeptical, “A letter?”

“Now that's the way to a wizard's heart, through the written word. Grand idea Wyll! Plus that helps with your shyness you can just hand him the letter! No conversion required!” Gale praises.

You think for a moment, writing isn’t exactly your thing but it might be your only option left. Plus you're sure Gale and Wyll will help you through it! With a nod, you give them the okay and Gale is already conjuring up some paper and quill. They sit themselves on both sides of you and help you get through your thoughts. You thought it would be best to keep some more private feelings to yourself. They both seemed to be rather…really into letter writing, Gale helped fill the letter with praise of Rolan's grandeur with magic. While Wyll helps you spruce it up with flourishes about how your heart dances for him. It turned out a bit cheesy but Wyll and Gale seemed to have a good time. Maybe they should start a poetry club?

Letter in hand you pace outside the shop, the letter was a great idea when Gale and Wyll were helping you write it but now… Now that you're here to give it to Rolan you're finding that familiar nervousness is eating away at you again. Peeking through the door you see that Rolan isn’t in the shop. It just seems to be his hologram today…Perfect! Now all you have to do is place it on the front desk for him to find later. That way if he isn’t into it you won’t have to meet his rejection immediately. The thought of Rolan looking at the letter and frowning pops into your mind, but you shake it off. Just place it down…easy…

“Tav! Hey!”

Pausing you Turn around and see Karlach running towards you waving with a huge smile on her face. This is not good… It's not that you don’t want to see Karlach, she is amazing and you two have become incredibly close. The reason that this isn’t good is that Karlach isn’t exactly…subtle… Karlach is a complete badass but when it comes to love and romance she is a complete softie gushing about it to everyone. Wyll had told her about a crush of his one time and she had gushed about the story to anyone who would listen. It’s truly sweet that she loves love so much and gushes about her friends' conquest, but you're trying to be subtle here, placing the letter then leaving quickly, if Karlach finds out about it she's going to give you being here away.

“Hello soldier, what are you doing loitering around Sundries? Waiting for someone?”

“Oh, no no…I just have this letter to give Rolan.”

“Oh! What's it about?”

“Just some questions about…spells…and curses…if he can detect the traces of the magical…What are you doing?” you quickly change the subject not being able to think of a good lie.

“I was just at the Forge of the Nine catching up with Dammon, I had found some good iron ingots and wanted to give them to him, he could use them more than me anyways…” -oh Karlach you cutie

Karlach looks into sundries and appears to be looking around a bit, her smile slowly dies away before she turns back to you, “Well, I think you're out of luck soldier, Rolan doesn't seem to be around.”

You shrug trying to seem as unfazed as possible, “That's fine, I will just leave it on the front desk.”

“Or you could give it to-”

“No! No the desk will work, I mean…it’s important but he will find it.” you quickly interject.

Karlach looks at you somewhat confused before she shrugs with a smile and follows you in. Finally, through the doorway, you quickly make your way to the desk and you feel…good! Finally one of your plans is going to work and you have Gales and Wyll's advice to thank! Maybe if this all goes well you will treat them to a drink at Elfsong. You will finally get your feelings off your chest, sure…it’s not exactly how you envisioned, but all the other attempts failed, this is easy and mess-free.

Right as you reach the desk, something tells you to look up. Looking up you see Rolan descending the stairs wrapped up in whatever tome he is reading. He hasn’t seemed to notice you however so maybe you can just drop the letter and run-

“Hey Rolan! What udder luck, Tav has a letter for you!” -shit

Rolan looks away from his tome, eyes seeming to widen when he sees you and Karlach. You feel all the blood rush to your face as his eyes meet yours, you can’t quite tell if he is pleased to see you or not, kinda of appears to be…annoyed…or surprised? Damn that handsome studious face!

Your hands tighten on the letter, you go to quickly place it on the desk and rush out but in the blink of an eye, the letter is out of your hand. Instead of it being in your hand or on the desk it's in Karlach’s hand as she is going towards the stairs…to Rolan…going to hand it to him! Oh, hells!

Rushing over to her you quickly snatch the letter from her hand. Karlach seems taken aback by your action, “Hey? What the fuck?”

Karlach tries to take the letter back after you rudely snatched it. “Tav isn’t this for him?”

“Uh…Yeah, but I changed my mind…”

“Changed your mind? But you said it was important?”

Karlach goes to take the letter from you again but this time it is not so easy to take from your hand. Now in the middle of Sundries, you and Karlach are having a tug of war over a letter while Rolan looks at you two trying to piece together what is going on. With some quick moves on your part, you're able to shoulder check Karlach, not knocking her over by any means but just enough to cause her to loosen her hold slightly.

Feeling successful you smile to yourself that you were able to get it back, but when you look back at Karlach your smile fades. Her eyes are narrowed and you see the hints of flames starting to spark around her, she looks pissed and you are about to get it. Looking up you see Rolan at the bottom of the stairs approaching you with a very irritated look, it makes sense you did have a fight in the middle of his shop.

Shoving the letter down your pocket you do the thing that you only seem to know how to do nowadays, run.

“Ohhhh…..so you wrote him a love letter….”

“Yeah…I wanted to just leave it on his desk but…that didn’t work out….”

You and Karlach sit on the stone wall looking out into the city watching the sunset. Of course, when you ran off she chased you down and demanded an explanation. You gave your explanation and that's how you are here now pouring your heart out to her.

“Tav, I think you're going about this all wrong.”

“Oh? How do you figure?”

“Well sure everyone giving their advice is nice but…I think you should just do what feels right to you. Instead of worrying about what he will say just…just stop being so scared and talk to him. Be honest. All these games, and trying to be sneaky isn’t how to do it. ”

You take in her words for a moment before you speak, “So…you're telling me Lae’zel had the best advice? Being direct?”

Karlach laughs “What I am saying is stop being so in your head Tav. Instead of talking to everyone else about this, just go talk to him. I promise it will be best that way.”

“When should I do it?”

Karlach hums then shrugs “Fuck if I know. Maybe it will just hit you.”

A smile spreads to your lips and you nod your head “Thanks Karlach, that...that's some really good advice…”

Karlach smacks your back, basically knocking the air out of you. “Don’t worry I am here for all your relationship advice needs!”

“So, how's Dammon?” you say coyly

“Oh don’t even start.”

Laying in bed you think about all the advice your friends gave you and how all the advice had turned out. Why does this have to be so hard….

Looking outside you see how late it is, people all around are either asleep or going home to rest but as you lay you listen to the stillness of the city. Then your thoughts go back to Rolan. How you ache to be held in his arms…to get to look into those golden eyes on a dark still night like this. To talk to him about everything and nothing as his fingers gently caress your skin. You know you would so easily melt under his touch. How it would comfort you, how you want to comfort him.

Rising from your warm bed you go to look out into the night of the city. With a click, you open the window and are met with the shivering cold of the night. A chill runs through you as you lean out and admire the star-dusted sky. For some reason, your thoughts go back to the night of the grove celebration. Rolan was being teased by his siblings as he focused on his fireworks show. They didn’t seem to be impressed but you clapped for him, before he gave some response about adoring fans there was a moment in his dark eyes where those golden fires shined just for you. That's when the glittering flickers within you started to storm. At the time you thought it was maybe residue from the magic, but now you know better.

Holding your hands out into the still night you mimic the moves that Rolan taught you after a few goblets of wine after he got more comfortable around you or maybe just got tired of your begging. As you gesture you feel the fluttering of magic down your arms to your hands, motioning your arms up you release the spell. You used to call it just simple fireworks. Though after that night it now has a new name for both of you; Rolan’s Fire

“What are you calling it?”

“Rolan’s Fire. You have to admit it has a nice ring to it.”

The bursting lights grow in a flash then dim in a beautiful marriott of colors and white light. The elegance of the spell always fit him and it never failed to fill you with warmth, but now you still feel the bite of the cold despite how many memories of him you conger or how many times you spill the lights from your hands.

“Just talk to him…” Karlach's words echo in your mind. Of course, it’s that simple, but would it be enough? Could you even be able to articulate how he sends sparks through you? Would he want you to? Or would he want something different…Clenching your fist hard, your mind running rampant with thoughts, with advice, with what you should do. Then finally you come to your decision.

The cold air stings your face as you run down the dark streets. With every step, your mind screams how this is crazy but your heart urges your tired feet forward. Running as fast as your legs can take you, the city and the few late-night pedestrians blur beside you as your eyes keep forward to one goal. Ramazith’s Tower.

Running up to the tower you don’t even give yourself a minute to catch your breath before banging on the doors with all your might. You know you won’t be able to rest until you finally settle this with him. Rolan needs to know, you need to know so you can function again. The pinning of your heart has thoroughly consumed you, it’s time. If only this damn door would open!

The frustration you feel gets released as you beat against the door,

“Stop beating against that damn door!”

The voice sounds rough with sleep but still has that formal tone you have grown to listen for, to adore…

The door swinging open you immediately feel those sparks. His hair, usually tied back so precisely is knotted back in a messy rush, he looks surprised to see you. His handsome face contorted to scrunch in confusion at your slummed body still trying to catch your breath. Staring at him in this state is not helping you catch your breath in the slightest.

Rolan's chest, usually concealed underneath his robes, is now exposed showing off his toned chest covered in those defining ridges that decorate his red skin. Unable to help yourself, your eyes follow the trail of his ridges to his abs then the simple trousers that are keeping the rest of him from you.

“Tav?” his voice is laced with concern before it's going back to his usual irritated one. “What are you doing here? Going to act like a lunatic then run off again?” Rolan steps closer “What's been going on with you? I thought we were friends and you keep avoiding me! So what is it now that is so damned impor-”

“Rolan, how do I ask you out?” you interrupt while still trying to catch your breath.

“Wh-What?” Rolan's dark eyes are wide, any trace of sleep has been knocked out of him by your question.

Pushing past him you walk into the tower. The tower has usually been lit up when you have seen it before, but now it's dark and intimidating. Turning to look at Rolan he still has that shocked look on his face. You know your question is sudden, but you couldn’t think of anything else. Nervously you begin rambling.

“Look, I know it’s a sudden question but I don’t know what else to do. I have asked everyone for advice, and I just can’t seem to do any of it right. So might as well just ask the source right? Because all the stuff I have tried I choke, or Im making a complete ass out of myself. So please, just tell me…so I can do it and get this…nonning ache out! I know the reject-”

During your pacing rant, you feel hands cupping your face gently, slowly they raise your head to have you meet his golden eyes. All the words die off in your throat, Rolan’s is staring at you so intensely. With him so close you take in the details of his horns, the freckles peppering his red skin. The feeling of his hands warming your skin, you want to stay like this forever but you just wish you knew what he was thinking.

“Rolan I-”

“Quiet.”

Rolan’s command instantly silences you. The sparks you have been feeling are erupting into a storm of excitement that rushes through you. His thumbs carefully brush against your skin only making you lean in closer. Rolons eyes glow in the darkness, you want to tell him how they set you on fire but right as you're parting your lips Rolan dips down and presses his mouth to yours. His soft lips make all your thoughts melt away. The thundering sparks are bursting into a warmth throughout your body. Rolan’s Fire…

Slowly as he keeps guiding your lips with a growing intensity, then carefully you feel your body being guided back. Once you feel your back meet the wall you break the kiss with a gasp, but it's only a quick second before his lips are pressing to yours once more. Rolan's hands slide down from your jaw to your hips bringing them closer to press against himself. A soft moan leaves your chest when you feel the hardness of his arousal straining against you.

Rolan slips his tongue between your lips to taste you, the deepening of the kiss causes you to tighten your thighs feeling yourself getting wetter with each pass of his tongue. Your hands find a place on the hard ridges on his warm chest, as you trace over them slowly you feel him groan into the kiss. Then Rolan breaks the and his warm breath fans over your ear as he speaks.

“Ask me now.”

The words barely register in your foggy mind as you feel Rolan slipping his hands underneath your shirt.

“What?” You can hardly manage the word, your shaky breath makes Rolan lean into your neck with a smile and a kiss, slowly he drags his soft lips against your skin sending shivers of excitement through you. Then his voice is back in your ear purring his words to you.

“Ask me out again…tell me what you want…please…I need to hear it.”

The hands underneath your shirt find your breasts and crease them as you stumble a moan trying to find your words.

“Rolan…”

“Yes?”, he whispers as he strips your shirt from you. His eyes roam over all your curves before he leans into your exposed chest, palming and lightly teasing at your sensitive skin.

“I want you in every way possible…I..want you,” you practically cry as you feel him move from your chest to sink lower, sliding his lips against your stomach. Once reaching the hem of your pants he tugs down your pants, rolling your pants and underwear down carefully exposing your wet sex.

Kneeling now you feel his lips press against your hips causing you to arch them forward. Shaky hands slide up the back of your thighs, suddenly you feel one of your legs being lifted to hook over his shoulder. Heart beating out of your chest you look down to see his eyes are already on you as he waits patiently on one knee. His eyes are completely blown with desire and you can feel the anticipation in his shaking touch as he rubs his hand on the outside of your thigh.

“Go out with me?” you ask desperately.

“Gods yes,” he groans before pressing his face into your folds, his hot tongue quickly finds your clit nudging and licking against the bundle making you throw your head back in a sharp gasp.

Rolan being a quick learner latches onto your swollen bundle, sucking and twirling his tongue against it. The sudden stimulation has a moan escaping you then quickly your hand comes down to grasp one of his horns, holding on desperately as you watch him ravishingly pleasure you.

Rolan's eyes widen then roll back as your grip gets tighter on his horn. The groan he releases from the sensation vibrates through you, tightening the coil in your stomach. The slick from your quivering slit is rolling down his chin. Moving slightly he laps his tongue to taste more, Adjusting so his perfect nose is rubbing against your clit. His tongue breaching your insides makes you grab both horns as you pull him in closer. You moan his name like a prayer as you ride against his face.

The more you tug on his horns the more he groans, he can't help but grasp hard on your behind making you whine more as his nails dig into you. Your stomach starts to suddenly tighten more as his velvet tongue finds the sweet stop within you.

“There! Fuck there! D-Don't, Ah!” you push your hips off the wall but he's quickly pushing them back against it to keep you still.

Keeping his eyes on you, he watches as the hot wave of pleasure rushes through you. Clasping your hand over your mouth you moan and shake as your orgasm hits. Rolan eagerly licks and sucks up your release as you ride out your high.

Finally coming down from it Rolan starts to move away from your spent cunt, though before he's moved away completely he gives a quick nip to your clit making you let out a sharp whine.

Body feeling feverish you lean and brace yourself against the wall, trembling and breathing heavily. Rolan rises from his kneel and you watch in awe as a mix of your arousal and his spit glistens against his perfect face. He brings his hand to wipe his face, his eyes flicking down at you as he smiles then licks up the residue from his fingers.

“Meet me at Elfsong tomorrow night?”

Stars in your eyes you nod absentmindedly at him, “Yes…”

Gods you can’t wait for tomorrow…

779 notes · View notes

jazzsonly · 5 months

Text

ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢɪʀʟꜱ.

pairing(s): tara carpenter x fem!reader

warning(s): tara has a hugeeeee crush, reader is a soccer player, set in scream 5 but in college and includes anika (deal with it,) not too good of writing(lowkey still have writers block,) reminds me of an alt version of goodnight n go.

summary: ❝ Give me a call if you ever get lonely, I'll be like one of your girls or your homies ❞

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it was hard to not notice you, to not know who you were on campus would be a crime considering; you were the girl’s soccer team star, always people cheering your name on game day, always interviewed for the school’s news channel. and not to mention you were really fucking smart, according to even wes himself you’d beat him on trivia night many of times.

you tutored chad for multiple of his courses, and you were also top of your english courses. to add to the fact you were stunningly gorgeous, there was just something of the glisten of your y/c/e eyes that caught so many people’s attention, not to mention your perfect shaped lips, and god, the body on you—how you managed to keep such good shape was a question that plagued many minds.

one of those minds being tara’s who had been undying, undeniably crushing you for months now. she never really payed much attention to you, nor did she pay attention to your sport until she spotted you while accompanying mindy at practice.

that’s when she really got a good look at you, immediately plaguing mindy with questions of what you liked, were you single, what other hobbies you had, and so on and so on.

though, according to mindy, even if you had the smarts to back you up and were totally kind, you were some cliché player girl who brought all you pawns to watch you practice in attempts to impress and to her dismay it actually worked. besides your looks, something about doing a few tricks with your foot and a ball claimed to be very impressive to girls.

it’s not like this fazed the younger carpenter, she merely just wanted to get to know or so she claimed.

so after countless times of begging, pleading, and telling mindy how great she was—tara finally got the girl to agree to get you over for a movie night.

you were a little taken back as mindy wasn’t one of the teammate you were super close with but nonetheless you agreed, seeing it rude to decline such invitation.

“how do i look?” tara asked for the millionth time while flattening her long sleeve blue cropped top.

“you look fine!” mindy, chad, and amber all said in unison, clearly annoyed with the girl.

“why are you so stressed out anyways? you’ve had plenty of flings over before.”

“because, amber,” tara takes a seat next to her best friend.

“this girl is hot—like, ugh, and not to mention she’s really fucking smart.”

“not THAT smart” wes grumbled in jealously, trying to downplay you.

“smarter than you.” amber uttered, the boy shooting her a glare.

“she’s also super athletic, one more thing you’re not, wes.” chad teases the boy, earning a (weak) punch in the arm.

tara clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, you were super athletic. she thought, reminiscing on your speed on the field. you could out run anyone on you team, you could do a lot of tricks—some karate shit where you jump and spin to kick the ball, such a show off…a hot show off.

“your girlfriend’s here.” tara perks up at amber’s teasing words.

she makes sure to sit up right with straight posture, wanting you to think of her as respectable. she also made sure to wear blue because she had read humans can easily trust a person in blue.

the girl watched as you flashed that bright white smile to her best friend, greeting her with a humble hug. a six pack in one of your hands, while a bottle of wine occupied the other.

god, look at you. how could someone look so good in slight baggy pants, how jeans look at good on waist. and how could a band tee fit someone so perfect, i mean just look at the way the rolled up sleeves showcased your arms—not to mention the way it came up on your belly showing just how toned you were.

as hard as tara tried to find a contrast to your perfectness, there was no use—even your fucking eyebrows looked great.

chad greeted you with an obnoxious ‘bro hug’ as he was already familiar with you, obviously from tutoring but also playing beer pong together a few times. while wes gave you a shy handshake, still bitter for his loss in trivia night. and obviously you easily greeted mindy seeing as she was your teammate and the one who invited you.

“you’re tara, right? you come to practice with mindy sometimes. i’m y/n.” finally you greeted her, holding your hand out to which she immediately took to shake.

“ye—yeah. nice to meet you.”

“nice to meet you too! i like your top.”

tara couldn’t help but smile to ear to ear, placing her hand against the blue fabric.

“i’m not sure what everyone liked so i got some buzz and wine.” you hold the items in your hand up.

“i’ll take that,” chad swipes the six pack from your hand.

“next time vodka will do.” amber took the bottle of grape wine.

“noted.” you chuckle, ironically taking the open seat next to tara.

you smelled so good. though, she could smell a light hint of weed off of you she could also smell sweetness.

“so, what are we watching tonight? i hear you’re really into horror movies, i’m a fan myself. i like the classics though, you know like uh, texas chainsaw and hellraiser.”

“i like elevated horror, like the babadook. that’s one of my favorites.”

“the babadook? never heard of it, you’ll have to show me it sometime.”

“never heard of it? we might just have to watch it tonight.”

“maybe so.” you flash your smile to the girl.

tara had no idea how she was being so calm right now, not with you so close—your arm right behind her, stretched out on the shoulder rest of the couch. or even just the simple fact you were talking horror to her, it was pillow-talk to the girl.

“hey minds, where’s anika tonight? i thought i’d finally get to meet the special lady.” you turn your attention to the girl occupied with her pouring herself a drink.

“she’s working a double tonight. next time though!”

now that you were really here, really in front of her and talking to her, she could intel that it was more than your looks that enflamed her. she noted that you were kind like mindy had ensured, by the way you made sure to include everyone let her know of this. you asked questions and found something in common with everyone to connect on a surface level.

she also grappled that you were actually smart, as you pulled random facts of knowledge out as you watched the movie. you went into detail on how the camera actually worked on the set of movies. even how the first camera was made in 1816 by some frenchmen.

and maybe you were a bit of a flirt, or player but that didn’t matter because at the end of the night when you asked tara for her number she had never done anything so fast with zero hesitation in her life.

“maybe you can show me some more horror movies…judging by your choice tonight i’d say you have good taste.”

“thank you…yeah, i’d love to show some others i enjoy.”

“mhm. when the others wake tell them i said goodnight and thank you for having me. also, please tell wes, again i’m sorry for beating him in trivia night.”

the girl snorts, nodding her head. “will do.”

“goodnight, tara.” once again you flash her a smile, a soft one.

━━━👩🏽‍💻part two seems far fetched but what do you guys think?

621 notes · View notes

prythianpages · 3 months

Text

A Man After Midnight | Eris x Reader

summary: though engaged to Sawyer Vanserra, you feel utterly and completely alone with only the company of autumn winds, blowing outside your window. that is, until, Eris shows up. Your man after midnight.

warnings: mentions of assault (reader gets touched against her will but nothing explicit or anything that goes beyond that), blood, bruises/abuse/bullying; reader having a panic attack

a/n: This originally was going to head a different direction but I decided to make it like a part three to this instead. You can also read this as a stand alone one-shot. I love ABBA and I knew I had to use this song. One of my favs but you'll find that I say that a lot. You can find the masterlist to my ABBA x ACOTAR series here.

Your eyes light up as you spot Sawyer stepping out from the High Lord’s study. Overridden with excitement, you eagerly fall into step with him, the sheer brightness of your presence outshining the dimly lit surroundings. You pay no mind to the fact that his other brothers, Hunter and Oliver, are not too far behind.

“Good morning, Sawyer! Will you walk with me?” you beam up at him with a smile. It's the kind of sight that would make many fall to their feet–that even Oliver wants to bask in the glow of.

But Sawyer? He doesn’t even spare you a glance, his dark brown eyes fixed ahead as he replies, his tone detached. “I’m doing that right now.”

You can hear his brothers snicker behind you–too close for your liking that it has you quickening your steps. “But I was hoping you’d walk with me in the gardens? Or maybe we can have lunch together? We are to be marri–”

“Our marriage is nothing but a business deal arranged by our fathers.” He cuts you in sharply and you find your resolve faltering.

“Love may not come from our marriage but perhaps, we can be friends?” You offer, hating the desperation that seeps into your tone, as you trail behind Sawyer.

Sawyer stops abruptly, causing you to crash into his chest and stumble backwards. You catch yourself, a hand rubbing at your forehead where you’re sure an imprint of the necklace he wears marks your reddening skin. Your betrothed looks down at you in a way no one has ever before. Ever since your father left, it appeared that so did Sawyer’s patience. It’s as if the male you met when you first arrived was a facade. Pure disgust simmers in his heated gaze and his nose wrinkles as he lets out a scoff, causing you to shrink back.

“Friends? I don’t want to be friends with you. I don’t want to be anything with you. You’re the bane of my existence.”

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, and instinctively, you take another step back, as though the physical distance could somehow lessen the impact of his words. It doesn’t. Your lip trembles as a frown threatens to overtake your features.

“How can you mean that when you barely know me?” you ask, your voice a mere whisper but you know by the way his steps stop, that he catches every word. So you decide to remind him and add: “I didn’t ask for this either.”

Sawyer doesn’t bother to turn around or answer you, simply choosing to keep walking away. Hunter pushes past you aggressively, turning to smirk at your distraught expression as he catches up with Sawyer. It is Oliver who stops you from colliding into the wall. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, steadying you and pulling you close to him.

“Oh, sweet girl, you’re too pretty to cry.”

Oliver’s free hand reaches up to grip your chin, forcing your gaze to him. His lips form a slight pout that contrasts the mischief twinkling in his amber eyes. He leans to lick the single tear trickling down your cheek and you wince. You want to run but his grip on you is strong.

He then directs your attention forward, where Hunter has Sawyer in a similar hold. “Tell her,” Hunter says, gaze darkening with a thirst to torment. He flashes his teeth as his smirk widens. This is all a fun game to him. “Tell her why you don’t like her.”

Sawyer looks like he would rather die than answer Hunter’s demand. He glares at you as he struggles to free himself from his brother’s grasps but Hunter is much stronger. He realizes that he won’t be free until he says something. Finally, between clenched teeth, Sawyer answers. “She’s not my type.”

Hunter throws his head back in laughter, the sound echoing through the room with a dark and menacing resonance.

“What a shame,” Oliver says, his breath tickling your ear as his hand roams down the length of your neck. You swear your heart misses a beat when his hand stops right over the swell of your chest. His nails dig into your chest at your struggle to free yourself. “She’s exactly my type.”

Your entire body tenses at the unwanted touch, eyes widening when you feel heat prick at your skin. The smell of burnt fabric reaches your nose and a chill permeates, displacing the warmth as Oliver lifts his flaming hand from you. You rush to cross your arms over your chest, desperate to cover your exposed skin from Hunter’s and Oliver’s hungry gazes.

“Just look at her,” Oliver continues, pushing you forward so harshly it sends you to your knees. His chuckle makes goosebumps rise on your skin. “So pretty, so docile.”

As you blink away tears of humiliation, your eyes remain fixed on Sawyer, pleading almost. He’s determined to look anywhere but you. You curl your arms tighter around yourself and lower your gaze. You don’t want to give the other Vanserras the satisfaction of seeing you cry. You suspect it will only prompt them to torment you further.

“Then have at her. I don’t care.”

Sawyer’s words reach you with a devastating force like the last blow. They pierce through the core of your naive heart and you can’t help the tears that escape and spill onto the floor. Hunter peels his gaze away from you to roll his eyes at his younger brother, releasing him with a rough shove.

“You’re no fun, Sawyer,” he says with a disappointed sigh, his expectation for a different response lingering unfulfilled. Hunter then looks back at you, you can feel his heated gaze, and you curl in further into yourself. “But it looks like you are.”

“What is the meaning of this??”

Beron’s cold eyes take in the sight before him, gaze sweeping over your slumped form on the floor. It’s Hunter who moves to speak but at the lift of Beron’s finger, his mouth closes shut. Beron comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t care as there’s other pressing matters to attend to. Such as dealing with your father and ensuring he keeps his end of the agreement. He turns to his oldest, who stands at his side with a perfectly donned mask.

“You deal with whatever this is.”

“Yes, father,” Eris replies with no hesitation and Beron pats him on the shoulder–the same shoulder he left a bruise on the other night.

Eris bites back a wince. He waits until his father is away from sight to take in the situation before him. The torches lining up the halls flare. With a simmering intensity that could rival a raging inferno, Eris turns his attention to the brother closest to him. The searing authority of his gaze has Oliver raising his hands in a gesture of surrender and stepping away from you.

“We were just having a little fun, brother.”

“Fun?”

Eris releases a disbelieving exhale as he grasps onto Oliver’s shirt. He wants to burn his hand through his brother’s skin until he’s screaming and crying, the same way Oliver had intended to do with you. Because how dare he touch you, hurt you. It’s as if Oliver can hear the crackling roar of the fire burning within his older brother and his eyes widen in fear.

Under the weight of Hunter’s hawk eyes, Eris grudgingly settles on shoving Oliver further away from him. And you.

“If you want to have fun, go to a fucking brothel. This is our home.”

Oliver releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He doesn’t waste another second, happy to leave the hall before his brother can take back his mercy.

"And you," Eris seethes, his voice a low, rumbling growl as he turns to face Hunter next. Eris effortlessly surpasses him in both stature and might, looming over him like a formidable mountain casting its shadow. “Shouldn’t you be making haste to quell the riots in town? Or should I add that to your growing list of incapabilities?”

Hunter's fists clench at his sides, the dance of flames flickering along his skin, but in the presence of Eris, his fire pales in comparison. The fire raging within Eris burns brighter, stronger. A force that demands respect and obedience. Much like their father’s. Without uttering another word, he turns on his heel and leaves.

Stepping forward, Eris finally allows his gaze to fall on you and he feels a violent tug in his chest that threatens to weaken him. The desire to sink to his knees beside you and envelop your trembling form in his arms is an overpowering one, coursing through him like a forbidden current. Yet, the harsh reality holds him back. It’s too dangerous. He cannot act upon the fervent emotions that entwine his heart and it pains him, seeking to destroy him almost.

But he can’t just leave you there. Helpless. On the floor. So he masks his emotions–something he is well accustomed to–and dons a facade of annoyance. With a deft, almost dismissive motion, Eris removes his tailcoat, flinging it carelessly in your direction. The seconds stretch into a languid dance as your eyes, wide with surprise, meet his. You gratefully slip his coat over your smaller form, clutching it tightly to your chest.

There’s a bittersweet ache that lingers within Eris at the unexpected intake of breath you give.

A fleeting flicker of sweet agony passes through his eyes. It vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving you to wonder if it was a mere figment of your imagination.

"And lastly," Eris starts with a deep sigh, the once-fiery intensity in his eyes dimming as he regards his last remaining brother. The only brother left that harbored some redeemable qualities but now, Eris questioned it.

"Is this any way to treat your fiancé?"

A ripple courses through Sawyer's jawline. “Why do you care?”

"I don't." Eris retorts with a glare. He's skilled at weaving falsehoods, and though this one is way far out from the truth, it slides effortlessly off his tongue like all the other ones. He immediately senses the weight of your gaze pressing into the expense of his back.

"But I do care about the consequences if she runs away. You should too."

Though it pains him, he doesn’t turn back around to you. He looks at Sawyer once more in warning. Then, he begins to walk away, every step pulling him further from the one he yearns to be with. Your gaze, burning into him like a relentless brand the entire time.

Weeks Later..

Autumn winds blow harshly outside the window as you look around your room. They mirror the melancholy that lingers in your heart. Your room is big and spacious, seems fit for a princess, adorned with sculpted art and paintings. In one corner stands a massive wardrobe crafted from the richness of dark cherry wood filled to the brim with a variety of dresses that would make any lady of your status swoon. Beside it, there’s a lovely vanity with golden carvings that hosts an array of makeup and beauty products. On the opposite side, is a desk that matches your wardrobe. It bears the weight of books, letters from your father, threads, unfinished embroideries and your untouched dinner.

At a glance, it appears you have everything.

Yet, as you sit on the bed, a pitiful truth echoes louder than the winds outside. Your gaze meets a reflection in the full-length mirror positioned next to the desk, capturing the solemn expression that dances across your features. Dark, sad eyes stare back at you and the weight of isolation is evident in the downturned corners of your mouth. You miss your home. Your friends, your horse, your father, and gods do you miss your mother.

Upon your arrival, eager anticipation filled your heart as you looked forward to getting acquainted with your future husband. You knew not to expect love to come from it as you were mere strangers but you had hoped for a friend. The promise of a lifelong companion, a partner to share laughter and weave a tapestry of memories together, stirred excitement and nerves within you. It’s what your father and mother had shared. Your foolish heart had eagerly counted down the days, each one a step closer to a shared future.

But now? As the appointed days draw near, the once-cherished anticipation morphs into a heavy sense of dread, casting a haunting shadow over you. Your husband to be looks at you as if you’re the scum on his boots.

The High Lord, your future father in law, is cruel and terrifying. You avoid him at all costs. Your future mother in law, Lady Autumn, is often busy and away. She helps you plan your dreadful wedding during the times she isn’t busy but you find that she is quiet and reserved. There’s a lingering sadness always present in her amber eyes that you assume comes from all the sorrow and grief she’s had to endure. You’ve met one of her sons–Lucien, you remember– during your travels with your father and you used to wonder why he no longer resided in Autumn but not anymore. You can only imagine the horrors he’s had to endure that made him leave.

Hunter enjoys berating you every chance he can. There’s a darkness that burns in him and you can’t help but think about what would become of you if Sawyer was interested in you. One day, while walking through the garden you overheard from some gossiping servants that Hunter was once married. His wife died shortly after the marriage and rumor has it that the frightening Vanserra had something to do with her sudden disappearance. They wondered if the same fate would befall upon you. A thought you didn’t want to linger on as it was absolutely terrifying.

Then, there’s Oliver. Though kinder, only in comparison to Hunter and maybe even Sawyer, he is not to be trusted. He undresses you with his eyes in every glance and vulgarly welcomes you to his bed. You do your best to stay away from him because as lonely as you are, you’re nowhere near desperate for his company, and fear the day he’ll grow wary of your constant rejection.

You find yourself, however, desperate for another’s. Eris.

You haven’t seen him since that day Sawyer broke your heart, since he let Oliver make a spectacle out of you. Eris had been the only one you’d look forward to seeing during dinner and his noted absence was the reason why you stopped joining the Vanserra dinners yourself.

Days, even weeks have passed, and he hasn’t fulfilled the promise of returning your book, its absence on your nightstand a constant reminder. He hasn’t even asked for his coat back. It remains draped over your desk chair. He’s a rare sight to see when walking amongst the grounds of the Forest house, prompting a question to rise. Is he purposely avoiding you? The mere thought stirs an unexpected pain within you.

There’s no one here for you.

A little over a month into your lifetime stay at the Forest house and you already feel so alone. So utterly and completely alone.

Suddenly feeling suffocated, you rise from your bed and head toward your favorite area of your room–the window seat. Kneeling on the soft cushion, your fingers reach to open the window, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation. The Autumn winds continue to howl through the darkness of the night but their chill does not reach you. Your eyes open and you raise your hand. A surge of electricity courses through you as your hand meets an unseen force. A magical barrier.

Turning your head toward the door, your gaze dips to the bottom where shadows dance. You can make out the planted boots of an Autumn guard and hope deflates. Nothing can come in. Nothing can go out. Not only are you alone but you’re trapped.

A taste of what’s to come, of what’s to be of the rest of your miserable life. Lonely. Trapped. Locked away into oblivion. No breath you take is enough as you’re suffocated by the storm of emotions flooding through you. This place is your hell. Impending doom. You’re going to die here. Alone. There’s not a soul out there…

Water. You should drink some water. Tremors take over your body as you make your way toward your nightstand. Water spills onto the floor as you pour yourself a glass. You bring the water to your lips but your throat feels like it’s closing up. You glance at the pocket watch on your nightstand and notice it’s half past twelve.

There’s not a soul out there…

You extend your hand towards the watch—a cherished heirloom passed down from your mother. The gentle, rhythmic ticking of it has long been a source of solace and comfort for you. But it’s too late.

The hand clutching onto your glass of water shatters against the dark wood of your nightstand as you clutch the watch to your racing heart. You can only pray to the Cauldron, the Mother, to anyone as the room spins around you. But there’s no one to hear your prayer…

There’s a deep agony in your chest that tightens with every passing second, an inescapable loop of gloom that envelops your every thought and emotion. There’s not a soul out there. You can’t breathe. No one to hear your prayer…

“y/n.”

You catch the faint murmur of your name being called, yet a lingering doubt creeps in. You must be going mad because there’s no one here for you. Not a soul—

“y/n.”

And there it is again. Your name is being called. Louder, firmer this time. It’s real. The cruel clutches of your sorrow that held you captive begin to shatter like your glass from earlier. The sound of your name acts as a lifeline, pulling you from the depths of despair you inadvertently locked yourself into.

“That’s it. Breathe with me, angel,” the soothing voice persists, a gentle anchor for your drifting thoughts. And you can finally hear it. Your beloved watch. Though it's fast, it becomes a comforting undercurrent, a familiar melody that helps steady your racing heartbeat.

You feel like you can finally breathe again. As you blink away the haze clouding your vision and come back down, you are met with a pair of familiar amber eyes. The warm hues flicker like flames as they fixate upon you. Intense but tender and full of concern.

“Eris.”

You breathe his name so heavenly, like an answered prayer as you take him in. His dark red hair is tousled as though he emerged hastily from a slumber. Adorned in a thin, un-tied linen shirt, the fine contours of his chest are revealed, and his pants, creased as if donned in urgency, complete the picture of a man who arrived in haste yet with purpose.

"You're here," you say, your tone teetering on the edge of question and you glance toward your door, confirming that the Autumn guard is still stationed there.

You called, he wants to reply but instead, settles on, “I’m here.”

“How?” You ask, aware of the wards in your room preventing winnowing. At first, you thought they were meant to protect you. Now, you’re aware they’re really meant to keep you from escaping.

The corners of his lips lift into a small smirk. “I have my ways. I know every secret tunnel, every little crevice of this estate.”

Your head turns, eyes scanning your room in search of said secret tunnel. Eris lightly grasps your chin, focusing your attention back to him to keep you from spotting the secret door hidden behind your full length mirror. He wipes at the lingering traces of tears on your face, watching as your eyes dip and fixate on the golden chain encircling his neck. A sigil of three hounds captures your attention—an emblem unfamiliar to your discerning gaze, sparking a curiosity that mingles with the relief flooding your senses.

He finds his own breathing to steady at your calming state but at the sight of blood trickling down your hand, a knot twists in his stomach. “You’re hurt.”

You pull your gaze from his necklace, eyebrows furrowing as you look up at him. “I thought you didn’t care,” you tell him, echoing his words from the last time you saw him.

Again, Eris does not answer you. His eyes scan your room for a moment before abandoning whatever he was searching for. In his haste to aid your bleeding hand, he’s slipping his shirt off without another thought.

“It’s fine,” you insist.

“No. It’s not.” He shakes his head at you as he guides you to the window nook. If only you knew the effect you had on him. The horror that crashed over him like a bucket of ice cold water, waking him so abruptly from his sleep. At your pain. Your agony. It nearly destroyed him the way it had been destroying you.

Eris pushes you gently to sit while he uses his shirt to wipe your blood off, frowning to himself when he can still hear the irregular beat of your heart. Too engrossed in cleaning your injury, he fails to catch on that the fluttering rhythm of your heart is now stirred by an entirely different source.

His expression transforms into one of genuine surprise as he encounters the gentle skin of your palm. Untouched, unmarked. His gaze flickers back to the shattered pieces of glass by the foot of your bed and then back to your hand. There’s no way. Not even with your healing abilities as a high fae. The amount of blood he had seen, the stinging he had felt through the bond–

“I told you it was fine.”

“But you’re not.” Eris counters and sucks in a sharp breath. “Angel–”

“Neither are you.” You point out, deftly redirecting the focus from yourself.

Your glistening eyes, pools of concern, flicker toward him. Toward his chest, where scars from injuries that had not healed properly and lingering bruises taint the muscles beneath, painting an alarming image.

Eris averts his gaze, withdrawing slightly, reluctant to confront the vulnerability of the moment. Though your touch is gentle, the softest caress, his entire body tenses at the unfamiliar sensation. Your palm presses against a nasty scar that runs down the length of his abdomen, making him shudder at the memory it came from.

You suspect the answer but you can’t stop yourself from asking anyway. A blend of hurt and anger seeps through your voice. “Who did this to you?”

Eris stands abruptly, caught in the tumult of conflicting desires–of longing to bask in the warmth of your touch and the simultaneous impulse to flee from it. “You should go to bed,” he says, voice strained. “Get some sleep.”

You stand up as well. “But I’m wide awake.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Eris, please,” you nearly beg and he finds his feet rooted to the ground. He watches as you walk over to your chair, retrieving the coat he let you borrow. You extend it toward him–a silent promise you won’t push him further on his scars. “We can talk about other things.”

He feels his throat tighten at the urgency in your eyes. “Like what?”

"Like…" Your voice trails off, your attention turning to the scattered items on your desk. "Embroidery?" you suggest, showing him one of your unfinished projects. It’s an outline of a yellow flower he has seen before but cannot recognize at the moment.

"You want to talk about...embroidery?" His tone lightens, a subtle easing of tension as he slips into his coat and watches you raise another one. Unlike the first one you showed him, this one is finished and beautifully depicts a white horse with a brown mane and tail.

“This one is of my horse,” you share with pride, a subtle smile gracing your face. The warmth in your expression acts as an irresistible pull for Eris, compelling him to sit back down. "His name is Maximus.”

"I think I miss him the most," you add, the smile on your face faltering.

It prompts Eris to speak–to keep it from falling. “It’s beautiful.”

Your smile, like the sun breaking through clouds, brightens once more. You’re beautiful, he wants to add.

“Would you like me to teach you?”

Even though he knows he should leave, he finds himself nodding. Because the prospect of your smile faltering, of you returning to your state from earlier becomes an unbearable thought.

He secures a glamor in your room to keep the guard outside your door from hearing you. Having spent centuries studying the wards in every room, he’s learned how to unravel some pieces of them. Eris allows you to teach him the craft of embroidery. He tries to take in every instruction of yours and finds himself not lost in the craft but lost in the light in your eyes, the delightful curve of your smile as you speak.

As the daughter of a powerful and influential merchant, you’ve stayed in every court and have so many captivating stories to tell. You speak so highly of your father that he doesn’t have it in him to tell you about his dark truth–the real reason behind your arranged marriage. The delicate pricks of the thin needle against his fingers go unnoticed, drowned out by the melody of your laughter, which proves irresistibly contagious. The bond in his chest hums with a resonance that echoes through his being. He wonders, a smaller part of him fervently hoping, if you can feel it too.

Eris stays until your voice trails off–until the heaviness of your eyelids becomes an insurmountable burden, causing you to slump against the softness of the pillows. The temptation to tenderly brush your hair back from your face is strong, but he restrains the impulse.

“Eris?” Your voice, laced with the soft tendrils of sleep, reaches him.

“Yes?”

“Does this mean we’re friends now?”

The word—friends—sends a pang through him, but nevertheless, he manages a gentle "yes," reluctant to shatter the moment by uttering the truth that lies beneath the surface of his emotions. He doesn’t want to be your friend. He wants to be more than just your friend.

A soft content hum comes from you, the only response you can manage. Mindful not to disturb your peaceful slumber, he beckons one of the blankets from your bed with his magic before carefully draping it over your curled up form at the window nook. He quietly draws the curtains shut, shielding you from the intrusion of the rising sun. He positions the embroidery hoop, adorned with the laughable but endearing image of the heart he crafted, beside you. He turns to leave but sneaks one last glance at you. Only then does he allow himself to truly smile.

Eris does not return the following night, even though he desperately wants to. Caution dictates his actions, a week elapsing before a clandestine note passed in the hallway signals his quiet return to your room. It’s during this second visit that he inevitably gives away the hidden door in your room. They lead to the house’s secret tunnels, one only Eris knows well. He promises you to take you through them one day.

It’s half past twelve and as the autumn winds blow outside your window, you're not alone this time. Eris is there with you, weaving conversations that never seem to run dry. An unspoken agreement unfolds–to keep your growing friendship hidden and away from everyone. He continues to sneak into your room, always warning you beforehand as to not scare you. The sacrifice of sleep on these nights becomes inconsequential, for both you and him.

Eris helps you chase your shadows away, taking you through the darkness to the break of the day. Your man after midnight. The soul that heard your prayer.

A wrought-iron table, nestled under a cascading canopy of amber leaves, holds an exquisite spread of breakfast delicacies. The air is laced with the enticing aroma of freshly brewed tea, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the flowers that surround you. Lady Autumn, whose name you learned is Raelynn, sits across from you. Her eyes, as deep as the autumnal twilight, reflect warmth back at you–no traces of the lingering sadness you’ve witnessed before in this moment.

“My apologies, my dear, for not inviting you to breakfast sooner.” Even her voice is as warm as her gaze. “I know this court is not an easy one to adjust to.”

You find yourself smiling in reassurance back at her. Because you understand. If you were her, you’d also be wary of any newcomer.

“Eris tells me you enjoy embroidery?” Lady Raelynn says, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she brings her cup to her mouth. “Among other things.”

“I do,” you answer politely, gaze drifting to the perfectly tended lawn across from the patio you sit at. Targets for archery are neatly arranged. There’s an arrow embedded into the bull’s eyes of every one of them.

Lady Raelynn follows your gaze. “Are you interested in archery?”

Yes, you want to say and though you find comfort in Lady Autumn’s presence, you're wary of her reaction. What if she deems it unlady like? And decides to forgo any relationship you’ve desperately clung to the hope to?

“I don’t know much about it,” you reply, choosing a diplomatic response.

“I can teach you.” Lady Raelynn’s smile morphs into a grin. A gasp escapes you, and realization slowly etches itself into your features. “I think we’ll get along just fine,” she laughs, her words sparking hope within you.

“Good morning mother, I’ve come to–” Both of your heads turn to find Eris. He halts mid-sentence, his gaze locking with yours, a flicker of surprise and something deeper dancing in his eyes. It has you averting your gaze with a slight warmth tinting your cheeks. “I should leave.”

“No, stay,” Lady Raelynn insists with a graceful incline of her head. With a wave of her hand, a plate full of food materializes at the empty spot between you and her, a silent invitation for Eris to join.

Eris bows his head at his mother, acknowledging her command. He takes his place at the table, his movements a bit awkward at first. As he settles in, he can't help the warming relief that washes over him at the sight of both you and his mother taking his advice. He remains relatively quiet throughout breakfast, choosing to chime in only when necessary. He’s content to bask in the soothing cadence of your conversation with his mother, indulging in stolen glances at you that linger.

Something that does not go unnoticed by his keen mother nor the way his grip tightens around his fork at the mention of your upcoming wedding.

Lady Raelynn didn’t mean to spoil the mood but she had taken it upon herself to help you plan the ceremony and reception. Albeit, reluctantly at first. That all changed after getting to know you better. Although the marriage would not be to the man of your dreams, she was now determined in ensuring that the wedding would be. It was the least she could do for you, especially after learning about the mistreatment you had endured at the hands of her sons.

“I hope my son is treating you well?” Lady Raelynn asks you, carrying a note of concern. Her observant eyes catch the brief exchange between you and Eris, not missing the slightest tint that graces his cheeks. At least one of them is. She suppresses a smile as she awaits your answer.

“Sawyer is…” your voice trails off hesitant because he’s barely spoken to you since the incident. One of the rare occurrences being where he randomly met you in the library. He had reluctantly engaged in conversation with you, awkwardly asking what you missed the most from home. A spark of optimism brightens your tone because for once, you do have something good to say about him.

“He is actually arranging for my horse to come here! It’s silly but my horse was my biggest companion back home and I’ve been feeling a bit homesick recently.”

“It’s not silly at all, my dear. Once your horse is here, let's arrange for a morning ride. The Autumn grounds are the most peaceful in the early hours."

Your smile reflects the gratitude in your heart as you look at Lady Autumn. She, in turn, observes her son, who raises his tea to his lips, attempting to conceal the small smile playing on his face. It does nothing to mask the gleam in his eyes. Lady Raelynn is well aware that the sweet gesture is not Sawyer's doing. It's Eris's.

a/n: sooo I'm literally just going with vibes for this series (vibes to songs as that is what inspires most of these.) I wanted to write a slow burn but tbh, I think I'm too impatient for that 😂

When it comes to Sawyer, I do want to explore more of his character. I know that in canon, the Vanserras are menaces but I'd like to hope there's at least one more redeeming brother. I feel like him and reader can fall into a relationship similar to that of Rhaenyra and Laenor from House of Dragon. I also am still stuck between having the marriage actually go through or something drastic that happens that keeps it from happening. Either way, it will be angsty. I left some references in this from a movie that may prompt for more references from said movie. Any guesses? 👀

tagging: @fxckmiup

#eris x reader #eris x y/n #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #acotar x reader #acotar imagine #eris imagine #eris one shot #acotar x y/n #acotar fanfiction #acotar one shot #acotar!abba #eris vandaddy #eris angel au

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13rurururi · 10 months

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Haganezuka Hotaru Having a Crush on Being In Love with You (SFW)

Pairing: Haganezuka x Fem!Reader

Requests are open!

Whenever you're in close proximity, this man tries his absolute hardest to appear as nonchalant as possible — thank heavens for his mask, or else you'd instantly see his beet-red face.

Haganezuka is someone who lives on extreme emotions; from his rage towards Tanjiro breaking his craft to him feeling like his heart is about to burst from his chest whenever you smile at him — you have him (unknowingly) wrapped around your finger.

You may think he absolutely doesn't care for you, but he isn't the type to verbally express his affection; instead, he'd give you small gifts (like the last stick of Mitarashi Dango) or offer to polish your katana. This man's time is precious, but he'd always set aside time for you.

Once you got closer with one another, you opted to call him by his first name, Hotaru. The first time you uttered his name, you were undoubtedly worried he'd throw a fit because of how cute and unbefitting it is for a swordsmith like him. Surprisingly, he only grumbled and looked away (he was absolutely blushing, by the way).

You continue to call him Hotaru, and the villagers around you are so wary whenever you do so but end up pleasantly surprised to see how calmly Hotaru responds to your beckon. He's so smitten for you.

He's also quite the jealous type, seething in quiet rage towards anyone who dares flirt with you. You better be certain he has his four knives out and sharpened.

You really began seeing him as a close friend, as you've shared many afternoons together, talking about how each other's day went. You definitely laugh in endearment as he rants to you about his client (poor Tanjiro).

You were satisfied with your connection until, one day, Haganezuka built up the courage to tell you — in the most stiff, straightforward, yet genuine manner — that he is in love with you.

Let's not lie. You were surprised, to say the least. Haganezuka never showed any desire to be entangled in a romantic relationship. Kanamori even occasionally mentions how his rough, difficult personality is the main cause of his bachelor status at the age of 37.

Your entire image of him was simply upended once he muttered out his confession, his gaze faltering to your side, unable to maintain contact with your widened eyes.

You've always found him absolutely stunning under his peculiar mask — his amber irises framed by his upturned eyes; his pretty lashes that greatly contrasted his constantly furrowed brow; not to mention, his long, smooth raven-colored hair that cascaded down his muscular back — he was undoubtedly attractive.

You felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought of other women staring at his figure with evident interest.

You also funnily felt pride at the fact that they most likely could never truly handle the entirety of Haganezuka Hotaru — they weren't like you, who could calm him with the sound of your voice (as if you were the embodiment of a wind chime) or patiently sit with him as he yelled about his annoyances.

Maybe he wasn't just a friend, after all.

"Forget what I said,"

Haganezuka twisted his figure to steadily walk away from you, but you grasped onto his firm bicep to cease his escape.

He looked at you in mild bewilderment, simultaneously worried and hopeful with what your response might be.

You smiled your ever-so-gentle smile — the same smile he fell in love with and said,

"I like you, too, Hotaru."

Haganezuka's face held the most wonderful expression you have ever seen, and you were stuck between wanting to stare at his face for the next few minutes and the desire to kiss his lips that fell agape.

No worries. Hotaru decided for both of you and held you close as your lips met his for the very first time.

And it definitely will not be the last.

A/N: I am so in love with this man right now; my head is full of him. Please feel free to send requests! If you want an NSFW version, I am more than willing to serve, hehe.

#haganezuka x reader #haganezuka #kny haganezuka #hotaru haganezuka x reader #kny #kny x y/n #kny x you #kny x reader #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer haganezuka #demon slayer imagines #haganezuka hotaru #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba x you #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #kny imagines #kimetsu no yaiba imagines #demon slayer

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milswrites · 2 months

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Hobbies Part 11.

~ Azriel X Reader

Summary: In an attempt to keep Azriel away from Elain, Rhys sends him on a sabbatical to the Day Court. With a lot more free time on his hands Azriel needs to find something to keep him occupied. Unfortunately he meets Y/N who has the annoying habit of not staying away. Can she teach him that there’s more to life than he thought?

Grumpy!Azriel X Sunshine!Reader

Series masterlist

Warnings: mentions of sex

“Will you stop fussing? You look divine!” Azriel praised as he walked up to where Y/N was nervously fretting over her appearance in the mirror. His soothing hands meeting her waist as he pulled her backwards to rest against his chest in a comforting embrace. Mesmerised eyes taking in the reflection before him, Y/N wrapped perfectly in his arms as if she was the missing piece of what was the unfinished puzzle of Azriel’s life.

He placed a tender kiss against her cheek, moving his hands to appreciatively brush them along the fabric of her dress. Another marvellous creation of her own design. “You don’t happen to have a matching top for me, do you?” He asked, eyes still locked onto her angelic face in the mirror as he delicately planted sweet kisses along her neck. A twinkle appeared in her eyes as she pouted in faux disappointment, “I’m afraid not. I must say I’m surprised, I didn’t take you as the kind of person who would want to wear matching clothes with his lover in front of his family.”

“Well it’s a good job you’re not only my lover but my mate as well” he playfully bit the lobe of her ear, the blushing woman squealing in the tight grip of his arms as she tried to escape his affectionate nibbles. Azriel pulling her back into him, refusing to let the woman go, amber eyes moving back to the mirror to admire the happy couple smiling back at him in the reflection. Stomach doing somersaults at the love shining in Y/N’s eyes as she looked up at the male.

Azriel sighed heavily as he rested his chin onto Y/N’s shoulder, “Are you sure we can’t just stay here? I can think of many, much more scandalous, things I’d rather do with you than go and see my family.”

“And aren’t we so fortunate that we now have all the time in the world to do said scandalous things. We can try every sinful thought that crosses through that dirty mind of yours.”

Azriel’s grip on Y/N tightened at her words, his eyes growing dark as she sent a dangerously sensual image down the new found bond. She smirked at his growing predicament pressing against her, pleased at the power she held over the male, before she teased, “oh but what a shame. I think if we tried to escape your family any longer they might come and bash down my door and I’d rather not have an audience when I’m showing you just how much I love you.”

“Let them watch” he groaned, smile dropping from his face as she pulled away before he could act on his desires.

Y/N began to pace the room anxiously, repeating everything Azriel had told her about his friends, “So there’s Rhysand and Feyre, and they have the baby right?”

“Nyx yes.”

“And then there’s Cassian and Nesta. Then Mor, Amren and… oh gosh who was it? Ella? Eleanor?”

“Elain.”

“Yes Elain! Ok.”

“You’ll be fine,” he reassured the fretting woman, just as he had been doing for the past six hours since Rhysand had sent them the invitation, “as much as I know I’m going to dislike it, I don’t think there’s a single person who could meet you and not fall unbelievably and entirely in love with you.”

Y/N stopped her pacing, flushing at Azriel’s words as she moved towards him to place her smaller hands in his, “well, unfortunately for them I only have eyes for my big grumpy mate who would no doubt show them who I belong to.”

“I’m not grumpy, I just don’t like people” Azriel defended with a scowl as a giggling Y/N pecked his cheek.

“Ok” she released a deep breath, giving Azriel’s hands a gentle squeeze, “I’m ready. Let’s go now before I change my mind.”

“The beds right there” Azriel pleaded as she rolled her eyes at his hint, playfully slapping his chest as he chuckled. The male drew her into a crushing embrace, sneaking in one last kiss on the top of her head before his shadows engulfed them. A storm of darkness surrounding their hold as the shadows whisked the loving couple away to the Night Court. To Velaris the City of Starlight.

~~~~~

The pair stepped out from the shadows into an empty cobbled street. A slight chill in the air causing Y/N to shiver at the unfamiliar climate, Azriel made a mental note to get her some more weather appropriate clothes for whenever she was to join him in the Night Court.

Azriel watched on with nervous interest as Y/N took in her new surroundings. Having never been to the night court, he prayed she would find Velaris just as magical as he had done. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, she may be looking at these streets as a place she would one day like to call home.

They hadn't yet had the chance to talk about how their relationship would work with the two hailing from different courts, but Azriel couldn't help but let his mind drift to sweet thoughts of the pair living together in a small cottage overlooking the Sidra. Once more dreaming of a perfect domestic life with the woman, only this time he could dream of them doing it all together as mates.

Y/N was beaming widely as usual, her bright eyes absorbing the view of the picturesque street. "Oh Az, it's beautiful! It looks just like something from a fairytale!" she exclaimed, Azriel releasing a relieved sigh at her open appreciation.

"Yeah?" he asked shyly, "Think you'd like to come back to visit me here?" He needed to hear the words from her lips so Azriel could be free to dream about the future he so longed to have.

Y/N laughed at his anxious question, finding it silly how he would think a place would change her opinion of the man, how it would change how deeply she felt about him, "Azriel," she smiled, pulling both of his hands into her own, "you could live in a literal ditch, and I would still visit you every opportunity I have. Because I love you Azriel, not your Court. Although it is a very beautiful one...you may find it quite difficult to get rid of me."

Now feeling silly about his previous worries, Azriel leaned forward to press a soft kiss against Y/N's lips, joking as he pulled away, "I'd wait to meet my family first before you say things like that, you may change your mind on that fairly quickly."

"I'm sure if they're even half as good as you are I'll love them" she replied, pulling the male in for another sweet kiss whilst they were still in the pleasurable bubble of their own company.

"Don't say I didn't warn you" Azriel teased as he began to lightly push Y/N in the direction they needed to go, his large hand resting protectively on the small of her back.

~~~~~

Azriel already knew this was going to be the most embarrassing night of his life. He had already prepared for that. What he hadn't prepared for was the impatient nudge of Rhysand's voice in his head telling him to hurry up and meet them at Feyre's art studio in the Rainbow. Azriel had expected a sit down meal, maybe even a trip to Rita's for a few drinks if the night went well, but of course it seems his brother has something more nefarious planned.

The shadowsinger, who already wished he was still holed up in the Day Court cottage with Y/N, sullenly led his mate to where the rest of his family were waiting for the pair. Y/N failed to notice his bitter mood, she was too preoccupied with gazing at her surroundings in awe as Azriel dragged her through the winding streets by her hand, trailing behind him like a lost puppy.

Her excitement over being in a new court steadily increasing, until by the time they had made it to the Rainbow Azriel was sure if she were any happier she'd likely combust from the enthusiasm.

He held the door open for her as they entered the studio, Y/N's eyes lighting with glee as she noticed where he had taken her. The inner circle were all waiting inside, turning from their conversations to face the newly together couple.

"Oh my cauldron you're beautiful!" Cassian cried overenthusiastically earning an eye roll from his mate due to his antics. Bounding over to the pair he mockingly wipes faux tears from his eyes before gripping Y/N by her arms and pulling her into the biggest bear hug he could muster. If Y/N were startled by his actions she didn't show it, instead she reciprocated the hug, grinning at the large man as she spoke, "You must be Cassian, I've heard so much about you."

The General gasped as he put her down, turning to yank his grumbling brother into a hug as he teased, "Oh Azzie, I knew you always talked about me!" The rest of his family began to approach the pair, exchanging welcoming hugs (which were less bone-crushing than Cassian's but just as warming) and polite greetings.

Azriel watched his family interact with the woman and he couldn't help but think that if Y/N could be likened to anything it would be the sun, her glowing energy forcing anyone near her to fall into a natural orbit. Her presence acting like gravity, drawing everyone towards her. They had been in the room for all of two minutes and Y/N was already animatedly chatting away with Feyre as she admired her studio, the two women acting as though they had been friends for centuries.

Whilst she was distracted, a grouchy Azriel hovered over to Rhysand, whispering sharply in the male's ear so not to be overheard, "What are we doing here?"

"I showed Feyre the painting from Y/N and she wanted to plan something that would make her feel comfortable, isn't that sweet Azzie?" Rhysand smirked at Azriel's bulging eyes, clearly finding his shock entertatining.

"You showed her the painting?" he grit through his teeth, cheeks turning red at the thought of the High Lady seeing something that felt so personal to Azriel.

"Oh...I showed everyone the painting" Rhys replied as if it was obvious, pointing over to where a flushed Y/N was smiling gently as Feyre held said painting in her hands as she talked about it to the woman.

"You actually hate me" Azriel concluded, eyes now drifting around the room in fear as he noticed the number of blank canvases standing on easels. Feyre's brilliant idea obviously being that they all had a family painting session.

"Don't worry brother," Rhysand grinned as he wrapped a comforting arm around Azriel, "I brought drinks!"

~~~~~

The concentration in the room was palpable. Well, from some of the members. Azriel, Feyre, Amren and Cassian all working in a focused silence, tongues absentmindedly poking from their lips. Elain was also opting to work quietly, unreadable eyes sometimes flickering in the direction of the shadowsinger and his new love. On the other hand: Rhysand, Mor, Nesta and Y/N were all happily chatting away as they gossiped whilst painting their creations. Wine flowing to their heads as they giggled to each other whilst occasionally stumbling on the tall wooden stools they were sat on.

"I have to say," Rhysand mumbled a confession as he squinted at his painting, "Azriel gave us quite the fright when he disappeared from here - twice may I add. He was acting like a feral beast, we all thought you had to mean a lot to him for him to be acting like that."

"Well," Y/N sighed contentedly, affectionate eyes meeting Azriel's from where he sat next to her, "I suppose finding out you're mates would do that to someone."

A chorus of surprised cries flooded the room. The inner circle chiding their friend for not breaking the news to them sooner. Sweet Elain squeaked in shock, spitting out a large gulp of wine all over her canvas. Meanwhile Cassian shouted, "I knew it!" and began to list all the unrelated reasons as to why he believed he had always known that Azriel found his mate during his stay in the Day Court.

"Mates?" Elain quietly sounded, eyes locking onto the floor in disappointment. Before she could say anymore her sister chimed in, Nesta leaning over to place a friendly hand on Y/N's own as she congratulated the couple, "That's wonderful news. We're really happy for you Azriel, you two make a wonderful pair."

Having been sat in a nervous stupor most of the night, praying that Y/N and his family got on well, Azriel flashed Nesta a crooked smile, thanking the woman for her kind words. "Yeah, we do" he replied earnestly, eyes moving to rest on his lovely mate.

"Well cheers to that!" Cassian bellowed as he raised his full glass in the air, liquid sloshing messily down his sleeve.

~~~~~

"What is that?" Y/N asked, squinting inquisitively at Cassian's masterful creation, "A horse?...A blue horse?".

Cassian frowned, a paint-stained hand coming to rest on his chin as he observed his painting alongside the woman. "It's supposed to be Azriel" he admitted in disappointment, "I guess I can't quite get the face right.” Y/N laid a supportive hand onto the general's shoulder, lying through her teeth in an attempt to make it feel better, "Oh of course! You're just forgetting the wings that's all!"

The General gasped at Y/N's words, beside himself that he forgot to paint his brothers wings, he eagerly lunged for his palette so he could complete the portrait of his, eyebrows still knitted together as he focused on painting the lines as steadily as he could.

Y/N moved past the male with a chuckle, wanting to see what other wonders Azriel's family had created. She came across the most exquisite piece, a lovely garden which radiated life, beautiful flowers of all shades decorating the scene. Gasping in awe at the tranquility of the scene, she turned to the artist to profess her appreciation, "It's beautiful! I've never seen a garden like it!"

"Oh...Thank you," Elain quietly answered, "It's of my own one."

"You have a garden? Oh that's wonderful, I bet the painting doesn't even do it justice! You must be really talented if it looks anything as good as this."

Elain cracked a small smile of appreciation, "Thank you, you can come see it sometime if you like. The next time Azriel brings you up maybe?"

"I'd love that!" Y/N replied joyfully, having always had a love for gardens which had only increased by a tenfold since that night with her mate. Azriel tentatively approached the pair, slowly walking towards them before coming to a stop at Y/N's side. "Everything ok here?" he nervously asked, eyes flittering between the two.

"Yes!" Y/N beamed, resting her head against his shoulder, "I was just telling Elain how magnificent her painting is, and she's invited me to come see her garden next time I'm here!"

Azriel relaxed his muscles, not even noticing how tense he had been standing, he flashed Elain a grateful smile, eyes full of apologies for not telling her what had unraveled during his time in Autumn, for not giving her the closure she deserved, "Thank you Elain."

The woman grew a mischievous smile, pulling a sniggering Y/N to her side and into a one-armed hug, "I don't know why you're thanking me Azriel. It's Y/N who I invited, not you."

~~~~~

It had been a wonderful night. Meeting Azriel's family and being allowed a glimpse into his life here in the Night Court filled Y/N with an indescribable warmth she has failed to experience in her life until this moment. Still admiring the artwork they had created tonight, Y/N slowly approached Feyre's canvas, tears welling in her eyes at the sight before her.

There, huddled together in the center of the detailed painting was the inner circle. Arms wrapped around each other's figures, connecting them all in one large hug. Laughing faces stared back at Y/N, their eyes all overflowing with carefree humour as their dazzling smiles met her own.

And there, joined in the familial embrace, was Y/N. Locked tightly in a beaming Azriel's arms. Her smile as equally wide as his as her eyes twinkled with an uncontrollable joy.

Y/N had never had any family and spent most of her life growing up alone and uncared for. But here, wide eyes staring at the familiar woman in the painting who was surrounded by Azriel's loving family, Y/N allowed herself to dream of that family one day being hers as well.

"Oh wow that's amazing" Azriel's voice sounded from behind Y/N, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder as he admired Feyre's hard work. Y/N failed to hold the sob that broke from her mouth as she settled into Azriel's tender hold. "Hey...hey what's wrong?" Azriel asked worriedly, shifting Y/N in his embrace until her face was pressed against his chest. He murmured sweet nothings into her ear to calm her until she was able to speak, swaying them gently in an attempt to comfort the sniffling woman.

Once Y/N had settled enough to speak, she craned her neck back in order to look at her mate, eyes still red and watery. "You have the most amazing family" she wept, unable to stop the tracks of tears rolling down her cheeks.

"We do" Azriel replied simply, agreeing with her statement. He placed a small kiss on her forehead before beginning to gently wipe the tears from her face with his hands. Turning Y/N until she faced the painting once more, back nestled into his chest. "You know I'm not actually related to any of them through blood" Azriel pointed out, his low voice rumbling against her back, "But we found each other and built something special between us. Something that means more to us than just family."

Y/N still sniffled slightly but she was deadly focussed on listening to every word that came from Azriel's mouth as he continued, "Some bonds run deeper than blood. And you're a part of that now. You're one of us."

"Yeah?" Y/N asked hesitantly, fingers coming to brush up against her euphoric form in the painting. Azriel hugged her midsection tightly, gently pulling her back so her hand dropped from the piece, "don't go trying to rub yourself off. You're stuck with us now."

She laughed through her tears, opting to rest her hands on Azriel's encircling arms instead. Happy with the home she had found with the male.

Allowing the final few tears to fall, she breathed out deeply, allowing her overwhelming emotions to expire.

"What did you paint?" she asked curiously, realizing she had now seen every painting in the room except her mates.

"Come on," he smiled, holding out a hand for her to take, "I'll show you."

~~~~~

Y/N stared at the painting which glared right back at her. Absorbing the piece in it's entirety as she tried to figure out what it was.

It was beautiful, a swirl of misty yellows and glittering golds, whirling together on the canvas. Colours blending in harmony as they glided across the surface. The picture had a depth to it, sparking a desire inside her chest to try and climb into it, to see just how far she would make it into the glowing storm, wondering what kind of nirvana she would discover at the end of it.

"Its incredible Az! But...what is it?" she daren't remove her eyes from the painting, afraid that the spiritual journey it was taking her on would be cut short.

"It's you" he replied, his proud amber eyes burning into his own work, "what you make me feel, what the bond makes me feel. Every stroke of the brush, every whirl of paint, it's all you."

His words held truth, as Y/N stood and observed each flowing line that moved along the canvas, she felt a strange sense of intamacy with the artwork. As though Azriel had torn out her soul and plastered it across the surface. Her soul which Azriel had recognized before she had, her mate knowing every part of her in it's entirety.

"I see you for what you are" Azriel stated, bond already revealing your thoughts to him, "Just as you see me."

"Cauldron Azriel!" Cassian's shrill voice severed the consuming aura of the moment Y/N and Azriel were sharing, "Feyre needs to start giving you some lessons cause let me tell you that is one ugly-"

Epilogue

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: Hehe if you want to do what I did picture Azriel punching Cassian for that!

Everybody can thank the lovely @charlineraven for speaking this extra part into existence! (I'm so glad you did! 💕💕)

Just the epilogue to go now!

Also for all those expecting a big Elain confrontation I’m sorry! It felt wrong to belittle a woman just for having a crush (come on! Who can blame her I love Az so much)

Taglist:

@thelov3lybookworm @minnieoo @iluvyewman-blog @going-through-shit @laughterafter @amysangel @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @aaronwarnerobssessedmylove @honeybeeboobaa @justvibbinghere @willowpains @tele86 @mysticalfuncollectorus @mybestfriendmademe @starryhiraeth @gorlillaglue25 @moonlwghts @darling006 @anuttellaa @serendipityx150 @xxxalicerogersxx @that-one-little-soybean @scatteredstardustt @naturakaashi @nyx-the-alien @lostinpages13 @namelesssav @dreamlandreader @fightmedraco @maxmouse001

#azriel oneshot #acotar #fanfic #acotar imagine #sarah j maas #azriel x reader #a court of thorns and roses #azriel imagine #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel

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setsugekka · 6 months

Text

↳ Forever was simple: meet a man you love, and live happily ever after.

A hope built on lies, and when it all comes crashing down, you find a new faith inside of the atrium at the countryside.

painter!lee minho x fem!reader/prince!hwang hyunjin x fem!reader (side pairing) — arranged marriage au, historical au. royalty, slow burn, angst, idiots in love, sexual content. [26k wc] cws: themes of vaguely period-typical sexism, themes of loneliness, (heavy) pining + the poor decisions that sometimes result from that, themes of social anxiety + using alcohol to cope, heavy sexual content.

𝕀.

Everything around you glitters in the ambient light of the evening masquerade ball.

Tables lined with beautiful cloths sit along the edges of the ornate hall, piled high with decorative and delicious foods. Amber, bubbling drinks flow and occasionally spill out of long, crystal glasses held by perfectly manicured hands holding them just a little too excitedly.

The kind of night life that you have grown so accustomed to.

Your dress is stunning and perfectly to your tastes, hair styled to match and draped in decadent jewels to showcase yourself with. The suitors are dressed much in the same, though in far more drab colors as men tend to do. This is of no consequence to you, because your eye is set on only one in particular.

Crown Prince Hwang Hyunjin.

You watch him from across the marbled floor, through groups of guests who might as well not even be present with how rapt your attention is on him. He is tall and broad, far from lanky but toned enough to give the impression of a certain kind of sturdiness that has always edged a particular curiosity in you. Hyunjin's hair is black, tied back from framing his face with its length, and you watch him laugh through conversations with other women who likely desire the same thing as you.

Engaging in private rendezvous with potential suitors is strictly against the royal code, all the more reason that no one must ever find out about the edge above the rest that you have taken for yourself in regards to him.

The memories date back to the summer—winter now—a late night out with other women that you've mostly grown up with and set as your entourage. The first time, running into the royal Hwang entourage without prying eyes to watch you felt like something of a hint, and the second, more of a blessing as the night ended with soft hands against your skin, and plush lips pressed against your own.

These secret encounters carried on through the months, as well as implicit promises in relation to the royal choices soon to be made. Between the sheets and with warm breaths of air exhaled against the shell of your ear, Hyunjin has promised time and time again: "You will be my choice, you have nothing to fear, my love. It's all for show and display, isn't it?"

You believe him.

"Are you going to spend the whole evening in the corner by yourself?" A woman steps up beside you with a knowing grin, and you offer your elbow to her side lightly in response.

"I've no particular interest in showing myself off like some prized cut of meat for men to fawn over, you know this, Sana."

This woman, a friend since your earliest days, looks out across the crowd not unlike yourself just moments before, and then offers yet another smile of understanding before speaking.

"Not for men, perhaps, but for a man," she says. "Are you really so sure that you only carry interest in Crown Prince Hwang? There are so many other perfectly acceptable suitors to choose from."

You sigh, taking a small sip from your glass. "I do not doubt that there are, but when have you ever known me to be the type to spread myself so thin between any such possibilities in life? I have always been something of a single-eyed woman."

"That much I do know, yes," Sana says with a small laugh, "but I don't want you to be left with nothing in the event of things not turning out the way that you wish them to. The Prince has many hopefuls, and while he is the only prince, would it be so bad to consider a life outside of the royal court? You've never much cared for the excessive nature of their goings on, anyway."

Turning to look at her, you cast Sana a questioning glance, "I have grown up in the lap of luxury, it is all that I know, are you to imply a step down is what suits me rather than a step up?"

"I would never, but there are many levels between poverty, and royalty."

"Anything other than a step up, is a step down," you say firmly, pressing the rim of your glass to your painted lip again. Your eyes wander out towards Hyunjin once more, and a slight curve upwards takes them, perhaps some enjoyment in the fact that you know something that even your closest confidants do not. Perhaps some enjoyment in the fact that you have already won a game that the others still insist on competing in. "Besides, do you think not of me as future Queen?"

"I wouldn't dream of such a thing, just remember me and all of our times shared once you begin lobbing off the heads of people who dare to oppose you."

Feigning horror, you reel exaggeratedly, "Now who is assuming things?"

Sana's hand finds the small of your tightly bound back, and lightly pushes you forward.

"Go dance with your future husband, would you?"

𝕀𝕀.

While far from unusual for your nights to end up like this, perhaps after everything that this one has presented, the aura casts something different, something intangible and strange that you can't quite grasp despite its familiarity still.

The masquerade ball winds down three levels from where you reside now. People still dance and laugh and shout amongst themselves, though the largest collective of guests have long since begun their journeys back to their own homes. Your entourage awaits you somewhere outside for much of the same, though they have long since learned not to bother coming and finding you in the event that you have disappeared.

For that, you are thankful, because nothing good can come of being discovered like this.

The room is small—a sitting area with little more than a table, chair, window, and tall bookshelves filled to the brim with just that. Moonlight shines in as the only illumination, faint and appearing cool to the touch if one were able to. Only enough to find one's way, and plenty to remain hidden in the darkness while people engage in their disagreeable deeds.

Lips hurriedly find your own, teeth nipping at them with a needy hunger. Palms graze up the outside of your legs, dress hiked up and leg eventually along with it. The door is pinned shut by your back firmly pressed against it, your head tips back with a small thud, Hyunjin chuckles under his breath at the sound, and then drives his hips forward to give the both of you what it is that you've been waiting all evening for.

"I saw you speaking with Lady Sana this evening," Hyunjin whispers, mouth feathering against your neck. "Am I wrong in suspecting that you were speaking about me?"

He presses himself forward, pulls your body down and against the effort simultaneously, ensuring no space is left between your figures. You gasp at the feeling, and he smiles at the sound, fingernails digging into the flesh of your thighs and hips in places that you don't dare let any of your house staff see.

"You would not be wrong," you reply, forcefully maintaining some semblance of composure. "Only good things, of course."

Chest pinned against your own, Hyunjin pulls back, then presses into you again. The glide is smoother this time, and you can't help the moan that escapes you suddenly.

"Have you told her?" he asks, drives quicker and less shallow than before. "I must announce my decision tomorrow afternoon, not long to wait now."

The ability to converse is leaving you with each steady roll of Hyunjin's hips. Your fingernails grip tightly into his suit jacket, though it grants you little purchase with the smoothness of it. Harder, faster; the tell-tale signs of nefarious activities beginning to be heard in rhythmic fashion against the wood of the door, as well as the explicit, unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin.

"No," you manage to say, though barely, "I would never, would never jeopardize what we have waited so long for."

Hyunjin's lips trail up your neck, along the edge of your jaw and settle lightly against your own. He kisses you gently, then merely sits there to drink down the gasps and whimpers of you accepting him. There is little time for this—something that the both of you know—rolls and snaps of his hips become quick, erratic in order to meet his end, and so he does with the kind of rapidity that leaves you terribly wanting and wishing for more.

There is a parting kiss left to you, and Hyunjin readjusts himself so that he can reemerge into the public. Smoothing your dress and slipping out from the doorway, he cracks it open to leave but looks back at you with a smile that you can only assume to be full of sly adoration for you, and for this. The joys of engaging in such things unbeknownst to others, the excitement of deception.

"A shame that tomorrow we will put an end to this, isn't it?" he says.

A shame indeed, you think to yourself. And then he is gone.

𝕀𝕀𝕀.

Just as you had anticipated it would, the city streets come alive for the naming of the Crown Prince’s companion.

Bodies crowd around you by every inch, music performed with accompanying dancers displaying their crafts as well as shop setups lining the way selling beautiful merchandise; hand crafted with care that shines blindingly under the sunlight above.

As you move along your way, the numerous scents of charred meats and grilled vegetables infiltrate your senses, all encompassing and inviting in a way that makes you almost wish to give up on what it is that you are meant to do today. In order to keep your mind set, you remind yourself that soon you will be at the receiving end of royal chefs and all that it is they have to offer you. There is charm to the street cooks and their home grown and cut ingredients, but nothing matches the knowledge and adeptness of the throne.

You have dressed simply today, not wanting to draw attention to yourself nor wanting to appear expectant. Reaching closer to the stage, the bodies are packed in far more tightly, as do the frequency of other potentials come more into vision. So many women; hair stacked high and curled in such a lovely way, all standing in wait in their best dresses with moderate jewelry. It is cold today, and the lavish, heavy coats that hang around their shoulders allude to as much, but you are warm with a deep understanding of what you are to gain this afternoon.

A few rows back from the front of the stage, you find Sana as well as another friend shared between the two of you, Tzuyu. A beautiful woman wrapped in dark vermillion red with black hair that hangs so opposingly to Sana's blonde. They both smile and greet you, as do you, to them.

"Are you anticipating the naming as much as the rest of us are?" Tzuyu asks, a bright, cheerfulness to her tone that gives her something of a charmingly juvenile expressiveness. "So many women are here in wait, I do wonder what His Highness has in store for us."

"A difficult choice awaits him, no doubt," Sana adds, glancing up towards the place where he will soon call his decision towards the people. "I question how these sorts of decisions could ever be made through matters of the heart, but I suppose when it comes to royalty, the heart is of the least concern."

Pulling your coat tightly against yourself, you force back the smile that wishes to take your lips. "I trust that he will make the right call, do you not?"

"I'd sooner disappear into the forest, never to be seen again than dare speak ill of the royal house and their choosings," Sana says through a laugh. "Besides, I would be banished to such a place for doing so, anyway."

"You speak in theatrics," Tzuyu scoffs, a roll of her eyes punctuating it. "The rulers of our country are not so sinister."

"One can only hope, but knowledge of the Crown Prince and his ways are not well known to the people, only time will tell if he is as benevolent of a ruler as His and Her Majesty are," Sana says.

You look at her questioningly, "You suspect otherwise?" you ask, but she is quick to shake her head.

"No, but I am realistic in all of the possibilities that lie before us. Quite the contract, in fact, I have heard rather good things."

Sana's tone is peculiar to you in a way that you find difficult to pinpoint as she speaks on the intricacies of Hyunjin's personality. Her face is simplistic enough to not give anything away, but the sound of her voice carries a sort of inflection when referring to him that settles a strangely ire spark within your chest.

You are given no time to question it further, however, because the royal guards set themselves perfectly in place along the stage, and the arrival of the throne is loudly announced from beyond.

His and Her Majesty step forward first, luxuriously sparkling with expensive jewels and fur coats that you would otherwise never hope to afford, not even from your own place of incredibly comfortable class. The two of them settle in the background, and without wasting any further time, the man that you have grown to love and adore enters the stage in long, tall strides that exude confidence and elegance both.

Thankful for your place in the crowd, you gaze up at him and await his eyes to meet your own. A scroll is handed to him by one of the royal staff from just outside of the main stage, and he slowly unfurls it for all waiting eyes to see.

Hyunjin, all white in attire and garnished with a stunning sash that weighs heavily with brooches and sigils, inhales deeply and then looks out towards the crowd. You stare expectantly, because this is your time. So many nights shared hushed and secret between the two of you, discussed between sheets and pillows of just this very moment that will be granted unto you. His eyes do not find yours, but it is of no particular concern to you, as there will be so many more times for adoring moments to be had between the both of you from this day forward.

No more secrets, no more hiding your love for one another.

"Thank you for gathering here today, it is an honor for me to be able to share this with the people of my country. I do not wish to take much of your time, as there are far more convivial activities for you to be partaking in, aren't there?"

Gentle laughter resounds through the crowd, and Hyunjin smiles ever so slightly at the sound of it before glancing down at the paper in hand once again.

"With my greatest pleasure, I will announce to you the future Queen of the Hwang throne…"

Excitement flows through your veins, head light and nearly dizzying as you await the call. You clutch tightly to your robe, knuckles white and forcing your breath steady as the seconds pass by you like decades until the name is called.

A name is called.

"Minatozaki Sana."

A name that does not belong to you.

From just beside you, a shriek falls from Sana's lips but is forced back halfway through, presumably as to not embarrass herself. Tzuyu clutches at the friend’s shoulders and the two of them celebrate with covered mouths, wide eyes, and hushed shock. The world dulls into a kind of unfelt, nonexistent quietness around you as you stare forward and towards this man; this man that you have shared your body and a bed with, so much of your time and trust with.

He has betrayed you.

You can no longer hear the other women around you, shrouded in disbelief as you gawk at him. Something within you wishes to disappear—humiliation beginning to thrum up and across your skin—there is a small token of solace in the fact that no one else knows of your engagements with him prior as it is widely and heavily frowned upon for the both of you, but this knowledge does nothing to ease the pain that swiftly starts to replace all of the other initial feelings that have befallen you in these seconds passing.

The dizziness begins to set in faster and heavier, you realize that you must take your leave now. You take a step backwards, bumping into another saddened hopeful, but don't even have your wits about you enough to apologize for having done so. Sana and Tzuyu grab at you, say something, but you cannot hear it through the thick blanket of betrayal that casts so heavily between you, and them. Perhaps you congratulate her, words leave your lips but you haven't the slightest clue of what they are. Sana is smiling, crying, so perhaps they have been adequate enough.

Another step back, and you look up towards Hyunjin again. This time, his eyes find yours, and all he offers you is the faintest of wicked grins.

You take your leave quietly, without another word. Heart hanging heavily and not allowing him to take the tears from you that he has so evilly and rightfully earned.

𝕀𝕍.

You are not given time to grieve your loss, as if to intentionally add insult to injury.

Unfortunately, your parents can only be as understanding as information granted allows them to be. The first month, you are given space to wade through your reasonable disappointment, but past that point in time, questions of your next potential suitor once again begin to find themselves at the forefront of discussion amongst the dinner table. You did not know this man, I understand your disappointment in not being chosen, but it's high time to look forward and set your sights towards other potentials, your mother says. Royalty is not everything, there are plenty of other perfectly well-to-do men to take your pick from, your father says.

You tell them that you will look, with no intention of truly doing so. Once the second month passes by with little more progress, you begin to find the signs around the house of your parents taking matters into their own hands.

Letters line the desk of your father’s library room, and one in particular causes the hair at the back of your neck to stand on end.

Only partially sticking out from beneath the stack, you just so slightly pull the corner to unearth more of the words that bring a sickness to your stomach.

"Would be honored to be chosen as your daughter's suitor. The estate is grand and well-kept, though rather empty of life—" the sentence is cut off, you skip to the next area that you can read. "Staff around the clock. Any endeavors she wishes to engage in will be made available—"

The spin inside of your stomach has you reaching forward and clutching at the sides of your father’s desk. It has only been two months, and already there are discussions of having you shipped out and elsewhere, to a strange man that you have never met, and will be expected to placate in all of the ways that one might. While these sorts of scenarios are nothing new to you—the knowledge well known—this was never supposed to be you. No, you were to marry into the royal house, to be made Queen, and having done so through a shared love.

Not pawned off to a stranger who intends to keep you as a moderately cared for pet. You have heard the stories of other such arrangements before; the best that you can ever hope for is a perfectly tepid and boring man who has no interest in your being there, and has only accepted it for the offerings that such an agreement carries between the families in a monetary and societal sense.

How could your parents do this to you? The truth of the matter, however, is that they do not know the intricacies of what it is that they are doing to you. The details of your prior goings on. They must never know, and god forbid potential suitors were to ever find out about your involvement with the Prince beforehand…shunned and displaced, you will forever remain.

Turning towards the doorway, you begin to take your leave. The wheels are in motion and there is nothing left for you to do. Moving forward, you will await the day that your father comes to you with the news of having come to an agreement with a man for the arrangement of your marriage, and you will grin and bear it as daughters of high class households are told to do. In the meantime, you will hope and pray that the man chosen by your father is a kind one, a simple one. Dull and uninteresting and with only enough attention to give to his own things.

𝕍.

Writing takes you by the soul, and always has for as long as you found yourself able to hold a pen.

Your timing in finding out about your father’s misdoings an impeccable sort, because it is only two days later that he finds you in the large study of your manor and informs you of the news. A decision has been made about your future—one that you have had no part in making—and you will be sent off in two weeks time to the northern countryside to live with a man who he describes as "kind, albeit a little eccentric from what I can gather." The documentation has already been signed, and as far as you are concerned in a legal sense, are now married to someone whose name you do not even know.

"Lee Minho," your father says quietly, and you can't help but wonder if the airiness to his voice is of true sadness in having done this to you, or a feigned one, only given because he believes it to be what you desire of him. "He's a painter, quite gifted. A very well-off man, you shouldn't worry about wanting for anything in the absence of our affluence."

Hand gripping the pen tightly, still pressed hard against the paper, you find yourself indifferent to whether or not he can see the displeasure washing over you.

"Understood, I'll have my belongings packed by the handmaidens in proper time."

Your tone is simple, offering nothing more than the most basic of expressions. He does not reply to you with any sort of swiftness, and instead sighs as he turns to make his exit.

"I'm sorry it had to come down to this," he says suddenly, and with no warning. "As you know, you are coming up on your age and—"

"I know, father," you reply, just as flatly as before and continuing with your work along the page. "It is understood."

He leaves, and your scribbling comes to you with a slightly more erratic speed.

𝕍𝕀.

The goodbyes shared with your family carry little weight, and while there is a large part of you never wishing for this day to have come, there is another area that finds solace in no longer having to live under the roof of people who have done so wrongly by you, and with such great ease.

All you needed was time, and you were not given that. Is it so difficult to carry empathy for people who are hurting? To cast aside asinine traditions of age and worth for the sanctity of caring for those that share blood?

Sitting in the back of the carriage as it plods along, you stare out of the small window and contemplate just that. What is family, if not the people meant to care for you above all else? Hyunjin betrayed you with a kind of extravagant ease, but your family, he was not. What excuse do your parents have to cast you aside so eagerly? All but sell you off to a man and for no other reason than to maintain social appearances. Yes, my daughter married that famous painter, Lee Minho. How exceptional and prized such a partnership is.

The journey is a long one, and you hope to have settled in your anger by the time that you arrive. You have no interest in maintaining any sort of exceptional appearances with this man, but perhaps at the very least, he does not need to be on the receiving end of your indignation.

Instead, you fantasize about the perfect life you may be able to cultivate upon your arrival. Perhaps there are perks to him being involved in such a solitary way of life; you imagine two sides of the same mansion, one for you, and one for him. The painter and the writer, and never shall they meet.

𝕍𝕀𝕀.

Nighttime falls upon the land before you make your arrival, and late into the evening do you come.

The estate is seen long before you come upon it, with a handful of lights standing out against the otherwise stark darkness of the countryside surroundings. You recall a mention of the home being relatively lifeless, and so few lights on inside certainly give truth to that. Barren trees line the street and as far as the eye can see given how deeply into winter it still is. There is little snow piled up into little hills along the ground, but it is impossible to see the vastness of the land without proper daylight to guide you.

When you arrive, a handful of house staff are there to greet you. Three women smile and bow, help you out of the carriage and then move along to retrieve your things. One remains with you, and you pull your jacket tighter so as to not allow the frigid air to touch you.

"It is much colder in the countryside than what you are used to," she says gently. "You'll get used to it in due time, but it can be frightening at first."

You glance at her, though not for long. It feels strange to be attended to by staff other than those that you are used to being handled by. This strange woman—older but softer in demeanor—smooths a hand down your arm with little more than a feather-light touch, and then offers you a slight yet understanding smile.

"My name is Mai, I am the head of the housing staff, you'll be seeing me around quite often, so I hope that we can grow comfortable with one another quickly. I understand that this is difficult for you, and strange, so please take your time. There's no rush to become acquainted with myself or the estate grounds."

It's only then that you come to realize the stark lacking of someone else's attendance to your arrival. You glance around slightly, perhaps you have missed him? But there are no men, and so, you ask the question, "What about Mr. Lee?"

Mai's features drop ever so slightly, like she feels some level of sympathy for you. Her hand smooths over your arm again, then gently tugs you towards the large doorway.

"The Master of the house will seldom make himself known, I wouldn't worry too much about that, dear."

"He didn't even come to welcome me, a strange sort of fellow to not bother greeting his wife upon her arrival," you say pointedly. It garners another, particular sort of look from the woman bringing you inside.

"Yes, the Master has been referred to as strange before, this would not be the first time. Please don't take it personally, or as some sort of slight towards you individually. I'm sure that given enough time, the two of you should meet and become acquainted with one another."

You chuckle under your breath, "Husband and wife, acquainted with one another. What have my parents done."

Though your wish upon arriving has ultimately come true, you sift through the confusion in your feelings regarding Minho's disinterest in finding you. The woman that he has taken into his home, agreed to marry, surely expected to have children with—yet with no apparent interest in your being there whatsoever. Stepping inside of the home, it shines and exudes beauty, almost like a museum. Pieces of painted art and statues sit at every inch, as far as the eye can see, but all you can think about is the absence of the man who has beckoned you here.

"I apologize for the darkness of the estate, as you know, it's quite late. I hope that you will take it upon yourself to wander tomorrow during the day. Everything is yours, please make yourself at home." Mai extends a hand forward and towards the large staircase, then points upwards at the centered emptiness created by the winding steps. "At the highest level is the atrium, the only place that is strictly off limits. The Master does most of his work up there, though it's difficult to simply stumble upon, no cause for concern as far as that goes."

Continuing to gaze up at what feels like forever, you slowly bring your attention back down and then fully towards Mai.

"Why has he brought me here?" you ask.

A single corner of her mouth perks, as if contemplating offering a smile that may or may not be apt. Besides that, however, the only expression of feeling you can find amongst her features is that of compassion, and perhaps, maybe even pity.

"As you know, these sorts of things tend to be about maintaining appearances…" Mai trails off, likely on account of having nothing more to add to the fact. It is plenty enough, and indeed, you are very well aware.

"I'd like to be taken to my room now."

There's a hazy numbness that finds your limbs as the staff take your things and begin moving towards the stairs. This is your new life, your new normal for the rest of your life. A loveless existence, a loveless marriage with a man that you will scarcely meet. You wonder, albeit briefly, what you have done to doom your existence to that of such fleeting tenderness.

Hyunjin did not love you, but he was willing to pretend, and while your body was beneath his, you could so easily believe it.

Minho does not love you, and will not even grant you as much. No willingness to try, no interest in feigning the possibility of as much. You are not so foolish to expect to fall in love with this man, but is it so wrong to wish for moments that offer themselves to the fleeting fantasy of it? Infrequent dinners, shared glances from down the hall, and if all goes well, even a kind of friendship developed amongst incapable lovers.

Your bedroom is stunning and immaculately decorated. Mai informs you that anything that you wish to have added or removed is yours to have, and that she will see to it being done swiftly. The walls are lined in a dark, royal blue and accented at the corners with incredible, gold fillings that make the estate feel more like a castle than a simple home for only one man and his house staff.

The thought is appreciated, but you truly cannot fathom wanting for more, not in the physical sense of owning and acquiring physical things. The emptiness inside of you is so much heavier and deeper than the shade of the walls, or the perfectly waxed oak of the floors.

"Thank you," you say. The words are small, and sound far more defeated than you would like them to. Mai is heavenly, everything that you could ever want from someone that you're likely to be spending the majority of your time here with. "What time shall I come down for breakfast in the morning?"

Mai smiles in the doorway, her light gray dress swaying with every slight movement that she makes.

"Eight is standard for the house, but whenever you prefer. If you are an early riser, we can see to it that it is ready and waiting for you by the time you find your footing."

You glance at your handbag, manuscript of your writing sticking out by the corner from it and make your decision going forward.

"I am something of an early morning type. I like to write, I find that I do my best work before the rest of the world begins to stir," you say, forcing a small smile into your lips. "I don't require much, especially just for one person. Just some small breads with butter and coffee will suit me just fine."

Mai nods happily, so obviously delighted by your willingness to allow her to do what she does here. "Of course, anything you wish. If you need anything else in the morning, please don't hesitate to inform any of the staff, we want to make your transition here as smooth and seamless as possible."

"Thank you," you say again, and Mai takes her leave.

Sleep does not find you well that night, despite the weariness of your body from the travel. Instead, your mind races with possibility and wonder about the ghost that you now share a home with, and when you finally do find rest, all that is there to greet you now is the dark, faceless silhouette of a man that you may never come to meet.

𝕍𝕀𝕀𝕀.

Time at the estate feels as though it crawls, and yet slips away and through your fingers in ways that make it feel as though it doesn't really exist at all.

Another month passes you by, a new routine set into motion not unlike yours from back home. Different settings, different foods offered; scents that arrive to you like they are foreign and fabrics against your skin that feel entirely different from that which you have become accustomed to. Life here is easy, and for that, you are thankful, but the dull ache of listlessness begins to take hold of you faster than you might have anticipated it to, and your curiosities about the manor creep up and make themselves known to you without much of an ability left in you to fight them off.

You have yet to meet Minho, even in all of your time here. A month is not long to spend in one place, but feels like a lifetime to not have met the person that you live with, the man that you are married to and meant to spend the rest of your days alongside.

Writing, at the very least, comes to you with incredible ease while cased inside of these walls. Your manuscript—a sort of anonymous autobiography of your life—grows and grows like it is showered with all of the sunlight and nutrients of a lovingly kept garden. There is nothing else for you to do here, after all.

These routines come to you naturally, not one to stray from those things that come naturally and comfortably to you. In the mornings, you wake early to head downstairs to eat warm, buttered bread and take your cup of coffee; leaving towards the large study that sits looking off into the flowerbeds with a large, never dirtied window to grant you such a view.

Books surround here, as do their smells. You could never hope to read them all, though you might like to. When particularly down about your circumstances, you consider the fact that you have ample time to begin such an endeavor, as nothing else inside of this building will ever bother to ask for time from you.

One day after the mark of a month from your arrival, you stay up a little later than usual and slowly sip an aged, red wine from the shined lip of a glass. Your nighttime gown already drapes from your body, but you have no such intention of finding sleep any time soon.

For one reason or another, the atrium calls to you silently in the ambient darkness of the house.

The house staff is long asleep, nobody lurking the corridors to ensure that the inhabitants are not allowing the whimsy of curiosity to get the best of them. You step out and into the hallway, small candles lining the way and towards the stairs that lead further up, guiding lights beckoning you, asking you to follow them, telling you to take liberties not truly afforded to you.

So you do. Up so many flights, a climb that feels endless at points, until of course, you reach the top.

Perhaps you had expected too much, built up the possibilities so much in your mind that whatever it is that you might find here never standing a chance in living up to your imagination. There is little that greets you once you climb the last step; no warning signs, no guards or traps set for intruders stumbling upon this place. Instead, you find an incomprehensible mess along the large and wide expanse of floor. Canvases sprawled as far as the eye can see—some still basking in their unmarred perfection, others splashed with color or linework—paint pots and filthy brushes, palettes that appear as though they've never seen the loving touch of water to clean them.

Furthest away from where you stand, you find a table and a single chair, though it would not seem to be used for its intended purpose with the way items have been set against and atop them. There are papers sitting on the wood, however, and your budding curiosity gets the best of you even more as you carefully step forward and over all of the belongings that coat the floor.

The floor beneath you is sturdy, and for that, you are thankful. There are no creaks of footsteps to alert anyone of your presence here, and when you arrive at the table, you find piles upon piles of letters pinned down beneath dirty, likely forgotten jars of water.

The penmanship of one draws your attention, familiar and loud as it stares back at you. It is from your father.

This date is recent, one of the few things that you can make out from where it sits. You care little for maintaining your invisibility here now, and pull the sheet out from within the others so that you can read it in full.

You realize quickly upon scanning it that you did not know what to expect, but what it is that you have found now somehow sits even more strangely in your chest. Your eyebrows furrow as you take in the words from your father—they are nonsensical in every sense of the word—incomprehensible when paired with the realism of your life at this place.

One part reads: I am happy to hear that the two of you are getting along so splendidly. Of course, it is impossible to say when putting together such matters, but I had something of a feeling that it would be right, and I am so blessed to find that this meeting has been a successful one.

He has been lying to your father ever since your arrival here.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

Your attention shoots up from the letter, which drops from your hand on account of the shock in being found. What jars you from your thoughts much more than having been caught, however, is not that fact in and of itself. Rather, it is the fact that it is the voice of a man that has questioned you.

And looking up from here, back towards the stairs, the moonlight shines in from the glass ceiling panels of the atrium, down onto the face of a man with somewhat long and relatively unkempt black hair that curtains in front of his eyes delicately. His jaw is strong, sharp; outlining narrow eyes and lips that settle into a somewhat upturned position when not forced into another shape.

Could it be…?

You do not respond right away, and neither does he press you further for a reply. Instead, the man carries himself forward and kneels down in front of a particular pile of painting supplies. Perhaps you hadn't taken careful enough notice of them, the way that the paint is still fresh and wet, now that you look at it.

His shirt is white, sleeves rolled up along his forearms and cuffed carelessly at the bend of his elbow. He appears strong, not at all the dainty, frail image of an artist type that one might typically assume someone like this to be. Somewhere within you swims the possibility that this is not the man that you are married to, merely some other person who also is granted the ability to use the atrium for its assigned purpose, but the thought seems asinine with the evidence presented in front of you.

He grabs a brush, takes a palette into hand and dips the bristles into something dark. One stroke, then another onto a canvas that has already been seen by his hand previously. He ignores you for many long moments, and as a result, you merely stand there in silence and watch as he continues on.

The brush dips into a jar of water, swirled around and faintly clinking against the glass. Then, the man looks up at you again.

"Is there?"

Forgetting that there has ever been a question posed, your mind races to catch up to what it is that he's asking. Nervousness catches your limbs, not knowing what to do with your hands, your feet, the expression on your face when suddenly and finally addressed.

But you have no interest in answering his inquiry, and instead, pose one of your own.

"Why have you been lying to my father?"

"Ah," he says, the sound quiet and coming out with a knowing exhale. His attention drops back to the canvas and colors in front of him. "Do you make it a habit of reading other people's mail, then?"

"We've not even met once since I moved here, yet you're telling my father that we're getting along swimmingly, why?"

"Are we not?" Minho says, his engagement in the discussion confirmation enough of the fact that this is him. "No arguments, no raised tones or names called. As far as I'm concerned, we're getting along as well as one might hope, all things considered."

"We have never even met!" you nearly yell, dropping your volume at the tail end with the way that you know voice carries through the halls of the estate. This is a discussion meant for the two of you alone. "The least you could do after all of this time is introduce yourself to me, especially if you're going to be lying to my parents about the goings on out here!"

Minho looks up at you then, but his face is empty of feeling. "This is why I thought it best that we not meet, now I have to tell him that things have taken a turn," he says.

His face does not allude to it, but his tone very much does in the way that the faintest hint of amusement can be discerned throughout his words. Hearing such coyness does nothing to calm your growing resentment towards him, if anything, only adding fuel to the budding fire.

"Do you think this is funny?" you ask, anger laden in your voice. "Is that why you brought me out here? For your amusement, so that you could laugh to yourself in the late hours of the night about the woman that you're keeping holed up while I rot away inside of these walls and lament what my life might have been if my father had only allowed me a little more time?"

Stare unwavering, your eyes remain locked onto Minho's once you finish speaking, and he is not quick to reply in any fashion. Silence slips in between the two of you, only the faintest ticking of an old, antique clock stationed off to the side heard between the nothingness growing inside of the atrium.

Then, he sighs.

"I brought you out here because of the nature of our society and the expectation of certain norms therein. You know this as well as I do, what is expected of us by certain ages. Unfortunately for you, both of our time is nearly up and as a result, this is how fate would have it."

He explains it so matter of factly that the entire concept of these arrangements feels strange and foreign to you, despite its familiarity. Minho is right, and what he says to you is true, but it does little to make you feel calm in the matter. He offers you no comfort, no easiness or soft words to sort any pain that you may be feeling as a result of it. Perfunctory in delivery, Minho only gives to you precisely what it is that the two of you already know; nothing more, and nothing less.

You know this, but the dull ache of pain inside of your chest does not wane. It grows instead, so much so that you find yourself losing the ability to maintain disdain for him, or the fact that he brought you here, at all.

"Did you reach out to my father, or did he call out to you?" you ask, voice timid and broken. The details of the arrangement are of little consequence now, but you find yourself questioning it all the same. Perhaps they have only both ended up here by chance, and if so, is that the best possible outcome of all?

Lips thinning straight, it's a sort of forced smile that barely ever comes through, and Minho breaks eye contact once you present the question to him like he is aware that nothing he has to offer you will ever be enough.

The brush handle rattles against the glass once again, the sound sharp and jarring, bothersome to your ears now.

"He reached out to me," Minho says plainly, "and for that, you have my condolences."

𝕀𝕏.

Two weeks go by without so much as a sighting of the man that lives among you. In that time, however, a letter finds you from your mother. Late in the morning on a particularly dreary day, Mai comes to you in your study and hands off the envelope with a gleeful smile, seemingly thrilled to be offering you something instead of your husband.

"I was hoping that they would write to you soon," she says. "The early stages still require much conversing between the Master and your parents, but it's good that they have found the time to reach out to you now, as well."

"Yes, very good," you reply, forcing the sound of pleasantness through the words. You wonder if she knows about your meeting with Minho not so long ago, if she has been informed of your snooping and the knowledge you gained therein. "Thank you, I'll read it quickly."

Mai takes her leave and you are once again left to your things. Your finger slides beneath the flap of the envelope and pulls the seal apart, nimbly releasing the letter inside from its confines. Heart beating rapidly and not knowing what you will find, you attempt to steady your anxiety and land your eyes onto the page.

The words penned across it are happy ones, and that shifts your nerves at a sudden pace. She expresses her joy at all of the things your father has informed her in regards to his constant speaking with Minho; how well things have been going between the two of you, how worried she had been at the possibility of otherwise, and how proud she is of you. The words feel empty and as if they are not meant for you—how could they be? There is no truth held inside of any of it.

Once finished, you slip the letter back inside and tuck it away beneath your manuscript, opting instead to turn your attention towards the garden that awaits you just through the dampened window. Rain lightly pelts it, a calming sound that is very much needed in the aftermath of this reminder.

Recalling your conversation with Minho in the atrium, you hone in on the specifics of it now. In particular, his stoic interpretation of this combination between the two of you. It was not he who intended to seek you out, and rather, the both of you share the difficulties of age and societal expectations that have been casted upon you at birth. A loveless marriage it is, convenience, even; but circumstances that the both of you are flattened beneath the pressure of.

You had once wished for him to be a man with no interest in you, and that is precisely what you have been graced with. Minho does not care for your presence, does not wish to spend time with you or converse with you in any way that people who share a home tend to do. This is what you had wanted for, so then why now does it feel so rotten to be on the receiving end of it?

A flash of lightning in the far off distance comes to pass, and it is at that moment that you come to your decision: you will make your way to the atrium once more.

𝕏.

Shadows flicker and dance across the darkness of the walls and bookcases lining the crescent shaped sides of the atrium, seen long before you reach the topmost step. There is no sound besides faint rustling, and the occasional, familiar clinking of wooden stick against glass rim.

Minho is there.

You reach the top and find him; on his knees and hunched over not unlike your last meeting in this place. His shoulders and back flex against the tightness of the white blouse that holds him, deceptively firm muscles that you are only now able to see from this angle. He stills briefly, silent acknowledgment of his knowing that you are there, but carries on with his task for a while before bothering to utter a word.

"You shouldn't be up here."

An expected warning, but it does little to deter you. Instead of turning back, you continue forward, towards him, and stop only a few more strides away. Distance given out of the goodness of your heart, and because you accept wrongdoing in ever having come here in the first place.

"Why?" you ask.

With busy hands, Minho remains fast at work, splashing blues, pinks and purples across the white canvas. His features do not twist or contort in any sort of way that one might expect from tortured artists who suffer at the hands of their crafts. Quite the contrary; he appears at ease, calm and collected in this place that is meant only for him and the creations that pour from his skilled fingers.

"For no other reason than it being my working space, and working spaces must be maintained as such." He pauses finally, drops the bush into the water sitting just beside and then looks up at you through messy, loose strands of black hair. "It is no place for conversing, especially if you wish to fight with me like before."

The reluctance in his voice, almost pained in the way that he says it, has your eyebrows pressing together with rather intense confusion. While it is true that you had been far from pleased with the discoveries made the first time you made your way up here, to call it something of a fight feels rather excessive to you, in hindsight.

"I wouldn't say that we fought, can you blame me for feeling the way that I had felt then?"

"Not at all," he admits with ease, "but you shouldn't go through my things, and you shouldn't raise your voice at me in regards to matters that are just as much out of my control as they are your own."

That rubs you wrongly, and your eyes narrow as a result of it. "They are not equally out of our control. You desired a woman to live idly in your home and that is what you received. I desired only the smallest allowance of time in order to get my surroundings back on track, and in the end, what I received was nothing more than being the aforementioned idle woman."

Minho sighs heavily, then turns back to the canvas in front of him. "How many times must I apologize for that? It's not as if I had known when the inquiry was sent to me that you would be so displeased. Is it not enough that I do not force you to engage with me?"

"That's not—"

"I ask nothing of you," Minho continues, a newfound pointedness to his voice. "I do not request your company in any capacity, no expectation of you to entertain me in any way. I do not bother you, I do my best to stay out of your way. Anything you desire, it's yours. Money, gifts, luxury cloths or even the most expensive art pieces from all across the globe…any of it can be yours, should it suit you."

His voice wavers as he reaches the tail end of his words, and the weight of it hangs heavy on your heart. Minho sounds sad, defeated in a battle that he hadn't even bothered to take on.

Then, he looks up towards you again.

"If a lover is what you wish to have, you may take one. I understand the difficulty in meeting people so far out in the countryside, but I'll see to it that the staff will accommodate your needs in any way."

Once he finishes, you stand silently just off and to the side of him. Your stares towards one another rest in the balance, you anticipate him saying more, but the words never come.

You frown at him, just slightly.

"What do you know about me?" you ask.

The question seems to take him aback, eyes widening slightly at the suddenness of it being presented towards him. His eyes fall from yours then, cast around the floor between you as if the answers sprawled out somewhere there. Eventually, he accepts his fate, and looks back up towards you.

"I…I don't know. Nothing, I suppose. Not beyond what your father has told me throughout our correspondence."

"My father knows nothing about me, not beyond the perfected image of daughterhood that I am expected to present. You know all about expectations, don't you, Mr. Lee?"

His watching you continues, but no words dare to be uttered by the man.

"Perhaps instead of holing yourself up here your whole life, you come down and do what is expected of you." Turning back towards the stairs that brought you here, you begin your descent down—one, two—and then pause to turn back for your final parting words.

"A man is expected to be seen by his wife, is he not? To talk to her, to know things about her, to learn. More than that, a husband is expected to do all of that, and even more. I refuse to allow you to use my invisible presence here as nothing more than a story that you can tell people while you're away presenting your art pieces. You wanted me here, and so I am. You will have to do better, because I have nothing left to lose, and the humiliation of returning home from a failed marriage is a far cry from the things I have already endured."

Minho does not reply.

𝕏𝕀.

The next morning, just as any other, you maintain your routines.

Exiting your bedroom, your feet pad along the floor one after another—simple slippers that adorn them, keeping your toes warm—the sound of it is one that you have now grown accustomed to, the echo as it carries through the emptiness of the estate.

Thankfully, as you draw nearer to the lowest level and towards the kitchen, the gentle music of other inhabitants fondly make themselves known to you. Scents mix in as well, cinnamon and coffee and vanilla all whirled together in the air that you can't help but find peace amongst it all. When you enter, you are greeted brightly by Mai, as well as the other housekeepers lending their hands to ensure a seamlessly run ship.

You offer your thanks, and head along your way towards the study. The door hangs ajar, just as you always leave it. No concern for whether or not Minho will make his way down and curiosity will get the best of him upon catching sight of your belongings; a man who has made it more than clear that he holds no such fascination in you.

The large seat situated in front of the window awaits you. Today is sunny, the short rain that tells a tale of spring soon to come, having since passed during the nighttime and bringing after its having gone bright skies and pristine white clouds. A good day, a nice day. You sit, opening the drawer inside of the desk and pulling from it the notebook that holds your manuscript. So many years of work, so personal and encompassing everything that makes you.

With your back towards the door, you only vaguely hear the sounds of Mai's hushed utterance from just within the kitchen. Some exclamation of surprise, though it disappears with the same swiftness that it seems to have caught her. Perhaps a bug, or a misplaced knife settled within the wrong drawer—anything could be the case—and for that very reason, you brush it off and focus instead on the pen and paper before you.

Then, there's a knock at the wood of your door.

"Yes?" you call back out at it, unsure of what the housekeepers could be wanting from you. Your typical routine with them has been more or less concluded, no obvious reason for anyone to be looking for you now. "I've not finished with my first coffee yet, I'll come when I have, you need not wait on me and worry yourselves sick."

"Does the Lady of the house have a moment of her time to spare?"

Before you can so much as fathom it, your body whips around and you nearly wholly twist in your chair to look back at the place that the masculine voice has come.

As if what awaits you there could be anything else, anyone else; Minho stands in the small crack of the doorway, barely enough for him to fit half of his body through. He does not dare attempt it, waiting outside for your word of affirmation. His face is downcast, looking up through eyelashes at you like he is doing something entirely wrong of the both of you. Anticipating being turned away, expecting to be berated for having the gall to make such a brave attempt.

"Y-yes, of course, come in!" you reply, biting back the eagerness in your tone at the end of the sentence. Suddenly, you become painfully aware of the space around you and how unkempt you have allowed it to be. "I apologize, it's something of a mess. I only come in here to do some small tasks to keep myself busy and then I leave so I don't think much of keeping it tidy."

Minho steps inside, though the effort is barely there. Two steps into the room, and then he stops; looks around it like he has never been here before. Eventually, you come to understand that he is not so much looking at the things he keeps and rather, that he is avoiding eyes that belong to you.

"It is yours, you may keep it as you wish," he says. His hands dance between being cradled in front of himself, to similarly behind his back. Forward again, thumbs craned into his pockets, then out and to his sides—strangely, uncomfortably. He does not know what to do with them. "I apologize for intruding on your time like this, I—" he pauses, stops looking around once he realizes he has seen all that there is to see, and then has no other option than to look at you. This action is short lived, however, eyes quickly falling to the wood beneath his feet. "I believe that you were correct last night, in your assessment of me and our arrangement. For that reason, I want to make an effort. I want to…do what is expected of me."

Silence blankets the room, his eyes cast upwards again; "If that's all right, of course."

"Yes, yes of course it's…what I would prefer, I think." Once again, excitement that betrays your unwillingness to give too much, too fast. Even if he weren't looking at you, the glee would be heard in your voice. "At the very least, an effort made to get to know one another on a more personal basis. We may never fall in love, may never become lovers…it's impossible to say if we will ever even become friends, but I think it best for the both of us if there is some level of acquaintanceship here."

Minho nods once, swallowing so hard and through a throat so dry that you swear you can hear it. "Understood. Though I must say, I do…" he trails off in thought, returns to it only moments later, "I still intend to spend the majority of my time in the atrium, for work. I must insist that even with our new arrangement, you do not come up there. I will instead…make myself more common down here, or if you request my presence—not that I suspect you will—please inform Mai, and she will retrieve me."

"I accept these terms, but in the inception of such, it is only fair that I forge those of my own."

Eyes widening in shock, Minho seems surprised by your candor. Though you do not know him well, one thing you are thankful for is his seeming unwillingness to abide by much of the traditional social construct that exists around the expectations of the way that men and women are meant to engage with one another. You speak loudly and brashly with Minho, a man that you barely know, and he accepts as much with grace. When he wishes for you to not engage with him in such ways, he calmly asks it of you, rather than demands it through authoritarian fear.

When you wish to push back, he takes a step backwards of his own in order to grant you the space to do so.

"That indeed is fair," Minho agrees, a barely-there smile curving into the corners of his lips. "What does the Lady seek?"

"We have a meal together, most days. Breakfast or dinner, it is of no particular consequence to me. I do not know if you prefer the morning or evening hours, but based on your artistic habits and the dark circling beneath your eyes currently, one can only assume that breakfast is out of the question."

Your own smile perks up, and along with it, Minho's widens. He turns his head, looks over in an attempt to find the nearest reflective surface. Only a silver vase, his face coming out all wobbly and distorted as he looks at himself against it. The truth of your words is still found, however.

"I accept," he says. "Dinner. Let's have dinner together tonight."

You grant him a nod, and he cumbersomely turns towards the door to take his leave.

"One more thing," he adds, paused perfectly within the doorframe but choosing not to look back at you. "Perhaps we should…prepare for the conversations that will be had. It would be awfully unfortunate to waste our time together among the dead of an otherwise quiet night."

Charmed in all of the most fascinating and incomprehensible ways, you see straight through the veil that Minho has attempted to hold up. A million questions run through your mind already; regarding him, this estate, his work, where he has been, and you cannot fathom the possibility of him not experiencing the same. Rather, the second likelihood swims within your thoughts, humorously intriguing, and serving as the catalyst for your ability to begin putting the pieces of him together into something far more recognizable.

Lee Minho is reserved. Locked away in the countryside and borderline cripplingly timid in the face of anything new and not easily understood—made sense by the dabbing of colored paints onto a canvas, dragged and splotched into something that his eye can really and truly see.

Later that evening, Mai and her staff spend far more time and effort preparing a meal than is truly necessary. You worry to yourself slightly watching the lot of them hustle about—there are only two of you, after all—but Mai insists each and every time that she finds the concern spread across your features that she is actually quite thrilled to be doing something such as this for once.

"The Master does not have company often, and for that reason, does not frequently take a proper meal in the evenings," she says, delight dripping from her voice.

Comically to you, however, is the fact that Minho is here and seated at the table across from you already; spoken about as if he is not even in the room. You look him over when Mai admits as much and his features pan, somewhat pained by the truth of it all, you suppose.

"I'm busy in the evenings, more often than not, you are well aware of this, Mai."

"That's no reason not to allow us to have some fun in this kitchen." Her fists ball up at the tops of her hips, and then a handful of other staff begin making their way over to set dishes atop the table.

"You shouldn't say it like I don't permit you to do so," Minho says. He glances up at you briefly, as if to gauge how you're taking all of this. Worried you might think him to be an evil ruler of the manor. "You can, it's just—"

"Wasteful!" Mai finishes with a knowing nod, and then disappears from your side of the table altogether. Her next words are spoken from quite a ways away, down the hall and out of the dining area. "Enjoy your meal! Call for us if you need anything!" she says.

And then the room is silent.

The smells of roasted chicken and glazed vegetables quickly beckon your attention. Buttered dinner rolls in wicker baskets and already poured glasses of wine await each of you. The serving of food has already been completed, your plate piled high with items that drown in delicious looking gravy and topped with garnishes.

You reach towards your wine glass, and make short eye contact with Minho along the way.

He clears his throat, shuffles uncomfortably in his seat after it, and then picks up his eating utensils.

"Some men," he starts, then waits, like he isn't sure that it's so much of a good idea, "some men can be strange about the types of food, or the amount, that their wives eat."

You continue staring at him, because what is the point of this?

Minho reaches for his glass, takes a large sip from it. "Uhh, I'm not like those men, so please, have your fill."

"Are you informing me that I am permitted to not go hungry for appearances?" you ask flatly.

"I—" he begins, short and cut off, not sure where to go from here. "Yes, I suppose that I am. I just wanted to be clear, in case there was cause for concern."

"With all due respect," you say through a light chuckle, "we're in the middle of nowhere, and I've not left the estate since I came. Who am I really intending to impress?"

Minho does not respond to that. He seems to be willing to relent to the conversation at just about any turn, which amuses and also confuses you. Watching him, he cuts into a piece of potato and carefully puts the chunk between slightly crooked, off kilter front teeth. Sort of charming, one of those quirks about a person's appearance that grows on you over time.

He looks up at you suddenly, then takes another sip of the wine.

"What do you do here? How do you spend your days?"

That is unexpected, though you can't quite pinpoint why. Perhaps it is the brashness of finally asking something so quizzical, so personal; a true attempt at learning something about you in a way not before seen or expressed by him. You do not answer right away, nor does he press further. Only the scraping of silverware against fine porcelain is heard throughout the space for entirely too long.

Might he think you strange for your habits? Is he someone safe to tell?

It's worth the chance, and you will yourself to be unbothered by any negative reaction that he may have.

"I…um, I'm writing a book," you say, steadying the tremble that punctures the words, "I do a lot of writing. In the mornings I wake up early, have my breakfast, and then I write in the study by the garden."

You remain nervous about Minho's reaction, but for no discernible reason you come to find. His eyebrows perk up, attention rapt by what it is that you've said. "A book? That's quite impressive, how long have you been working on it?"

"Oh, many years." Stumbling through the strangeness of his sudden exhilaration, you attempt to maintain your composure. "It is something of a memoir, so I have been collecting moments of my life for as long as I can remember."

Minho shakes his head, evidently stunned by such a possibility. "Writing is such a magnificent craft, everyday I wish that the gift of language and written word is the one that had come to find my hands."

"Painting is an incredible art, so few people are creatively capable of mastering the concepts of color or line like you have. Anyone literate can write a sentence."

Minho looks up and the two of you meet glances. It is a moment shared between people who have a newfound understanding amongst one another, and as a result, it feels special; magical. He smiles slightly, and you can't help but match it, too.

"Well, anyone can scribble color onto a canvas, but I think we both know well enough that there is much more that goes into the arts than that," Minho says, a newfound casualness that you feel as though you have only just unlocked to his tone. "Are you looking to publish someday?"

"I think I might like to, if the opportunity were to arise." You stop, reconsider the content therein, and correct for that. "Anonymously, or under a penname. Not my own."

He nods in acceptance of that, then takes another bite of food with his vision cast down towards the plate. In times like this, Minho reminds you of a small child, poorly socialized and unsure of how to move about the world with other people in it. He tries his best, has only the best of intentions, but it never quite feels as though it's enough.

Little by little, you're peeling through those layers. All things considered, so far, the journey isn't half bad.

"I'm pleased that we've decided to do this," Minho says, focused solely on pushing the broccoli around on his plate idly. "Spend time together, I mean. Getting to know one another."

Thus far, perhaps there is a part of you that cannot help but agree.

𝕏𝕀𝕀.

New routines unearth themselves throughout the estate.

Spring washes over the land in waves; flowers in their fullest blossom, live with color and birds that joyously scour the land for new perches to rest their tired wings atop. The trees fill in once more with lush greens and fruits that begin to fill in along the firm branches.

Minho makes himself more often seen throughout the manor corridors, though often brief and insistent on his having some other place to be. You learn not to take it to heart—his insistence in giving himself an out of the conversation—as it would seem that conversation with others is not a skill that comes naturally to him.

Still, you appreciate the effort. Some mornings, Minho slinks down the stairway and into the kitchen, long before his usual rising hours, and asks you about the agenda for your day. You often do not have much to offer him, but Minho watches on as you fill him in with his chin cradled in his hands and eyes that sparkle under the barely breaking dawn that washes in from the windows. He always smiles; somewhat crooked, with one side pulling ever so slightly higher than the other. It isn't a lot, but for now, it will do.

The month is April, and out of the study window you find Minho tending to the garden.

The outside grounds are not well traveled by you, partially on account of arriving to the countryside in the dead of winter. Now that the breezes have warmed and the snow has melted, it's as fine a time as any, and you carry yourself off towards the side door in the kitchen to take your first few steps into the garden that you have adoringly watched all of these months.

"Decided not to keep yourself cooped up in there, did you?" Minho asks playfully, only briefly glancing up towards you from his bent and knelt position in the turned soil. His hands are dirty—no gloves to be seen—but his forearms flex and pulse with strength as he rips at weeds and digs his holes. "People are going to start to think I don't permit you to leave."

"People? What people?" you reply. "Even my own parents have grown bored of writing to me. I don't think you live in any fear of what the people might think. Perhaps they assume that we are wildly happy together, no interest in sharing that with the rest of the unworthy world."

"Aren't we?" Minho says, chuckling lightly.

You make an effort to ignore the question, as well as the way his muscles all appear taut and well attended to beneath his moistened white shirt. Minho is a good looking man, in ways that are a little surprising to you and even in spite of his lack of social character, but even as your husband, he is a stranger. A man that you now live with because it is nothing more than convenient for the both of you, not someone to be lusted after.

Hyunjin comes to mind suddenly. Every time you find yourself missing the touch of a man, it's him that torments you still.

"Of course." You make an effort to ignore the thoughts, and change the subject. "I didn't know you had an interest in gardening. Perhaps I wrongfully assumed it to be something kept up with by the staff."

"Wrong indeed," he says, wiping at his forehead with the rolled up sleeve of his shirt. His skin glistens under the spring sunlight, hair collecting the moisture of his face within its strands.

You are only lusting after him in this way because you wish to be touched by a man again, you barely even know him, you reason. Some reason.

"It's something I picked up a good many years back, when I was shoved deeply into the success of my career. I spent even more time locked away with my work and my paintings, if you could even believe it," Minho says, smiling at himself at the memory of it all. "So, I had to find a reason to get out of the house. Not too far, or for too long, but something. Additionally, I enjoy the act of creation…" he pauses, picks up a small vegetable bulb and holds it up for you to look at. "What's more creative than life?"

You smile, wide and with teeth in a way that you don't remember having done in such a long, long time. Minho laughs at your reaction, and then carries on burying the plant into the ground as originally intended.

"You like to play God in the garden, then?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"What would you say?"

Minho looks up, a surprisingly thoughtful expression etched into his features, as if really, genuinely giving the question an ample amount of thought. "I would say that I like to create!"

A beat of silence passes between the two of you, and Minho continues on with his task. You cock your head to the side, watching him quietly as he moves as if an incredibly bizarre exchange hasn't just taken place. The truth of the matter, you know without so much as even having to ask, is that the discussion is more than likely not strange to him, at all. A perfectly fine chat, nothing out of the ordinary.

Naturally, in the midst of moments like these is when Minho seems most at ease.

"You're a bit odd, Mr. Lee," you say. Calmness is heavy in your tone, marking down the potential distaste that might otherwise accompany such words. "Do you often hear that?"

"Yes, but my oddities and eccentricities are what make the mind tick, the art work and come to life. If I were anything other than myself, who knows what may come of it. I'd rather not find out. Oh, that reminds me—"

Setting his tools down and wiping his hands uselessly on his brown trousers, Minho pauses all of his toiling about to give you his full attention for the words that he is intending for you. His face appears somewhat disappointed, but there's something else mixing within the emotions that you might easily name that you can't quite pinpoint.

"At the beginning of the summer, around June or so, I will leave you to carry on with a showing. I will be gone until autumn time, perhaps November…it will be cold again when I return."

Your stomach drops, and that feeling shocks you.

"Of course, the estate is yours to do as you see fit, and you may leave it as frequently as you wish, too. All of the staff will be yours. It is all yours."

Your lips thin into a frown, and as it would seem, the reaction surprises Minho. He looks up at you in confusion, and perhaps quickly works through the thoughts by himself, because his eyes dip down and away from you, unable to share his gaze with your own with how displeased you appear.

"I'm going to be alone here…for months…"

"Well, you won't be alone…" he says quietly, offering nothing.

"We've finally begun the process of getting to know one another in a meaningful way, and now you're leaving until autumn…it'll be as though we're strangers all over again when you return."

"Surely it won't be that bad…" Minho forces himself to give you answers, but none of them quell the feeling that presses against your chest. "I'll return before you even notice I'm away. For a long time upon your arrival, it was as if I wasn't here at all."

"And I hated it!" you reply quickly, brashly. The words come out loud and honest in a way that you have not intended. Your eyes sit wide on your face, and finally, Minho slowly looks up at you again with eyes not unlike your own.

Neither of you speak for a long while, until Minho sighs and has no other option but to do so himself.

"I apologize, I…did not anticipate that you would feel this way about it, but nevertheless, there is nothing that I can do. This is a part of my work, I often must leave to do such things. The year after this one will be no different, and if it is, then the futility of fame and the fickleness of the human intrigue has finally caught up to me." He quiets again, continues trying to wipe the dirt caked onto the skin of his hands off and onto his pants uselessly. A pointless endeavor. It feels not unlike wanting to be loved.

"I can…try to come home sooner, at the tail end of things. Sometimes it wraps up earlier than anticipated," he says, looking away from your disappointed eyes. "I've not bothered to rush home before, with nothing waiting for me. Not to imply that you are…waiting for my return…"

"I would like that," you say, simply put. "Suppose then we should make an effort to make these last two months together count, yes?"

Minho doesn't look up at you, too socially strangled to do so. It's not necessary, however, because the small perk at the corner of his mouth as a result of what you have proposed says plenty.

𝕏𝕀𝕀𝕀.

"Another lovely dinner, thank you, Mai."

She nods to Minho kindly, accepting the compliment, and then finishes up her small cleaning tasks to head out and away from the dining area. You look out and across the living room at the large window that leads into the garden—not unlike your study—and bask in the way that the moonlight shines down onto the glistening, wet leaves and petals that have since come to bloom.

"Have you been out yet? In the evening, I mean." Minho turns to you when he says it, notices where it is that you've been looking, but you shake your head.

"No, too busy with my writing, I suppose."

"You'll find an excuse forever if you allow yourself to, come on, let's go."

Minho doesn't touch you, but he waves his hand towards you and then back into the direction of the side door that leads into the garden. You follow along without much argument, wanting just as much to see what the grounds have to offer you, and perhaps now is as good of a time as any.

The nighttime breeze is cold, and you are not at all dressed to be traversing it with only a thin shawl draped over your shoulders. Immediately upon stepping down and onto the cobblestone pathway your arms fly up to cradle yourself, attempting to hug back the warmth that escapes. Minho seems far less bothered by the pricking of cold against his skin. He is never dressed in anything special or extravagant for as long as you have known him; a plain, white button down shirt with brown, fitted pants suited for not much more than becoming dirty without a care.

Regardless, you push through. It is not often that the two of you partake in anything other than a dinner, or a coffee together. Two people so wrapped up in their own things that they nearly forget about the existence of the other. You make an effort—Minho is getting better over the weeks—but only so many hours in a day.

The two of you slip around the gray, brick corner of the home; grand in its stature. As far as the eye can see sit beds of flowers, ornate bushes, and the shining droplets of rain from earlier in the day that still collect on each. It's a beautiful sight, the way that they twinkle, and when Minho turns to look back at you, a rare and wide smile pulls at his face.

And then it falls.

"Are you cold?" he asks, concerned and rushing towards you instead. "You should have said something, only now do I realize that you're not dressed for the evening breeze."

"I'm fine, really," you insist, something of a lie with the way that you tremble. He must not be thinking clearly, too wrapped up in the sight before him to thoroughly consider all of his options. Minho reaches for you, presses smooth, warm palms to your arms and runs down them carefully before grasping gently at your wrists and pulling your body against his. He wraps his arms around you—he is firm, both in body and embrace—and he smells like the strangest combination of paint and cinnamon.

Indeed, you are warmer now.

You are not unfamiliar with the touch of a man, and it is not that in particular that dredges up the nervousness in your stomach. Rather, you have never shared a touch with this man, and this man is the one that you live with, are married to. You wonder if it is only natural to have considered the possibility of wanting him; handsome, smart, kind, who wouldn't at the very least enjoy the fantasy of such a thing.

But never to touch.

Minho's hands, surprisingly strong and confident, inch down your back to pool at the small of it as distance is created between the both of your bodies. You crave the kind of intimacy that being like this gives you, but still it feels wrong when it comes from him. Accepting this arrangement as nothing more than a marriage of convenience cements certain ideas for the remainder of your time with this man, and one of those, unwaveringly, is that love and love making will be strictly absent from it.

Yet you enjoy the way that he touches you now.

In the dark of night, and just outside of the manor, Minho pulls back from you slowly and it's like this that you are finally able to see him up close, the tiny, charming intricacies of his face otherwise missed due to proximity. A small freckle on his nose, the ever so slight crookedness to his front teeth that—while you have noticed—are so much more handsome and real like this.

His eyes sparkle looking at you, and there's a pause before anything more happens. In your mind, you beg. Loudly asking for that which you seek, no matter the outcome. You can deal with that when it comes, and perhaps you don't even know precisely what it is that you desire from him now. Still, you beg; please, please, please…

Minho's eyes fixate on yours, and then drop down, down, to where your lips sit. His own part, as if with intention to speak, or a desire to taste, one you prefer far more than the other. He does neither, however, finds eye contact once more, but his fingers grasping harder into the loose fabric sitting at the small of your back sends chills down your spine in a way that the meeting of your lips might not even manage.

Do you want, Lee Minho? Do you crave, as well?

"We should go inside," he says, a whisper that shakes. His gaze finds itself fixated down towards your lips again, and all concern aside, you want in that moment for him to have you. "You're not dressed to be out here, you'll catch a cold."

If Minho has ever desired you, even for a moment prior to this, never has he shown so much as an inkling of it. Now, he stands unraveled, pulled apart and bare for you to see. You wonder if he aches, you cannot help but wonder whether or not the need will be sated.

"Yes, let us do that," you answer, but only because you should. No part of you wishes to find warmth within the walls of the estate.

The following weeks bring a sort of comfortable bliss to the previously cold, ominous interior of the home. One morning, however, that all changes.

Early mornings are warmer now than they once were, each passing day cutting through the chilly breeze. The grounds come to live in lush greens and colorful petals; you've even begun taking trips out of the countryside and into the nearest, small town. It has little to offer besides functional necessity, but leaving the estate is a breath of fresh air that rejuvenates your senses.

You hope to make that journey today, but first, there is work that must be done.

The manuscript is coming along, words filling each page like they've always meant to be there. With your coffee in hand, you make your way towards the study that keeps your things like an untended vault. Secrets hide inside, but no one dares to seek them out—or so you thought.

You push the door open, and what you find is nearly enough to drop the cup from your hands and to the floor completely. Your heart stops similarly instead, and for a brief moment, you cannot believe your eyes.

Minho looks up at you from inside, standing by the desk from which you often work. In his hands sit all of your deepest, innermost secrets. Things you wish not to share with him now, perhaps ever, but the look on his face is one of someone who now understands everything.

He is difficult to read from here, his feelings incomprehensible from just what his features have presented as the two of your eyes meet.

You rush inside, though the damage is done, you know. "What are you doing?" you ask, making little effort to mask your feelings on this matter. Once you reach him, you snatch the pages from his hands and shove them back inside of the drawer from which he got them. "That's not yours to read!"

He does not respond right away, and instead, the room fills with a heavy silence. Minho's hands drop slowly to his sides as he watches you, lips pulled thinly across his face. He appears neither angry, nor sad. He has the appearance of nothing, at all.

"I only wanted to understand you better, get to know you more than what we already have, I thought…" he trails off, eyes falling away from yours, "I thought this to be the best way, suppose I was not mistaken."

You don't dare make an attempt to find his gaze, not looking at one another. It's better like this. Anger bubbles up inside of you, as well as the humiliation of everything that has led you to this point, to this place with him. "So, now you know. Now you know everything."

"I don't…" Minho starts again in response, once again there are words that he cannot seem to find with the same sort of urgency that he needs them. "If it is some concern about my feelings on the matter, I'm unbothered by what you've done, by your history."

"And why should you care?" you ask, the words coming out biting and spit like a kind of venom. "We are not involved in this partnership in any typical sense of the word. This is a marriage of convenience, and convenient it shall remain." It feels bad when spoken, as if betraying your own self-interest. What you feel it to be instead is the most logical course of action given the circumstances; neither serving you nor your heart as far as any potential, budding relationship between the two of you is concerned.

Minho's eyes dart up at that and find your own, but you continue on. "A wife for show, am I not? And for show I will continue to be. No one else knows, you will never experience the same sort of humiliation as I have, if that is your concern."

"It's not." His face twists at the words you've said to him. "That couldn't be the furthest thing from my concern. Do I come off as someone who loses sleep over the opinions of people?"

There's more fight in his voice now, something you're not used to hearing from him. It rattles you, but only slightly, because you are not frightened of him or what he may do. Rather, it serves as a sort of reminder of just how little you appear to understand about him. Most men, most husbands, in these situations would be livid, and demanding of the dissolution of a partnership from which has been built upon deception. This, however, would seem to be far from Minho's interest.

"I would be dishonest if I said that I didn't wish you had told me, of course I do, but I am reasonable enough to understand why you have not," Minho says. "You have lived a whole life before ever having met me, your path leading you elsewhere. That is neither my business, nor my concern. My concern is…"

He does not complete the thought and instead turns away from you once more. Minho makes his way towards the door of the study, but gives pause just before making his exit.

"I am to leave in a week's time, perhaps the space will do us well, after all."

The reminder of all of the time that you will spend by yourself hangs grossly dense inside of your heart. Everything about this feels so wrong, not as it was meant to ever be. Birthed from some incomprehensible place is the desire to beg him to stay, to not leave you here alone despite knowing that he cannot. So much progress has been made between the two of you, only to be spoiled by this; left to fester for the summer months, and you cannot fathom a scenario in which he returns having missed you now.

𝕏𝕀𝕍.

When Minho leaves for his trip, you do not bid him farewell.

Instead, you watch from the window of your bedroom as bags and canvases are piled into the carriage. Minho, Mai and the rest of the staff all smile and say their goodbyes—you can't help but wonder if he wishes you were there alongside them.

It is unimportant. What must be done carries on regardless, and Minho sits himself inside, the carriage pulls away, and down the pathway he eventually disappears; not to return until the leaves on the trees begin to color and fall away with the soon to be onset of winter air once more.

You wonder if you will miss him, only time will tell.

The passing months bore you, and offer you little to placate your wandering mind.

Summer is in full swing, it comes and works its way to closing before you have much of a moment to enjoy it. You make many trips into town to partake in the fresh bakeries and even engage with the folk who enjoy their lives there. They seem happy, you can't help but wonder what that must be like.

Though the manor had been lonely upon your first arrival, there is a stark difference between then, and now. The knowledge that Minho was there—somewhere—within the halls somehow serving as just enough of a comfort to take the edge off of the blanketing nothingness, now gone; and worse than that, you do not know what awaits you when he will return.

Mai offers you kindness, and that is appreciated, but her dedication to her job makes it so that the line towards friendship never truly becomes crossed. You have not seen your parents, and they do not write to you as often as you might like them to. Tzuyu has sent a letter or two, but they are as infrequent as the others, as she is busy with the courtship process herself after the announcement from the prince.

Seven days into September, there is a knock at the door.

Sitting in the vast living room area, surrounded by old paintings, books and other such decorations, the sun begins to set on the home and the summer heat finally starts to wane. The book in hand—one Minho had recommended before his departure—is one that tells the tale of an old painter who traveled all around the world, and gifted a canvas of his art to every person that he met along the way. You wonder if this is the life that Minho wishes for, you wonder if eventually, you will be left behind for good as nothing more than another collectible that he has accumulated inside of the estate.

"Miss…"

Mai comes up from behind, wringing her hands strangely, unlike anything you've ever seen from her before. Nervous. "You have a visitor."

"I do?" you question, reeling. You are not expecting anyone. "Who is it?"

"I think it might be best if you come quickly."

She has never appeared so concerned to you, and thus, you make haste to follow her and trust her word. The strides past the kitchen and through the small hallway are quick and long, there's a kind of worry bubbling up inside of you. All of the worst potential things begin to muddle your mind; what if your parents have passed away and someone has come to deliver the news in person?

But turning into the foyer puts a different kind of nail into a different kind of coffin.

Three men stand in the doorway, one on each side of the person intended to be the centerpiece of their arrival. A simple, loose black shirt draping over broad shoulders and a thin, lithe torso, cinched at the waist and carelessly tucked into the matching black trousers there.

He nearly gives the appearance of someone normal, everyday. Just a spot above Minho's own, usual look. Fascinating, the way your mind instantly moves to compare the two.

"Hello, darling," Hyunjin says. Then, he turns to his guards. "You may go."

You feel Mai's eyes on you, and quickly turn to acknowledge them. "Please, leave us."

She nods, and you can only imagine the questions running through her head. You have not a clue how you intend on ever addressing them in the future, but there are many things that you do not understand yet in front of you.

"Your Highness," you say, and then begin to take your bow. Hyunjin steps forward with a gentle scoff, and quickly waves the display away, instead setting his hand atop your shoulder as he moves past you and into the direction from which you came.

"That's not necessary, let us leave the theatrics of royalty for the streets, where the people might see them, shall we? I think we are a long way away from requiring that between us."

And so you do. The two of you make your way back into the common area of the downstairs and each take an end of the lengthiest couch. Hyunjin sits leaned forward, hands clasped together and resting against his knees. His hair is still long and dark, you thought he might cut it to relinquish such a boyish, juvenile look, but you find that has not been the case.

"I must admit," he begins through a sigh, "I was a bit taken aback when I heard who it was that you ended up being married off to."

"Yes, well, suppose I experienced much of the same when it came to you," you reply curtly.

To that, Hyunjin smiles slightly and stares down at the floor between his feet.

"Fair play. Unfortunately, there are certain expectations…"

"Was everything a lie? Did you never have any intention of marrying me? Did you never love me? If there are expectations then surely you knew when we began our private affairs what could come of it all, so why…"

"It's not so simple," Hyunjin says slowly, turning to look at you now. "My parents have the majority of say in who gets chosen. How lovely it would be if falling in love were enough."

You look at him, but frown. The possibility that the choice be wholly out of his hands is not one that had ever crossed your mind, too busy cursing him for a choice that may have never been his to begin with. Your eyes rake over him, his face; and perhaps there is something of a sadness behind his eyes if you dare to give him the grace of seeing it.

"Where is Sana?"

To this question, Hyunjin sits back with a heavy, loud exhale. "At home, perhaps shopping with her friends as she tends to do. Where is Mr. Lee?"

"Away for work, until the end of autumn."

"It must be lonely, being cooped up here in the countryside alone for so long."

"I…" you hesitate, unsure of how much of yourself you wish to indulge in a man who has already hurt you so gravely in the past. "I make do."

Looking towards you again, Hyunjin's gaze is heavy and narrow, full of a silent contemplation that he has not yet shared with you. Talking to someone that you know so well feels comforting, welcomed. You feel at home. He is disarming.

"Does he suit you?" Hyunjin asks.

You hadn't thought about it in such simplistic terms before. Does Minho suit you? you question yourself in your mind again.

And then you give one, single nod. "He suits me enough, I suppose. Our partnership is a bit…unorthodox perhaps, but we find joy in each other's company."

His eyebrow perks up at that, catching the hint of something unspoken hidden between the words.

"Is that so? A loveless marriage then?"

You scoff, shifting uncomfortably in your seat at the mere mention of it, regardless of how much truth there may be in the statement. "I think loveless makes it seem so much more harsh than it is. I believe we have begun to care for one another in some fashion, over the months. We talk, we have meals together—"

"But he doesn't make love to you."

Stilling your awkward movements, you slowly turn to look up and meet Hyunjin's curious gaze once more.

"No. We've not…reached that point in our relationship, if we ever do." Your eyes fall away. "Surely you are familiar with marriages of convenience, and that very much is ours. We are both at peace with it. Minho is kind, he is accepting of my interests and allows me to do as I please in order to maintain a sense of self, I couldn't ask for more."

As if taking your words as an invitation, Hyunjin slowly begins making his way down the length of the empty couch and towards you. A wry smile tugs at his lips, and though the better part of you knows better than to entertain the possibility of whatever it is that this man may have to offer you, there does still remain the wicked loneliness of a woman who misses—craves—the adoring, wanting touch of a man who desires her.

You tell yourself to create more space between your bodies as Hyunjin comes near, to stand to your feet, to ask him to leave. You are not frightened of him, not an ounce of concern laden in you that he may wish to take something that you are unwilling to give him; no, the horror lies within the fact that you very much do wish to give to him.

Hyunjin's hand finds your leg. The touch is light, tentative and testing. You do not pull away.

"That is no way to live the rest of your days, my love."

It should be harder, you imagine, to give in to his whims. The consideration should weigh heavier on your chest, not handed over so easily once his lips find the skin of your neck, and shortly thereafter, your own. Hyunjin's hands smooth up your legs and beneath your dress, laid back against the sofa. He hovers over you with long, black hair that curtains the both of you inside of this moment. Unsure whether or not it is right, or wrong. For him, the answer is a simple one, but suppose these sorts of things are commonplace among men of a royal standing; after all, who exists to cast down judgment upon them?

His touch is electric against your skin, even more so with the first, slow press of himself into you. You gasp at the feeling. Indeed, you have missed this more than even you had known.

Still, you think of Minho.

When Hyunjin takes his leave once more and bids you farewell, new thoughts and feelings run rampant through your mind as you smile and wave down the cobblestone walkway. Perhaps there had been a kind of truth in his words—that this is no way to live forever—but you cannot fathom any other way, either.

Falling into Hyunjin's touch is easy because it is one that is so familiar. The same motions repeated time and time again and to a kind of perfection, however; something is missing, something that you cannot quite put your finger on.

𝕏𝕍.

The weeks continue to draw on, as does the day of Minho's return in November.

Leaves begin to change their colors, falling away from the branches that they once called their home. The flowers litter the ground, browning and dying to spring anew in the following year. It reminds you of your first arrival upon this place, though snow covered the land then. Not yet has it fallen for the first time this season, but soon it shall.

You keep busy, trying to put out of your mind the happenings in his absence. It is of little consequence to you what has happened in Hyunjin's brief visit, and perhaps the worst part of your soul considers it a kind of unearned payback towards a friend who had taken everything you had hoped for from you. It is unfair, not the kind of person you wish to be, and you put the thought to bed just as quickly as it comes to you. You do not expect to see him again, and in kind, you decide to never delve in such foolish and unbecoming behaviors regarding him even in the event that you do.

Written off as closure, there is some semblance of peace therein.

On the day of Minho's return, the house is alive. The keepers of the manor all rushing around to ensure that everything is precisely as it should be for the moment that he steps inside; it fascinates you to watch them, knowing full well that Minho is not the sort of man to be bothered by the occasional, misplaced item or a spec of dust left upon the mantle. Of course, this is their job, and they take it upon themselves to make sure that it is done to the best of their ability. You wait just inside the foyer as good wives do when his carriage pulls up, and the quick, anxious beating of your heart comes to be a far more unexpected guest than the man of the hour is.

The doors open and he enters. Two other men are with him and aiding with his belongings, a sight that reminds you of Hyunjin's visit, and you are none pleased by that fact. Minho is dressed differently than you are used to seeing him; far more put together, and with a heavy coat sitting atop his shoulders. Hair less unkempt, it makes you wonder if someone had their hand at his appearance before he left to begin his journey.

He greets the staff first, those that arrived with him handing off his things, and then, he turns his sights towards you.

"Welcome home," you say, fighting back the shake of your voice. "Was it a good trip?"

"It was, but long. Too long for my liking," he admits with a smile. "I'm happy to be home, and not looking forward to having to do much of the same next year, but we'll take it as it comes."

The two of you step towards one another, and to your surprise, Minho takes your hand into his.

"How have things been while I've been away? Hopefully not too dull."

His eyes are gentle as he looks at you, and there is a part of you that wonders if he even recalls the events that took place only just before his embarking. If he does, he shows no signs of it; only a captivating adoration for you.

"Things have been fine…good," you say with a nod, eyes forcing themselves away from his own. Your nervousness and secrets catching up to you, making themselves known within the room. "The days passed as they do, I took many trips into the small town down the way, worked on my book…you've not missed much along the way."

You can feel Mai's eyes on you as you tell the half-truth, and for that reason, you continue on. Perhaps a wild assumption that you would be able to keep this large a secret strictly under lock and key.

Squeezing his hand lightly, you smile ever so slightly at him and say, "We should talk, there are some things. It would be best that way, once you're settled in."

"Of course, I only need a short while. A rinse off and a change of clothes from being cooped up in travel for so long, and then I'm all yours."

Pulling his hand away to attend to his things, you wish deeply to hold on tight—afraid that this may be the last time Minho ever offers you such a genuine, cherished moment.

Later into the afternoon, the changing colors of the sky can be seen through the windows. Hues of blues, purples and oranges that decorate it so beautifully, informing all of those who can see it that the sun is soon to take its rest along the horizon.

You stand in the kitchen, a bowl of fruits sitting before you. Apples, cranberries and persimmons give off their assortment of shades to choose from when Minho quietly makes his way inside.

Eyes meet, and smiles follow after.

Minho's hair is damp from water, strewn about his head and face, entirely uncared for in appearance. He is back in his usual attire; pants with paint stains that not even Mai has managed to defeat, but that function perfectly well as far as he is concerned, you reckon.

Leaning against the counter beside you, he pops a cranberry into his mouth and then cocks his head to the side inquisitively. "You wanted to speak to me?"

Moments like this make it so much harder. You'd not wanted to disclose this to him in any case, but have since decided it better to do so. The guilt weighs so heavily on your chest—has ever since the day—and you wonder if it is selfish to put that onto a man who does not need to carry the burden. Minho is your husband, yes, but in title and legality alone. He has given you permission to carry on as you please, explicit permission to take a lover if that is what you so wish to do; so why is it that having done so feels so regrettable?

This is not a situation that you have ever found yourself to be in before, and thus, you do not know how best to navigate it. You are not one to mince words, however, and so you make the choice to simply come out with it.

"While you were away, Hyunjin was here."

Minho's chewing slows, all softness in his face melting away once the words finally come together as something that he understands the meanings of. "Here? He came here?"

"Yes, to see me."

"He came here…to see you…" Minho says slowly, thoughtfully. "If he knew to come here, then surely he must know that you've been married." He pauses briefly, thinks it through just a bit more before continuing. "As has he."

You nod affirmatively and then say, "Yes, all of this is true. He wanted to see me…I think…there was something of unfinished business between the two of us, as you know with the way that things turned out. It was a brief encounter, he was not here long. I do not think we will meet again in the future."

Minho looks at you tentatively, and you can nearly see all of the questions that beg to be asked swimming around behind his eyes. Surely, he fights back the urge to do so with all of his might for your sake alone, and instead chooses to stomach the brunt of this knowledge by himself, no matter how much discomfort it may bring.

But you do not escape them all.

"You say the encounter was…brief," he starts, though his eyes are unable to meet your own as he presses forward with what he must know. "I have little interest in prying into your personal affairs, I understand what this is—between us—just as well as you do, but I must know; did you—"

"Yes."

Rather than making him say it, you put an end to the entire thing abruptly. Minho blinks through the acceptance of it, a little awe struck, you can tell. He gives two, small nods and then swallows down hard.

"Thank you for telling me," he says. His voice is level, but you can tell as well as anyone else might that it is a facade. Minho turns towards the hallway and says, "If you don't mind, I have work to attend to. Have a good evening."

He does not appear outwardly angry or upset in the ways that you are used to men expressing such emotions, and thus, you are unsure of what to make from all of this. You watch him take two, three steps towards his exit before you rush around the corner of the marble counter and towards him. A hand reaches out towards his arm, but you do not dare make contact—unsure of what may happen if you do. Minho does not scare you, nor has he ever shown aggression, or violence towards you, but you must at all costs aim to protect yourself in such precarious circumstances.

The movement must catch his attention and he stills in place, seemingly waiting for you to reach him. Minho turns to look at you from over his shoulder, unwilling to fully give himself to your insistence of such.

Your chest feels impossibly tight, the struggling burn of discomfort creeping up and into your throat. Are these tears that threaten you? Why, you wonder. You care for him, yes, but there is little between you, and in most recent times not much more than some sort of contention. What is there to care for? And more than that, when has this man ever bothered to express as much towards you?

Still, you press forward. "Are you upset with me? It was thoughtless, but you have said before that I am able to do such things. Don't punish me for the allowances that you have offered!"

"Punish you?" Minho says, tone questioning. "I have no interest in punishing you for anything that you have done in my absence. Your personal matters are your own. If you wish to sleep with the prince then who am I to tell you not to."

"I do not wish to sleep with the prince! I wish to sleep with—"

It comes out faster than you have the chance to pull it back. Dripping with pure emotion and absolutely unbridled truth, you manage to cut it off at the tail end, though you fear that the damage has been done. The heat of humiliation curls up your spine, you take a step back and away from the man in front of you.

Too much silence creeps up between the two of your bodies, and Minho offers nothing to you in the immediate aftermath of the words. Wordlessly, you beg him to say something—anything—to cut through it, even if it is condemnation that sits at the tip of his tongue.

Much to your surprise, however, Minho turns back to face away from you fully with something of an awkward shift to his stature. He does not look at you, but the more that he chooses not to, the less you believe it to be a sign of displeasure and more so one born from a kind of strange unsureness of how to move forward, where to go with this from here.

He clears his throat loudly, one by one cracking the knuckles in his fingers as if to fill in the empty space between your bodies. Finally, he says, "Perhaps we simply move on from this, as if nothing ever happened. In any case, I'll be in the atrium, should you need to find me."

A curious thing to say from the man, one that has you reeling in shock upon hearing it.

"Is that…an invitation?"

And to that, Minho sighs aloud.

"Must you make me speak everything into existence? Surely you've noticed I lack the capabilities for these sorts of things."

It's not perfect, but you'd not expected to leave this particular discussion with a smile pulling at your lips.

𝕏𝕍𝕀.

The atrium smells of cinnamon, paint thinner, and alcohol.

Rum, in particular. You're not able to make out its particular scent until you're much closer to the man that it emanates off of, pungent and impossible to ignore. You try to recall any other time that you've been aware of Minho's drinking, but you cannot.

Tonight must be a special night for him to be partaking.

There's a soft spot in the wooden paneling of the floor, and it creaks beneath your weight. This is enough to finally alert Minho of your arrival to this place, having not noticed you before. He glances at you from over his shoulder—not unlike the hours before—and then carries on with the mixture of colors that have already been dabbed onto the bristles of his brush.

"You came," he says.

"You drink."

Minho sighs at your response. "You know this, we have shared wine at the dinner table before."

"Yes, but not like this."

Hunched over and knelt onto the floor, Minho ignores this and instead continues painting. You opt out of pressing any further on the matter and instead, bring yourself to his side in order to see what it is that he is working on.

The canvas is wide rather than tall, with hues of blue, white and green masterfully splashed across the majority of it. The beauty of the ocean and the waves that live within it perfectly captured in time by his hand—a small ship depicted amidst it all.

"I spent some time by the harbor on this trip, and spent a good deal of my time there thinking about how my life might be if I ceased to exist here, the way that I have been, the way that I do."

You look down at him, but he does not look up. He continues with his work.

"The truth of the matter, is that there isn't much keeping me here, is there? Not much would change. I could be anywhere in the world doing this. No reason it must be here."

"Is that why you painted this? Your wish to escape it all?" you ask.

Minho stops his strokes, then drops his paintbrush into the muddied mixture of water just beside him. He stands to his feet—albeit wobbly—and stares down at the piece of artwork as if it's something not crafted from himself. A strange existence that has somehow found its way into his home, into his thoughts, but not of his own doing.

"I'm not sure that I even wish for it," he says. "I'm unsure of a lot of things. I make decisions largely because they are expected of me, because I see what everyone else does, and so I emulate it. It's easy to assimilate like this, I don't have to think about it all that much."

"Like taking a wife."

Minho looks away from the painting then and over towards you. You meet his eyes, but feel a sense of nervousness under the intensity that sits behind them tonight.

"It has always been difficult for me to set my anxieties aside without the aid of warmth that the bottle brings. I don't partake often, I know it's unhealthy, so I keep to myself and suffer alone." Minho's hand reaches towards yours, and while you're happy to allow him to take it, that is not all that he does. Quickly you feel the gentle tug of his strength, inching you closer to him. His warm, soft palm tracing up the outside of your arm until it disappears behind your back to rest there. Now the scent of alcohol is strong on his breath, but you cannot find it within yourself to care when proximity is so tightly held between you.

Minho's finger traces down the middle of your back, an action that sends chills up the very same place. You fight back the shudder that threatens to shake you while in his grasp, and your own hands find their placement at the front of his broad, firm chest.

The alcohol indeed must be making him brave, lowering his inhibitions and the torrent of thoughts that otherwise might bar him from ever attempting this. For that, you are thankful. You glance at his lips, then up at eyes that are already watching you. Minho's thoughts and feelings are nearly indiscernible on his face; still thinking, thinking, thinking, no doubt.

He leans in towards you, so short and small that you nearly miss it entirely if not for how rapt with attention to him you are. A tentative gesture to test the waters, to see if you will pull away.

But you will not.

And so, he presses forward again, slowly still, as if to give you ample time to escape him. You couldn't imagine yourself a world where you might; heart beating hard and fast within your chest in anticipation of this, fingers gripping tightly into the fabric of his shirt with each passing second between the two of you. Truthfully, you have been wanting this, for so, so long. Longer than you could ever fathom to allow him to know, the kind of dull, anticipatory, hopeful desire that rests dormant often, but never completely able to be ignored.

It's hard to pinpoint the moment in which Minho became more than just a concept of a husband in your mind, muddied even more once his lips finally find your own. Careful and warm, he kisses you like he's afraid to break you, but the hand gripping at the small of your back tells a different story; one of forced back desire, of bitten back need. It presses your body more firmly against his, it informs far more than his words will allow for now.

When you do not create space, the kiss becomes heavier too. Testing, unsure lips that at first only ghost against your own then expose their want for you in the careful turn of his head and ever so slight nips of teeth at the bottom of your lip. Harder, faster with every moment that passes in the atrium; you forget to breathe and gasp into his mouth, Minho finally relents in tasting you so ravenously.

Physical desire is nothing new to you, but never have you experienced it quite like this.

Minho's free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb grazing lightly against the skin of your cheek as he looks at you. Both just slightly out of breath, you can't fathom how wrecked you appear just from a kiss.

His lips part as if to speak, and then close shortly thereafter. Once again; thinking, thinking, thinking. The alcohol is incapable of disposing of it all. Then, they part again, and Minho pushes forward with the words that fail him so frequently.

"Do you still love the prince?"

The least that you can do is answer his question honestly.

"I don't know."

And though it may not be the ideal reply, Minho still appears pleased by it. Everything that you have learned about him since your arrival here points to the very same conclusion, because he smiles ever so slightly, and gives a small nod in acceptance.

𝕏𝕍𝕀𝕀.

Though not spoken of, the kiss lives on in every interaction shared between the two of you going forward.

You wish deeply for the conversation to come to a head, but by now you know Minho and the way that he functions well enough to know that that will more than likely not be the case. Still, you manage to find solace in this fact; his nervous mannerisms and the barely there catch in his voice when speaking to you on occasion, as if the memory of such has just caught up with him in real time. You smile through these instances, pleased by them in some capacity. Pleased knowing that it is not a thing that has simply come and gone.

The only person that Minho answers to in his life is his agent, and his agent insists on having a holiday party at the estate.

On the day of, it is a week into December. Snow has begun to fall, though not heavily yet. It sprinkles like sugar from the sky, only lightly dusting the windows and grounds. It is a beautiful sight, but you're thankful for not having to be the one traveling within it, and when the guests start arriving, you realize just how grossly unprepared for this volume of guests the home truly is. Not enough coat racks, not enough space for wiping off their shoes. Hats are placed wherever it is that they can go; Mai scuttling about the hallways with her staff in an attempt to make it all work.

To your surprise, Minho makes himself seen. No doubt a push by said agent, but his displeasure at doing so resides heavily within his stature.

First laying eyes on him is a sight to behold. His hair is more put together, set into place purposefully. He wears all black, but the front panel of his coat is garnished with the sparkle and shine of dark jewels that bring it to life. It's a little unlike him, you have to admit, but Minho wears it well.

Quickly, you finish up a conversation with people that your husband barely knows, that you have barely been partaking in, and go to him. He, too, is amidst something of the same, though handling it far less gracefully than you have.

You put on your widest smile, and curl your arm firmly around his own from the side.

"My sincerest apologies," you start, tone dripping with a sweet edge, "I'm afraid I must take my husband from you, if only for a brief moment."

The man smiles and nods happily, understanding of whatever situation it is that you've made up in your head in order to rescue Minho. It's late into the evening and you've not been keeping a watchful eye, but the smell on his breath of alcohol is one that you're quite familiar with, and disappearing into the halls towards less-traveled passages, you can't help but wonder what this instance has in store.

Minho drags along, but doesn't say a word. He stumbles slightly once, you try not to ascribe it to his drunkenness unfairly. You have just the place in mind, and once you reach the old, empty study at the far, opposite end of the hall, you push Minho inside lightly, and then close the door behind.

"Are you rescuing the damsel?" Minho asks, cheeky and with a smile. "Was it that obvious?"

"Only to someone with the eyes to see it," you reply. "I know that you don't enjoy these sorts of busy situations."

"One might say I hate it, in fact." Minho steps towards you, and you take a step back. Only there is nowhere left for you to go, and your back is up against the door from which you came. "Indeed, I much prefer quieter moments of peace, just between myself and another…"

His hand finds the outside of your thigh, only the thick layers of your dress between skin. He closes the space further, as much as he can, until his body is pressed tightly against your own. You've been holding your breath—for how long? you wonder. A sharp inhale takes you, though it's ragged and shudders at the feeling of being with him like this. Everything that Minho offers you feels white hot, regardless of the clothes that keep you separated, and when his mouth finds the line of your jaw, you cannot help but melt into the touch.

You ache for him. A dull throb that makes itself known, impossible to ignore. His other hand snakes around your waist to pull you closer—as if closer is physically possible. You could beg for him to touch you elsewhere, drunk with want not unlike his own intoxication.

"I don't care if you love another man," he says suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere. The abrupt mention of Hyunjin sends something of a cold chill to your otherwise hot skin. "I'm happy that you're here, I love having you here…" His lips are still lightly mouthing against the flesh of your jaw, voice low, nearly a whisper. "I love…you. Even in the event that you love another, that is of no consequence to me. Not really."

Desire has waned, flushed away quickly as if it had never even been there. You gently push Minho away so that you can look him in the eyes, but all that you find is the slightly drunken, but incredibly sincere glean looking back at you.

"You're drunk," you say, rejecting his advances for this to go any further. Now is not the time. "You always say and do such things when you're intoxicated."

"Do you assume me to be more intoxicated than I am so that you don't have to acknowledge the words?"

You don't respond to this immediately. Minho does not deserve to be told a lie, and thus, you say nothing.

He continues on. "In the atrium that night, you assumed that I was making poor choices, outside of the realm of my own logic? Things that I would never do just because of the drink? And then now, you think the same? Do you truly believe that, or is it easier than the words? Because no one understands that feeling better than I do."

"Is that why you drink, then? To say and do all of the things that you can't do when you're sober?" You scoff lightly. "You can't drink through every step of your life."

"I don't, I won't," Minho says firmly. "Think of it more…as a coincidence."

Stepping towards you once more, Minho closes in on you all over again. His lips mere inches away from your own as he gazes down at you.

Then, the door opens from behind you, and he pulls it open to fashion himself an exit.

"If you don't believe me, then you're more than welcome to nurse my hangover in the morning hours, since you'll be awake!" he says loudly, far too cheerfully for everything that's gone on.

You smile at him, and hate that you do. This annoying, eccentric, strange man that has buried himself so deeply beneath your skin. An unshakable, ineffable and unquantifiable shine to his mere existence.

Minho disappears back down the hall and towards the guests that await him, nearly skipping as he does so. You watch from the doorframe, make an effort to steady the quick beating of your heart, and replay the words over and over again in your mind; unremittingly.

"Good morning, darling."

Bent over the kitchen counter, chin perched up against your palm, you cock your head and smile at Minho as he slowly, carefully enters the shared space. Eyes narrow, like any light pains his entire being.

"Shall we take you for your bath, then?" you add, walking towards him and circling your arm around his.

A light steam rises from the water as Minho's sore body sinks into it. You reenter just moments later with a set of clothing in hand, and sit yourself just beside the porcelain tub to aid him in his recovery.

"You shouldn't drink so much," you say, obviously.

"I know," he admits through a groan. "Every time I do this, I say it'll be the last. Then another social event comes up."

"There was no such social event in the atrium that evening."

"Sure there was, you were there."

Silence falls between the two of you in the following moments, and you watch as Minho closes his eyes, sinks his body deeper into the water to the point that only his head sticks out from the top. You take it upon yourself to lightly remove strands of hair stuck to the dampness of his forehead, and then, Minho inhales with intent to speak.

"I apologize for last night, as well as for the evening in the atrium. I apologize for…parts of them, but not everything." He pauses, eyes still closed, but forces himself to continue on. "The truth is: I do not care about your history with the prince, no matter how recent it has been. I understand there is a complexity there that I may never be able to grasp, nor do I think it necessary for me to do so. What is necessary of me—as your husband—is to be kind, understanding, and perhaps if there could be space for it; loving."

You still completely, allowing the words to wash over you and sink deeply into every crevice of your being.

He speaks again. "Suppose what I had hoped for; some starry-eyed, hopeless romantic sort of expectation in all of this that was left unspoken, is that regardless of your feelings for him, your history with him, that you might still find space in your heart to someday love me too."

An immediate reply escapes you, and you lose sight of just how tortuous such a wait can be until Minho cracks one, single eye open and peers at you cautiously through it.

"Please, say something. Put me out of my misery, if you must," he says.

Your senses come back to you quickly, shaking your head in the negative. "No! No, Minho…have you truly not noticed? Let us not forget who it was that insisted upon the two of us becoming more than strangers who share a home together…"

"Living with strangers is, well, strange. You could have meant anything by that."

You try not to roll your eyes, but fail. Instead of pressing further on this particular endeavor, you decide to revisit the original one, as brought forward by him. The entire thing remains fascinating to you—the density of his capability to understand things that come to you with such ease.

"I probably can," you say, acknowledging his hope for the openness of your heart. "I probably do."

Minho closes his eyes again, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The tension that collected at his shoulders amidst all of this falling away like weights strapped to him. You are calmed watching him unravel before you.

"Let us share an evening meal tonight, something special. Think about all of the things that you wish to say to me in earnest, and I will do the same," you offer quietly.

"I would like that."

𝕏𝕍𝕀𝕀𝕀.

Minho enters just as the large, antique clock begins to sing its tune of nine in the evening.

Candle light flickers against the walls of the dining room and illuminates the table where all of the dishes that Mai has hand crafted herself sit. A beautiful display, though hardly what you're taking an interest in tonight.

He takes his seat across from you, clears his throat gently, and averts his eyes as much as he can until it seemingly dawns on him that he cannot do so for much longer. Reluctantly, Minho looks at you, and though his appearance is not unlike his usual self, something new makes itself apparent within him.

Mai comes over and pours your glass of wine, then makes her way around the table towards his. However, Minho does not accept the gesture. Watching you the entire time.

"You're not having wine with your meal?" you ask.

"No, I've decided to come off it, at least for a time."

"For a time?"

"This time."

Surprisingly confident and almost sinister sounding, Minho no longer makes an effort to avert his eyes from you and as a result, the weight of them rests heavily on your form. There is a sort of humor to this, you find, desiring nothing more than for him to see you for so long and now feeling as though you should shrink away from beneath his gaze. Why is he looking at you in such a way? Why is it that you feel like prey?

You steady your nerves and smile. "Well, there will be other times."

"Do you wish to remain married to me?"

Your attention pulls towards him quickly and with a confused earnestness. "What? Why are you asking me such a thing?"

Minho leans forward against the table. "We agreed to have this meal together and discuss such things. I think…I have not done much to aid in the ease of your comfort here. I think we have grown a lot together, maybe even enjoy our time shared. Perhaps it is time that we decide on just how much of a married life we wish to have with one another. Thus, do you wish to remain married to me?"

"Is there really an alternative?" you question, somewhat humorously. "Of course, marriages have ended before but we hardly meet the sorts of societal requirements for such a thing."

"You have not answered my question," he insists.

You press your palms abruptly to the table, fed up by his ridiculous pushing on the matter.

"Yes! I wish to remain married to you! My goodness; we've shared meals together, our thoughts and dreams and hopes for the future together, intimacy together! As if I've not made it clear where I stand on the matter while I drag you along through all of this kicking and screaming the whole way…you don't exactly make it easy on a woman!"

"So you are happy."

"Yes!" you quickly bite back.

"Content."

"Yes, Minho!"

"But you want more," he continues on, the rapid fire back and forth between you now mounting the anticipation of where this is meant to go.

"Of course I do!"

"You desire more of me."

"Yes!" you reply, exasperated by the questioning but barely even having a moment to register what's been laid out before you. The affirmation slips out from your lips unwillingly, but it's too late to bring it back. Instead, you watch Minho's eyes narrow mischievously as a result of the grin that tugs at his lips. He must be pleased with himself.

"We should eat." Hardly convincing when you say it. Still, you pick up your utensil. "The food will get cold."

"We can eat any time," Minho says, still playfully persistent. "Is there anything that you wish to ask of me?"

"Yes! What has gotten into you?"

"You, us; the concept of it, the possibility of it." Minho pushes his chair back then and stands, makes his way around the table and towards you. He takes your hand gently, timidly, and pulls you up towards him. Protest dies in your throat before you have the chance to make it heard, because his hand slips around your back and as a result, your body rests flush against his. "Admittedly, I am slow on the uptake of such things. My thoughts get the best of me, second guessing every interaction, every word…" He trails off, the hand at your back slipping to settle at your waist, and then it tightens. "Every touch."

Minho's face dips over to the side of yours, lips edging at the shell of your ear and then he whispers against it, "But you say you want more of me, more that I've not yet given. More that I can give."

Your head swims, warm breath tickling your skin in such an enticing way. Minho's grip against you does not relent, nor do you want it to. You've quietly yearned for what appears to be now presented before you; his touch, and in ways, so much more than that.

"I've still not seen where you sleep," you say quietly, pointedly. "Only ever the atrium."

"Some husband I am, making my darling wife wait so long for such a thing." Minho's hand then slowly falls from your waist down to your hip, then further more to your thigh. His palm settles atop the front for a short moment before he then continues the journey between them, bunching the fabric of your skirt where his fingers rest. "I've not been doing my due diligence, have I?"

Knees nearly buckling at the touch, you clutch onto him by the shoulders, breath hitching as you attempt to answer him. "No, you certainly have not."

This is your best attempt at maintaining composure, but truthfully, you stand in his grasp, disoriented with want for him. Minho's lips graze your jaw, teeth bared within a smile. He says, "Allow me to make it up to you, then."

The large, ornate door to his bedroom closes, and with no more time to waste, Minho's hands begin to artfully search for the flesh of your body.

His lips hurriedly find yours, as if the only thing he ever wishes to taste is within them. Fingers adeptly unfastening the buttons and clasps of your dress while you, in turn, do much of the same at those that hold the fabric of his shirt in place. The race is won by you, and your mouths part only long enough to remove the hindrance from his body—but he follows just after—and your garment falls away, exposed to the ambient chill of the room, though not for long.

Minho leads you with a gentle urgency back towards his bed. There's a haste behind his motions that alludes to a dormant kind of desire that has been held inside of him for far longer than you have been aware of, not at all unlike yourself. As your back finds the mattress, Minho follows you over it; mouth only leaving your skin for the briefest of seconds before finding it once again.

Your legs fall apart to fit his body between them, and his hand slips beneath your last remaining undergarment soon after. Deft fingers that glide between your folds, ample pressure that has you gasping into his mouth for him to drink down and arching your back up to meet the firmness of his chest. Minho smiles against your lips as you do so, slowly and methodically unraveling you for his own viewing pleasure.

He pulls back, slinks down the length of your body and trailing his lips along the way. Warm, wetness circles at your chest before he continues further down.

Hands grip firmly into the plush flesh of your thighs, prying them apart for him just that much more. You glance down, but cannot stand to look at the sight of him; his face mere inches away from just the place that you wish for him to touch again. Minho does not leave you wanting, perhaps he cannot bear to do so, and his tongue finds you, mouth pressed flush against your own lips. The gasp that escapes from you is horrid, far too telling of how much you've been wanting to have him like this.

Minho pulls off of you, but his dominant hand finds the place he has only just left instead. The wetness pooling is nearly humiliating if not for the comfort that you feel in his presence, and his fingers delicately trickle downward further, carefully driving into you. He watches your face as he takes you apart just that much more, but you do not have the sensibilities to muster up much for words.

"Do you like this?" he asks, the first words spoken since entering the room. The press of his fingers against you is slow, rhythmic, testing. Before you find it within yourself to respond, his mouth reattaches to the place just above where his hand works you open.

Yes falls away from you, though you're not sure how you've managed it. It appears to please him, however, and he continues on with a newly found enthusiasm. He pushes deeper, and a moan escapes you with every drive. A sheen of sweat collects atop your skin, strands of hair matted against you, fingers curling tightly into the sheets beneath your grasp.

Your skin prickles, warmth spreading across your body and muscles stiffening as he continues on. Breaths to take in become shorter and faster, the grind of your hips against the way that he works your body less and less within your conscious control. You slip a hand down between your legs, gently carding fingers through soft, black hair. His fingers curl inside of you, and as a result of it, so do yours atop his head. A whimper slips out from between your lips, and following immediately after, come the desperate pleads for him not to stop.

And he has no intention of doing so. Minho does not stop until your pleasure peaks and ravages your body within his hold. You shake and cry out; wounded gasps and moans that avalanche from you thoughtlessly, the only thing that you can manage through this feeling. Once satisfied, he slows to bring you back down gently, and once delicately seated, he removes himself from you and the bed entirely to finish the act of disrobing.

Chest heaving with exhausted breaths, you nearly miss his doing so, only alerted to the fact once the bed dips again, signifying his return to you. Minho crawls between your legs and up the length of your body just as he did the first time; kisses your chest, your neck, your jaw, only to then settle atop your lips. Teeth faintly find the bottom of your lip, already well and truly bitten raw from your own abuse. Still, you reach up to feel the warmth of his skin under your hands and revel in the way that his body feels against your own. Though release has found you once this evening, you are not truly satiated by him yet.

Minho's hand slips down between both of your bodies to hold himself in place. You feel him against you; wet and solid, enticing and teasing. You move almost involuntarily against him, hopeful to receive what it is that you desire from him now, but he is unwilling to relent to your neediness just yet.

You gasp lightly against his mouth, and Minho happily accepts it into his own, delighted by the way you come apart beneath him.

"Have you thought about it before?" he asks, a coy whisper shared only between lovers. A question that does not require further expansion, for you know precisely what it is that is being referred to.

"So many times," you reply.

At that, Minho begins the slow, precise drive of himself inside of you once more. "Apologies for keeping you waiting then."

He sinks into you, body accepting him with ease. Minho's mouth hangs slightly ajar as he does so, taken by the feeling, and settles momentarily once his hips meet flush against your own before his hips pull back and he repeats the process once more. The thick drag, hard and strong is dizzying and nearly disorienting to your senses—your fingernails dig into his skin, and for the first time, Minho groans with a sort of primal lust that has the hairs across your skin standing on end, and the fire inside of your abdomen burning just that much hotter than before.

With the ease in which your body accepts him, Minho is able to find a quick and strong rhythm. Harder and faster his hips find your own, the urgency needing this moment for so long finally coming to a head between the both of you. Your whimpers and moans echo off the walls, losing sight of the once prominent thought in your mind that the staff may hear you; instead, you beg and plead for more of him, anything that he is physically capable of giving you—he does.

Body tightening beneath him, you feel once again the familiar promise of release. Your hands glide over hot, damp skin; muscles that flex and move with every drive of himself inside of you. Minho kisses you—a sloppy attempt—but you meet it happily, and his face falls away to the crook of your neck to nip into the skin there. One, strong hand slips down to grip at your thigh, pulls you apart further and wider for him to work your body open with his own. Hard, methodical strokes; one after another, whimpers and whines punched out of you with each. You beg for more, continuously beg as if never satisfied, and Minho continues to give relentlessly to you until his own ability finally falters and gives way; rhythm shifting, failing, wavering. He hisses against your skin, choking out a pained groan, and you find your end just alongside him in bitten back cries and a final, deep sinking of himself within you.

Chests heaving and basking in the afterglow for many, long moments, he does not hurry to separate your bodies, and instead, his lips begin to work at the sensitive skin of your neck once again. You close your eyes to simply enjoy the feeling of this, of him, and hold tightly in your arms the man that has somehow come to be precisely what it is that you have always hoped for someone to become.

"Stay here tonight," he says quietly. "Don't go."

You smile, barely there. Mustering up all of the energy within your bones that you have left to expend and say, "I wouldn't dream of it."

𝕏𝕀𝕏.

The new year brings new cheer, as well as new prospects to the household.

It has been a year since you've been back to the city center, and though covered in snow and the dreadful darkness that winter brings, you feel some semblance of ease having returned.

You remember the days that you spent dreaming of being inside of these very same castle walls, though now that you're here, you can't help but feel as though they glitter less brightly than what it is that you had imagined.

Beside you, Minho stands with a forced and feigned confidence. He glances at you, perhaps having felt your eyes upon him, and offers a nervous smile that does nothing to placate your concern for him. Indeed, not all things change with ease—and some may never—but having the comfort of those who love you shouldering much of the burden instead.

In arm, he holds a wrapped painting. One that you know well; a small ship atop a vast, brightly colored sea.

You hear the echo of doors opening from behind you, and when you turn, you are familiar with what you see.

Methodical clicks of shoes being the only thing that cuts through the silence, you watch as the prince makes his way towards the two of you—a smile on his face—and most certainly a genuine one. You've never known Hyunjin to be particularly petty, or mean-spirited; and despite all of his shortcomings, he likely does feel softness in his heart for you and the happiness that you have found.

"Your Highness," Minho says with an accompanying bow, but Hyunjin is quick to put a hand up and wave away the gesture.

"I do believe the three of us are well past the need for such things." Looking at you, Hyunjin smiles. "I see things worked out in the end, then?"

With half a mind to question how it is that he knows, you instead chalk it up to a sort of intangible, understood aura that simply exists between lovers; people who are madly, deeply in love with one another. You couldn't fight back the smile if you tried, and so, you don't. Instead, your hand finds Minho's free one, and you nod.

"Yes, indeed they have."

"Splendid news! Perhaps someday I will find myself to be so lucky," Hyunjin says, though there is a particular bite of discontentment in the words that you feel you understand far too well. "Nevertheless, you've brought the painting! I wish I could express in words how eagerly I've been anticipating receiving this piece…ever since it was put up into the auction, I simply knew I had to have it."

"I appreciate your kindness," Minho replies, squeezing your hand lightly. Just another, small offering shared between lovers.

"You will be paid handsomely for this. I am aware of what the asking was but I feel as though it is worth far more, and I'll see to it that you receive precisely that which you are deserving of."

Eyes widening in surprise, Minho glances first at you—but you merely shrug, unmoved by Hyunjin's antics—and instead, he defers to the prince, himself. "Your Highness, that's not—"

"Aht! It is. You creatives truly must value yourself higher, the world moves and exists and revolves around these crafts. Without art, we have nothing. We are nothing."

Hyunjin calls for his housestaff to take the canvas from Minho's grasp, and as they disappear down the hall, the man smiles widely at the two of you as if pleased with himself, with everything that has taken place today.

"Perhaps next in line is getting that book of yours published."

You shake your head, a sort of nervousness striking you that isn't commonplace. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea, you know, there is much of you written inside of those pages."

He waves his hand in the air again, unbothered by the fact. "So be it, I'd rather like being not just a part of history, but a part of art, as well."

"Strange fellow," Minho says, walking beside you through the city streets and long after having bid the prince farewell. "Not sure what it is that you ever saw in him."

The comment is pointedly comedic, and you judge him playfully with your elbow before responding in words. "He's handsome, and royalty. Suppose for a long time I didn't consider there to be much else outside of those things. What else could a man have to offer me?"

"As it would seem, only having one of those things is plenty to suit you," he jokes, slinging an arm up and around your shoulders as the two of you carry on. "You have been taken by my confusing whimsy and cumbersome charms."

"So it would seem," you reply, watching the sprinkle of shimmering snow collect atop a difficult, complicated head of black hair that you have incomprehensibly grown to love.

a/n: thanks for reading and i hope you enjoyed it! no pt. 2, and kind words are always much appreciated ♡

#lee know smut #lee minho smut #stray kids smut #lee know x reader #lee know x you #lee know x y/n #lee know imagines #lee know scenarios #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #lee minho x you #lee minho x reader #lee minho imagines #lee minho scenarios #lee know fanfic #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x you #stray kids x y/n

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nvrsaidiwasinurcloset · 2 months

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Cinderblock Garden - Ethan Landry x Fem!Reader

This was a request that I got, but after talking with the person that requested it, I made a few changes and didn't want to use the request in the fic lmao. It's LONG AS FUCK and I've been working on this for four days now. There's a lot in this, from events in Scream 5, leading to New York stuff.

*to the sweet soul that requested this, I hope things are a little better for you now, and I hope you like this and that it was worth the wait lmao*

This contains SMUT -Minors DNI

Summary: You're the child of Gale and Dewey, and after losing your dad and almost dying yourself, you struggle with day to day life. When you meet Ethan, he just wants you to let him in, but after your ex, Amber, tried to kill you, you struggle to do that.

Contains: Over 10k words, jesus. Angst, mentions of death, mental health struggles, some fluffy smut tbh. Virgin!Ethan and Virgin!Reader -p in v, oral(f recieving).

A/N: In this fic, Ethan is simply Ethan Landry and has no relation to Richie.

When your parents split, you had the option to move to New York with your mom, Gale, or stay in Woodsboro with your dad, Dewey. You decided to stay with your dad because your mom’s main priority was always her career. Even when you’d go out to visit her every now and then, she’d never take any time off, always leaving you alone in her condo. You couldn’t stand her new boyfriend, either. You hated how quickly she could just move on from your dad when he still loved her so much.

You had your doubts about love after watching your parents’ marriage fall apart, until you met Amber. It started off as a friendship, the perfect distraction from your less than perfect home life. Especially when your dad started drinking, she was always there. You realized that you had feelings, she did, too. Everyone else in the friend group was a little surprised by it, but they were all very accepting of it, wanting nothing more than for you to be happy.

When Tara got attacked, your dad wanted to put you on the first plane to New York. Your mom agreed with him, but you refused. You weren’t going to leave your best friend while she recovered, and you really didn’t want to leave Amber.

“Please, this is what’s best for you,” your dad said, pleading with you to get out of Woodsboro. “You’re the child of two people that have been through this several times. If they went after Tara, they’ll probably come after you. I can’t let that happen.”

You sighed, noticing the whisky bottle in his hand. “You put me through so many self defense classes…I think I can handle myself.”

“I was the sheriff, with far more training than you’ve had. I’ve been stabbed several times…you’re not invincible.”

“I’m not saying I am. If I really am a target, don’t you think they’d find me regardless of if I’m in Woodsboro or not?” you questioned, as he took a swig out of the bottle. “I’m safer here with you.”

He sighed, looking over to you. “Fine, but the tracking app on your phone…if you turn it off so I can’t find you, you’re going to New York. If you don’t come straight home after school, you’re going to New York. If you have a run-in with Ghostface-“

“I’m going to New York. I got it,” you said, rolling your eyes. “So, I’m not allowed to do anything other than go to school or be here?”

“Yeah, that’s right. I’m not going to lose you,” he said, his tone stern.

“Okay, but what happens when you’re at the bar getting wasted and I’m here by myself? Isn’t it safer to have people around me?” You didn’t expect your question to come out as harshly as it did, his face wincing as you spoke. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“No, you’re right. I’ll be home more, I promise,” he said, feeling guilty for making you doubt him. “Just…if you do go out with your friends, please be smart about it. Someone you’re close to is probably a part of this…just remember that. And I meant what I said about the phone tracker.”

You nodded, as he pulled you into a side hug. “Your mom is probably coming out here, just so you know.”

“Ugh,” you groaned, “The boyfriend isn’t coming with her, right?”

“I don’t know. I hope not,” he sighed, the sadness in his voice obvious. “You better get to school.”

Everyone in your friend group was on edge. Tara was alive, but her condition wasn’t great. As you joined your friends at the picnic tables outside, Amber wrapped her arm around you.

“Hey, babe,” she said, “Did you get questioned, too?”

“Yeah, I was interrogated for all of five minutes. I guess that’s the perk of being a former sheriff’s kid,” you said, as Wes looked over to you.

“How is your dad? We haven’t seen him in a while,” he asked, as you shrugged.

“He’s still the same. He tried to convince me to go to New York after what happened last night,” you sighed, as Wes gave you a confused look.

“If you had the chance to get far away from here, why the fuck wouldn’t you take it?” he asked, the paranoia that his mom instilled in him apparent as you just looked at him.

“I’m not leaving Tara…or you guys. It’s better to have more people here if this is going to be another huge thing like it’s been before.”

“Yeah, but is it a safety in numbers thing, or will it just add to the body count if you stay?” Mindy asked, as Chad sighed.

“Seriously? We’re all freaked out enough,” he said, as Wes’ phone dinged in his pocket.

“Hey guys, Tara just woke up.”

When everyone got up to leave, you looked around at your friends, thinking back to what your dad said. You saw them all in such a positive light that you couldn’t even begin to suspect any of them.

Once you made it to the hospital, Tara was so happy to see everyone. Or it could’ve been all the pain meds she was on. You sat down at the foot of her bed as she sleepily smiled.

“How are you feeling?” you asked, starting to tear up as you looked at her.

“I’m okay, still shaken up, though,” she sighed, “They have police protection for me, but you guys need to be careful.”

“We’ll be fine,” Amber said knowingly as Tara smiled.

Then you saw someone you hadn’t seen in years walk into the hospital room, with whom you assumed to be her boyfriend when he called her ‘babe’.

“Hey, this is Richie,” Sam said, introducing him as he awkwardly waved.

He gave you the creeps from the start. You couldn’t shake the thought from your mind that he was guilty of something, but your parents always told you that you needed to be cautious of everyone.

“Hey, can I talk to Sam alone?” Tara asked, as everyone nodded. “Thanks for coming to see me.”

“Of course, we’ll be back tomorrow,” you said, standing up to leave.

When you made it out to the hallway, you checked the time and saw a few missed calls from your dad.

“Fuck, I need to get home,” you said, typing a text to him before putting your phone back in your pocket.

“We were going to go have some fun, though,” Amber said, “Is this how it’s going to be? Ghostface comes back and I don’t get to spend time with my girlfriend?”

“You really won’t spend any time with me if I get sent to New York,” you said, as you hopped on the elevator with everyone.

“This is annoying,” she huffed, “Wes is allowed to go out with us, and you know how his mom is.”

“Hey,” Wes said, “I have a taser and pepper spray, I’m good to go.”

“And I’ve got these hands, but dad doesn’t think that’s good enough,” you laughed, as you made it to the bottom floor. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Your dad was a little annoyed when you got home, but he was just happy to know you were safe. As much as he hated your decision to stay in Woodsboro, he thought you were a pretty good judge of character and you always paid close attention to your surroundings.

Things just kept getting crazier. When Wes and Judy were killed, you and your dad ran into Sam at the crime scene. You were making small talk with her, when she nudged her head in the direction behind you.

“Isn’t that your mom?” she asked, as you turned around.

You noticed she had a camera crew with her, as you felt anger start to build up. Your dad went over to talk to her, as she kept peaking around him to look at you.

“Typical. Something happens in Woodsboro and she has to get the fucking story on it,” you said to Sam.

She was about to respond when she noticed the cop that was supposed to be watching Tara’s room standing outside of the Hick’s house.

“Who’s with my sister?” She questioned as he looked at her, confused.

She started to yell, getting your dad’s attention as he ran back over to you, your mom hot on his heels.

“I need to get to Tara,” Sam said, running towards her car.

“I’m coming with you,” you said, following her.

“I don’t think so,” Gale said, “You’re staying here, around people so you’ll be safe.”

You scoffed as you turned to look at her, “So now you decide you want to be a parent?”

She was taken aback at your words, as your dad stepped in. “I’ll go, too. She’ll be safe.”

He hopped in the passenger’s seat as you got in the back, your mom just standing there in shock as the three of you sped off.

“You shouldn’t talk to your mother like that,” Dewey scolded, as he noticed Sam’s high rate of speed. “and you should probably slow down.”

“Tara’s by herself. I’m not going to let anything happen to her,” Sam snapped, as she turned onto the road that led to the hospital. “Richie’s on his way, I hope someone gets there in time.”

She got out her phone to call Richie, as she pulled into the hospital parking lot. She was frantic when she realized the call was picked up, but she was terrified once she heard Ghostface’s voice. She stopped the car as she talked, quickly jumping out with you and your dad as you ran inside of the hospital to the elevator to get to Tara’s private floor.

She just kept talking to the killer as you and your dad silently stood beside her. He pulled out his gun, waiting for the doors to open. As soon as they did, he fired a shot, the loud bang making you jump. The masked person scurried away, when everyone piled out of the elevator to save Tara and Richie.

“Tara!” you screamed, running up to her. Your dad ran to Richie as you and Sam helped Tara off the floor.

Your best friend was very emotional and shaken up as her sister hugged her, but you were still on edge. You had a gut feeling that something was about to happen.

Then, you saw Ghostface charge towards Richie and your dad. You grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall and ran towards the figure that was trying to attack your dad. You hit the person over the head, but you felt a sharp, burning pain in your side as you did. Your dad was able to fight back thanks to your distraction, getting in a few shots as Ghostface fell through the glass case against the hallway wall.

“Fuck,” you cried, holding your wound. Your dad’s arms wrapped around you as he walked you towards the elevator, when Richie walked over to help.

“Thanks,” Dewey said, as he walked you inside. “Shit, I didn’t shoot him in the head.”

“Does that really matter right now?” you asked, as he nodded. He stepped back out of the elevator, a sad smile on his face as he looked at you, doubled over. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to finish this,” he said, as you craned your neck to look at him.

“Dad, no. You can’t do that!” you cried, as he started to walk down the hall.

“I need to make sure you’re safe. This is how I can do that,” he paused, “I love you.”

As soon as those elevator doors closed, you started screaming, begging to go back to your dad. Sam wouldn’t let that happen. She just kept trying to assure you that he’d be okay, and that you and Tara both needed medical attention.

He wasn’t okay, though. You soon learned what happened to your dad when your mom somberly walked into the hospital room, her sad eyes meeting yours. To say you were emotionally destroyed would’ve been an understatement. You expected your mom to be a little more comforting, and she was trying, but she seemed more interested in getting details on any new leads the detectives might’ve had.

For safety reasons, they moved Tara to the same room as you, making it easier for the police to keep an eye on the both of you.

“She’s really starting to piss me off,” you sighed, as Tara looked over at you. “I’m in here, absolutely fucking devastated, and she’d rather talk to the cops.”

“Maybe she’s just trying to do what she can to keep you safe,” she suggested, “Have you heard from Amber?”

“Yeah, she’s having a party for Wes tonight. Not that you and I will be attending,” you laughed a little, as she smiled.

“Sam wants to get me out of here as soon as possible. I don’t know where she wants to go, but she just wants us to be somewhere safe.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea…maybe I’ll sneak out of here with you guys,” you said, half-joking as Tara started to nod.

“If your mom’s distracted, and the cops are busy talking to her anyway, we could sneak you out.”

“Fuck it, let’s do it.”

Your mom walked back in the room, looking back and forth between you and Tara.

“Do what?” she questioned, as you glanced back over to your friend.

“Oh, um, we were talking about college. We’re both going to apply to Blackmore,” you lied, as your mom started to smile.

“Are you warming up to the idea of New York?” she asked, as you shook your head.

“Not at all, but I want my best friend there with me,” you said, a defeated look appearing on her face.

“It’s not as bad as you think it is.”

After the police finished questioning Richie and Sam for the second time of the day, they joined you, your mom, and Tara in the room. Sidney walked in not long after, a sad smile on her face as she saw you in the hospital bed.

“You’ve grown up so much,” she said, walking over to you, “I’m so sorry about your dad.”

“Thanks, Sid,” you said softly, “How are the kids?”

She smiled at you, “They’re fine. They’re somewhere safe.”

“I wish I was somewhere safe,” you joked, as your mom rolled her eyes.

“You had the chance to come to New York,” she sighed, “If you would’ve just listened to me and your dad then maybe we wouldn’t be in here right now.”

“What, and dad wouldn’t be dead, too?” you snapped, looking towards her.

“I didn’t say that…this whole ‘you hating me’ thing isn’t going to work. We need to be there for each other.”

You were about to respond when a detective came in to talk to your mom. She stepped out with Sidney, walking to the next hallway over so you wouldn’t hear the conversation.

“Now’s our chance,” Tara said, as Sam looked between you two, confused.

“Chance for what?”

“We’re sneaking her out with us,” Tara said, wincing as she pulled her IV out.

“What the fuck are you doing? You haven’t been discharged yet,” Sam sighed, looking over to see you doing the same. “I’m not kidnapping you, I’m sorry.”

“Look, we want to be somewhere safe. She isn’t going to be safe if she stays here and we go. Her mom’s barely paid attention to her since we’ve been in here…if you want me to go, she’s going too,” Tara said, as Sam sighed, looking over to Richie. He shrugged, walking over to the door to peak out.

“No cops, no Gale,” he said, as Sam rolled her eyes.

“Fuck it, fine. You both better hurry up though.”

You did as Sam said, the both of you quickly changing before sneaking past the nurses’ station towards the exit.

After your mom and Sidney finished talking to a detective in the next hall over, she came back to see your bed empty. She started to panic, noticing your IV line resting on top of the bed and most of your stuff gone. She looked over to the other side of the room, realizing that Tara was gone, too.

“Excuse me, where did they take my daughter?” Gale asked one of the nurses that’d passed by the doorway.

He grabbed an iPad off the nurse’s station, trying to pull you up. “She doesn’t have any testing or anything scheduled…she’s not in her room?” He craned his neck to peak around, noticing the empty bed.

“She’s a minor, isn’t there some kind of alert you guys have for this?!” She yelled, as the nurse nodded.

“I’ll take care of that right away.”

It didn’t matter, though. You’d already made it out of the hospital by the time the code was called.

“Where do you think she went?” Sydney asked, as your mom tried to rack her brain.

“I’m not the mom of the year, okay? I barely know her anymore,” she sighed, as Sidney sympathetically smiled at her.

“Whatever happened, now that Dewey’s gone, you’re going to have to fix that relationship,” she said, as your mom nodded. “She’s a good kid.”

“I know, I just hope she’s okay.”

When you were in the back seat with Tara, her asthma was flaring up as she tried to find her inhaler.

“Fuck, I don’t have it,” she panicked, as Sam looked at her in the rearview mirror.

“Can you wait until we’re in the next town?” she asked, as Richie glanced back to see Tara’s breathing getting worse.

“No…this is getting bad,” you said, trying to search Tara’s purse again. “Do you still have the spare one at Ambers?”

“Yeah, Sam, we need to go to Amber’s,” Tara said, as Sam shook her head.

“I don’t think so,” she said, her lack of understanding for how bad the situation was starting to piss you off.

“She’s going to be dead by the time we get to the next fucking town. Go to Amber’s,” you yelled, as Sam hesitantly nodded. “Turn left up here.”

As your mom and Sidney searched around the hospital hoping to find you, she remembered the app Dewey put on your phone so he’d always know where you were. He gave her the log-in too just in case she ever needed it. She quickly pulled her phone out, checking to see what your location was as Sidney looked at her.

“She’s not even here,” Gale said, as she and Sidney bolted towards the exit.

Once they made it in the car and started to drive, your mom was looking at the tracking app, noticing that you’d stopped.

“Turner Lane, why does that sound so familiar?” she asked, as Sidney’s eyes grew wide.

“Please don’t tell me that’s where she is,” Sidney said, pressing the gas a little harder, “Stu Macher used to live on Turner Lane.”

“Oh fuck,” Gale said, as she tried to call you.

Your phone was on silent in your pocket as you went up to Amber’s room. The party downstairs was in full swing as you tried to help your girlfriend search for Tara’s inhaler.

“Are you okay?” Amber asked, “I’m sorry about your dad.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” you sighed, thinking about him as you dug through a box on top of Amber’s dresser. “Found it!” you held up the inhaler as she smiled.

“Can you please call me when you make it to wherever you’re going so I know you’re safe, please?” she asked, as she stepped towards you.

“Yeah, I just need to get the fuck away from my mom for a few days.”

She nodded in understanding as you ran out of her room, down the stairs to find Tara.

“Stupid bitch,” Amber muttered, once she knew you couldn’t hear her.

After you gave Tara her inhaler, you pulled your phone out of your pocket to see twenty missed calls from your mom.

“Jesus, someone’s freaking out,” you said, showing Tara the screen.

“Maybe you should call her back. Just let her know you’re okay.”

“Fine,” you sighed, but before you had the chance to call her, she was calling you again.

You answered, “Hey mom, I’m fine-“

“You need to get the fuck out of that house right now!” she yelled, the second she heard your voice.

“How do you know where I am?” you questioned, annoyance in your tone as she started to yell again.

“You’re in Stu Macher’s house,” your heart started to race as you looked over to Sam, Tara, and Richie. You’d heard that name many times before. You started to look around, thinking about how the party at his house was the finale of the first Woodsboro Massacre where your dad was stabbed.

“We need to get out of here, right now,” you said to them, as Richie started to smirk.

“Did someone finally figure it out?” he asked, the psychotic excitement in his voice making your skin crawl.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, jumping as you heard a gunshot coming from the living room, accompanied by several screams. “What the fuck is going on?”

Sam and Tara started to back away from Richie as you looked at him.

“God, you know, you guys really are the perfect victims. Serial killer dad,” he said, looking to Sam, “oblivious little sister,” he said to Tara, before turning to you, “and the child of the sheriff that tried to take down Billy and Stu. It’s hilarious. You get to die where he should’ve.”

“Fuck you,” you said through gritted teeth, as he started to step towards you.

“You want to know what the best part of this whole little fucked up scenario is, though?” he asked, as Amber walked into the room. “I’ve been fucking your girlfriend.” Sam glanced over to you, the obvious look of disgust and betrayal painted on both of your faces.

Your mouth dropped as you looked over to Amber. “Sorry, baby,” she said, so nonchalantly that your blood was starting to boil. You shook your head as you thought back to your dad telling you that you probably knew who was responsible for everything.

“Did you kill my dad?” you asked Amber as she shrugged, muttering “Maybe,” as you stepped towards her.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Richie said, pulling out a knife and pointing it at you as Sam and Tara started to back away, looking at you. You nodded towards the side door as Amber walked up to kiss Richie.

While they were distracted, you glanced along the counters to see if there was anything you could use that would be helpful. You saw the knife block, and as the rage started to build up even more towards Amber for stabbing you and killing your dad.

You subtly grabbed a knife from behind you, and started to step towards them as you held it firmly in your hand behind your back.

“Where did the other two go?” Amber asked, pulling away from Richie as he turned around to look.

“I’ll go find them,” he said, waving his knife around. “Don’t try anything. She doesn’t love you enough to save you.”

As soon as he walked away, you looked at Amber. “Is that true? You don’t love me enough to save me?”

“I never fucking loved you. God, I only wanted to get close to you and your friends. It amazes me how stupid you are,” she scoffed, as you stepped even closer, “What are you going to do? I was stronger than your dad, you dumb bitch. Do you really think you’re going to win in a fight against me?”

“I don’t need to be stronger than you,” you smiled, “Because you’re the one that doesn’t have a knife right now.”

As soon as you pulled the knife from behind your back, she darted towards the gun on the kitchen island. You were quicker though, stabbing her before she was able to grab it. She dropped to her knees as she held her stomach. In that moment, she looked weak and helpless. You couldn’t shake the thought that she had your dad feeling that way when she killed him.

“Baby, why would you do that?” she asked, her psychotic eyes pleading with yours.

You looked down at her, the fury in your eyes obvious as she tried to plead with you.

“How the fuck could you do this to me? To my fucking dad?!”

“Oh, please. You knew he was a shitty dad,” she scoffed, before whining again at the pain she was feeling. “I got him good, too. I just wish you could’ve seen it.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you screamed, as you stabbed her again.

Richie ran back in the room with Tara and Sam, noticing Amber on the floor and the large, bloody knife in your hand. You started to run towards him, thinking you could finish all of this. You didn’t though, because as soon as you made it to Richie, he plunged his knife into your stomach several times.

“No!” Tara screamed, as you dropped to the floor, blood immediately pooling beside you on the floor. You heard Tara’s cries as your vision started to get fuzzy.

“You really thought you were going to do something with that, didn’t you?” Richie laughed, “I’m sure your mom will be here soon, and you’ll get to be with both of your parents after I’m finished with her. Now’s a good time to thank me.”

“Fuck you,” you said weakly, as you started to lose consciousness.

“Oh, look at all that blood,” was the last thing you heard before blacking out.

You woke up in the hospital several days later with your mom and Sidney sitting beside your bed. You groaned as your eyes tried to adjust to the fluorescent lighting.

“Hey,” your mom said, “They weren’t sure when you’d wake up.”

“Lights,” you choked out, your voice raw.

“Try not to talk a lot, okay?” Sidney said, as she got up to flip the switch. “You almost didn’t pull through. They had to intubate you for surgery.”

You laid there in silence for a few minutes, like your brain was trying to process everything that happened. The heart rate monitor started to beep faster as you thought about your dad and the rest of your friends. Your breathing got heavier, as you started to shake your tingling hands.

Your mom went out to grab a nurse, who rushed in to check on you.

“Let’s give you something to help you calm down,” she said, pulling out a syringe. She injected medication into your IV as you tried to take deep breaths in comparison to the shallow ones you kept sucking in.

“What’s going on?” your mom asked, as the nurse turned to look at her.

“She’s having a panic attack. It’s normal after trauma like what she went through,” she said, before turning to you, “Would you like some water?”

You nodded, as she stepped out of the room. She came back a few minutes later with your water and one of the doctors.

“We’re going to suggest lots of therapy,” the doctor said, as she looked over at your dazed expression from the meds. “Physical and mental. It’s going to be a long road, just be patient with her.”

“I’m going to take her back to New York with me. If you have any recommendations for doctors out there, I’d appreciate it,” Your mom said, as the doctor nodded.

“I’ll be right back.”

As you sipped the water, it started to soothe your dry, irritated throat. After the doctor walked back in with the list of doctors in New York, you tried to speak.

“Tara?” you got out, as your mom smiled.

“She’s okay. Sam is too.”

“Chad and Mindy?”

“They’re okay. Chad was a little touch and go at first, too. He’s in the next room over,” she said, as you started to smile.

You were devastated about your dad and Wes but knowing that most of your friends survived gave you an ounce of hope that everything would be okay.

Once you’d healed enough to leave the hospital, you had a tearful goodbye with everyone as you prepared to go to New York.

“I hope you were serious about Blackmore…we all kind of applied,” Tara said, as Mindy nodded.

“Seriously? That would be so cool,” you said, smiling. “I’d love to have you guys close by.”

Your mom stood by and watched as Sam walked up to talk to her.

“I know Tara will most likely get in, she’s a smart one,” Sam said, with a small laugh. “If you can think of any safe areas for us to live, let me know.”

“You’d be coming with her?” your mom asked, as Sam nodded.

“I’m never letting her out of my sight,” she sighed, “I’m so sorry for your loss, with Dewey. If it wasn’t for him, we probably wouldn’t have made it through the attack at the hospital.”

“Thank you…I’m just sad he won’t get to see all the great things I know she’s going to do with her life.”

After a few months of living in New York, you started to get adjusted. You had physical therapy three times a week and had to see your psychiatrist at least once a week, but you felt like you were starting to find yourself again, aside from struggling with anxiety and PTSD. Your mom’s boyfriend, Brooks, was even starting to piss you off a little less. You’d had several conversations with him about your dad, and he was trying to step up. He didn’t want to take your dad’s place by any means, but he was trying so hard to be a trusted male figure in your life, aside from Chad, who was still on the opposite side of the country.

On your eighteenth birthday, Tara FaceTimed you. You were smiling so big when you saw all of your friends, their own version of a surprise party making your heart swell. That’s the day they told you they all got into Blackmore, and you started to count down the days.

“Mom, don’t you think I should get the full college experience?” you sighed, as she rolled her eyes.

“You’re not staying in a dorm, and that’s final,” she said, as you glanced over to Brooks.

“I can’t help you with this one. You know your mom has her mind made up,” he said, as he leaned against the kitchen island.

“Whatever,” you huffed, walking towards your room.

Your mom and Brooks just looked at each other as she sighed in defeat.

“She might be annoyed with you right now, but she’ll get over it,” he said, wrapping his arm around her.

“I hope so, I’m getting sick of all the teen angst,” she said, laughing a little.

“How’s her therapy been?”

“She said it’s going well. They’ve really been unpacking the Amber stuff…I just hope she’s able to trust someone again someday.”

“She will.”

Once your friends made it to New York, your mom let you go out and explore the city for the first time without her. She was nervous, regularly checking her phone just to make sure you were okay. She knew your therapy sessions were helping, but you still had your panic attacks and your body wasn’t the strongest yet.

As you walked along the sidewalk with your friends, Chad noticed a comic book store a little further up the street.

“Can we check that out?” he asked, as you nodded.

“This is the same dorky shit you did in Woodsboro. Don’t you want to do something else?” Mindy asked, as her brother scoffed.

“Nope. I’ve already gone into three different clothing stores with you guys AND found my perfect foundation match while you guys were shopping for makeup. You owe me,” he said, making you and Tara laugh.

“Fine, let’s go,” Tara said, before turning to look at you. “Let me know whenever you need to sit down, okay?”

“I will. Let’s get food after this. I can rest while we eat,” you said, as Tara nodded.

When you walked inside, you all went your separate ways as you started to browse around the store. Chad was in heaven, while everyone else was just there to kill the time. As you were walking along one of the rows, you started to get one of your reoccurring abdominal cramps from where you were stabbed. You leaned over, holding your stomach as you tried to breathe through it.

“Hey, are you okay?” you heard a male voice speaking to you, as you groaned out a “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” he said softly, as he squatted to talk to you. “Do you need something? Can I call someone for you?”

“I promise I’m okay. Just a bad cramp.”

You soon heard Tara mumble “Oh shit” as she and Mindy ran up to you.

“What happened?” Mindy asked, looking over to the boy.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know. I just saw her doubled over like this.”

The pain started to ease up, as you tried to stand back up.

“Fuck, that was a bad one,” you sighed, as your eyes connected to the person that was trying to help you.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, looking you over. You couldn’t form words after you saw him. He was your type, and his sweet, shy demeanor was just a plus. Mindy and Tara noticed you checking him out as he kept staring at you, a small smile on his lips. “I’m Ethan, by the way.”

“Hey,” you finally spoke, as Tara and Mindy inched away from you so you could talk to him. “Thanks for trying to help.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, as he started to flip through some of the comic books. “Do you go to Blackmore?”

“I’m about to,” you said, as he turned to you and smiled.

“You’re a freshman, too?”

“Yeah. I’m a little nervous, but I have all my hometown friends with me, so I know it’ll be fun,” you said, as you started to point them out.

“Chad? That’s what my roommate’s name is,” he said, looking towards him. “Wait, that’s him!”

“Oh, small world,” you said, “Hey, Chad!”

He turned around, smiling when he noticed his new roommate standing there.

“Dude, I didn’t know you were into stuff like this!” Chad said, as he walked up.

“Yeah, I’m a little bit of a dork, I guess,” Ethan laughed, as they started to geek out over stuff they’d found.

“How do you two know each other?” Chad asked curiously, as Ethan smiled.

“I just met her. She seems cool,” he said, “Have you guys been friends for a long time?”

“Yeah, we’ve known each other since elementary school. We grew up in this crazy, fucked up little town,” Chad said, as your eyes got wide.

“It wasn’t that bad,” you said, trying to play it off as Chad looked at you in disbelief.

“Yeah, Woodsboro was a walk in the park,” Chad said sarcastically, as you tried to change the subject.

“Can we go get food soon? I’m starving,” you said, as Chad nodded.

“Sure. Ethan, you want to go to lunch with us?”

“I wish I could, but I have to run by the book store. Maybe some other time, but I’ll see you later,” he said to Chad, before smiling at you. “It was nice to meet you. Hopefully I’ll see you again soon.”

“I hope so,” you said, your tone flirty as Chad looked between the two of you.

Ethan walked up to the counter to pay for his stuff, as Chad turned to you.

“What was that all about?” he asked, as you jokingly glared at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a hot roommate?!”

After that day, Chad made it his personal mission to get to know Ethan as well as he could, because he didn’t want you to go through another traumatic relationship. Once he realized that Ethan truly was this shy, dorky guy, he started to bring him around the friend group. The two of you immediately hit it off, and he loved to spend time with you.

Once the relationship started to get a little more serious, he began asking about Woodsboro. After that day at the comic book store, he did his research, but he still had so many questions. He knew you were hurt in some way, because of all the appointments you had, and the random sharp cramps you’d get from time to time. He noticed that you’d always try to push through pain, and he just wanted to have a better understanding of everything.

The last thing you wanted to do was think about what’d happened the year before, let alone talk about it. You had several insecurities about yourself, the scars all over your abdomen being one of the major ones. But you hated feeling weak. You hated that you were struggling to keep up with the high energy your friends and boyfriend had. You hated feeling like you just slowed everyone down.

Ethan didn’t care, though. He was always comforting and okay with taking breaks, or even cutting a date night short if you started to get anxious. He knew he loved you, but he was too shy to say it. He didn’t want to pour his heart out and you say it’s something you weren’t ready for yet.

Your mom was a little skeptical of Ethan. It wasn’t that he’d given her a reason to be, she just wanted you to always be cautious, especially after your last relationship. It got to the point where you’d have to sneak Ethan over whenever your mom and Brooks weren’t home.

“Hey, baby,” Ethan said, as you opened the front door.

“Hi,” you smiled, as he leaned in to kiss you. “Let’s go to my room.”

What was supposed to be the two of you just hanging out led to him on top of you on your bed, your hands in his hair as he kissed you. Your shirt was starting to inch up, his hand roaming over your stomach when you pushed him away.

“Stop,” you said, once you noticed him leaning back down to kiss you again.

“What did I do?” he asked, as you scooted away from him. “Baby, I don’t want to pressure you into talking about things you don’t want to, but you need to tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t want you touching me like that,” you said, your eyes not meeting his as he tried to understand.

“You’re my girlfriend…this is what people in relationships do,” he sighed, running his hand through his hair. “If you’re not ready for sex, that’s fine. I just don’t get what the big deal is with me touching you. You never talk to me about it.”

“I think you should go,” you said, as he rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” he said, standing up. “You just keep shutting down whenever there’s something we need to talk about. You’re so secretive about what you’ve been through. I feel like I barely know anything about you.”

“Are you saying you want to break up?” you asked, your eyes watering as he shook his head.

“No, babe. I care about you so much…but you don’t trust me. I know something horrible happened to you in Woodsboro, and all I want is to be the supportive boyfriend that you deserve, but I can’t be that for you when you won’t talk to me. I’ve even tried to ask Chad, just so I understand, but he’ll only talk about what happened to him.”

“So, you’ve been trying to get stuff out of Chad because I won’t tell you about it?” you questioned, the pissed expression on your face making him tense up. “I’m not ready to talk to you!”

“Call me when you are,” he said, walking towards your bedroom door.

You felt a panic attack creeping up the second he walked out. You grabbed your anxiety medication and took a pill out, hoping that it would kick in soon. Your hands were shaky as you tried to take it, the water you were trying to drink spilling all over your shirt.

“Fuck,” you muttered, your breathing heavy as you jumped up to grab another shirt to change into.

The second you got the wet one off, Ethan walked back in the room.

“I forgot my phone,” he mumbled, before he saw you. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scars all over your abdomen, feeling sick to his stomach that someone could ever do something like that to you. “Baby…”

“Get the fuck out!” you screamed, as he scrambled to grab his phone off your bedside table. “Now, Ethan! Go!”

You quickly pulled the dry shirt over your head, as he glanced back over to you once more. You were sobbing as he tried to step closer, wanting to comfort you.

“Don’t come near me, Ethan! Go!” you yelled again, as he hesitantly turned around and walked out.

You followed him to the front door, slamming it behind him. You put your back against the door before sliding down it, as you pulled your knees to your chest as you cried.

When your mom got home later in the day to take you to your psychiatrist, you didn’t feel like going. You were still upset from the situation with Ethan earlier in the day, so once she started to argue with you that you needed to go, it got explosive.

“What is wrong with you today? You’ve been making such good progress!” your mom yelled, as you started to pace the floor.

“What’s wrong with me?! I was almost killed, mom! I have these fucking scars all over me that remind me of what I went through every fucking day!” you screamed, as tears started to run down your cheeks. “I have a great boyfriend, someone who really cares about me, and I can’t fucking trust him because of what Amber did to me! Then, he saw my scars earlier and looked at me like I was a fucking victim and I’m sick of feeling that way!”

“Wait, how did he see your scars? What have you been doing when I’m not here?” she questioned, as you stopped your pacing.

“That’s what you took from all that I just said?!” You asked, as Brooks walked in. “I’m not having sex, if that’s what you’re thinking. I want to, though! I want to be able to trust Ethan enough to do that, but I’m too fucked up for that to happen!”

Your mom just looked at you as Brooks tried to calm you down.

“Hey, I know this is none of my business, and I’m sorry for putting my nose where it doesn’t belong…but have you talked to your therapist about Ethan?”

“Not really. He’s only come up a few times,” you sighed, wiping your tears. “I was hoping I could work through things with him on my own, but I still haven’t told him anything that happened. He’s trying so hard, too. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“That kid really cares about you. Maybe you should talk to your doctor about the best way to open up to him,” he said, as you nodded. “I don’t want you to feel like everyone that comes in your life is going to do what Amber did to you.”

Your mom smiled at the interaction, loving how close you were getting to him. His calm demeanor helped so much in diffusing your anxiety.

“Can we still make it to my appointment in time? Or is it too late?” you asked your mom, as she pulled out her phone to check the time.

“We can still make it, we need to leave right now, though.”

“You two get out of here, I’ll have dinner ready when you get back,” Brooks said, pulling you into a side hug as he walked you towards the door.

During your appointment, your doctor recommended that you take a week off from school, just to focus on your mental health. Your professors were very understanding, you just hoped your boyfriend would be, too. You needed to clear your head as you tried to think of the best way to unpack all the trauma with him. You decided to leave your phone off, only turning it on every now and then to let Tara know you were okay.

Ethan was freaking out. When all his calls went straight to voicemail, and you stopped coming to school, he started to think the worst. He knew that you were upset with him, and he felt awful that him seeing you without a shirt affected you as much as he did. Regardless of the scars, he still thought you were beautiful. He finally brought it up to the rest of the friend group and was relieved when Tara said that you were okay.

That’s when he thought about doing something sweet for you. He wanted you to feel better, and he desperately wanted you to forgive him. He went to the mall with Chad, wanting to find some of your favorite things to bring to you.

“What about this?” Chad said, as he walked with Ethan through the party store. Ethan wanted to find you the sweetest card to go with the things he’d bought you, but Chad had other ideas when he pointed to a huge balloon. Ethan rolled his eyes as he looked over to Chad. “What? I don’t think anything says ‘I love you’ like a massive balloon that literally says ‘I love you’.”

“Dude, I don’t want this to be cheesy. I want her to know how I feel without making her cringe,” Ethan said, “Do you think she’ll even answer the door when I try to take this stuff to her?”

“I can’t say for sure. She hasn’t spoken to me in a week.”

“At lease she talks to Tara, so we know she’s alright.”

Ethan was nervous as he walked into the elevator and selected the floor that your mom’s condo was on. He knew your mom and her boyfriend’s work schedule from the times you’d invited him over, so he knew you should be home alone, if you’d even open the door for him.

He stood outside the door and took a deep breath before knocking. After a few minutes of you not answering, he sat the stuff outside of the door, hoping you’d want to talk after you eventually saw it. He went back to the elevator and pressed the button, waiting for it to come back to the floor he was currently on.

Once the door opened, he saw you standing there.

“Ethan? What are you doing here?” you asked, as he stepped to the side for you to walk off the elevator.

“Oh, uh, I just dropped some stuff off for you. It’s in front of the door,” he said shyly, as you smiled at him.

“That’s really sweet, Ethan. I was actually going to call you and ask if you wanted to come over. I just left therapy, and I’m in a good head space right now. I think I’m ready to talk,” you said, reaching over to grab his hand. “It’s a little heavy, and I might not go too far into detail, but I want you to know some of what I went through.”

“I’m here to listen,” he smiled, rubbing his thumb against the top of your hand as you walked towards the door.

“Aww, this is so cute!” you squealed, looking down at the basket before you unlocked the door. You were about to bend down to grab it before he beat you to it. “Thanks, babe.”

You walked with him to your room, noticing the card. You grabbed it out of the basket as soon as he sat it down, but he took it from you before you could open it.

“Hey!” you laughed, trying to take it back from him.

“This card has some things in it that are important, but not as important as you telling me what you need to tell me,” he said, smiling as he sat it back in the basket. “You can read this after we talk, deal?”

“Deal,” you said, flopping back on your bed as he laid down beside you.

You both stared at the ceiling as he waited for you to start talking, but you didn’t know where you wanted to start. You were almost scared of what he’d think after you told him everything, but you knew in your heart that he’d still care about you regardless.

“So…I know I told you about my dad dying. He was killed last year when my ex and the guy she was cheating on me with went on a killing spree,” you said, as he sat up on his elbows to look at you as you spoke. “She killed my dad after she stabbed me. Her boyfriend really did the most damage to me though. I’ve been really self-conscious about all the scars I have. That’s why I stop you whenever things start to get a little handsy.”

He stayed silent for a minute, just soaking in all the information you’d told him. He was furious that anyone would ever hurt you, but he was hiding it well.

“It’s no wonder you’ve been a little hesitant to trust me,” he sighed, looking back at the ceiling. “I’m sorry I walked in on you. I really thought you were done with me after you yelled at me like that and didn’t want to talk to me.”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to you, I just wanted to get my feelings and my thoughts together. I knew I needed to open up to you, especially after you saw everything.”

“I just wanted to understand, you know? You’ve just been so vague about everything. I’m happy you’re opening up,” he said, laying back down. “I’m sorry if you ever felt pressure about the sex stuff, too. I promise you that’s not what I was trying to do, and I’d wait forever if I needed to.”

“I don’t think we need to wait forever,” you said, rolling over to your side to look at him. “I’m ready now, actually.”

He curiously looked at you, before he started to shake his head.

“Baby, I want you to fully trust me before we do anything like that.”

“I just gave you the short version of everything that caused my trauma. I trust you,” you said, leaning in to kiss him.

He kissed you back, the sweetness of it making your heart swell, like you knew he was the person you were meant to lose your virginity to. Once the kiss got more intense and your hand started to run under his shirt, he gently pushed your hand away.

“Wait, I need you to read the card,” he said, before you connected your lips to his again.

“Right now?” you asked, pulling away.

“Please. You’ll want to read it before we do this.”

You slid off the side of the bed and walked over to the basket and grabbed the card. Ethan wasn’t nervous at all as you sat down beside him and opened the envelope that contained his true feelings for you. He knew if you were ready for sex and felt comfortable enough to finally tell him about what you’d went through, that you probably felt the same way he did.

“This is really sweet,” you said, reading through everything he wrote. “Wait…”

You turned to look at him after you’d made it to the end of what he wrote, as he smiled at you.

“I love you, babe.”

“Seriously?” was all you said, your eyes starting to water as Ethan suddenly felt like maybe it was a little too soon for him to say it when you didn’t say it back.

“Yeah, it’s how I feel. If you aren’t ready for that-“

You cut him off my kissing him. “I love you, too,” you mumbled against his lips.

He pushed you back on the bed as he smiled down at you.

“You are sure, like one hundred percent sure you want to do this?” he asked, as his hand started to rub your thigh over your jeans.

“I’m positive. I want to do this with you.”

He leaned down to kiss you as his hands just kept rubbing against you. You didn’t feel self-conscious like you had before, and you were excited to share this experience with someone that loved you.

“Is it okay if I take your shirt off of you?” he asked, waiting for you to consent before he did it. The last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable.

You paused and took a deep breath. “Yes.”

The second your shirt was over your head, you noticed Ethan’s gaze on all your scars. You tried to cover them with your hands before he pulled them away.

“Stop, baby. You’re beautiful,” he said, running his hands across them.

He leaned down to start kissing your neck, his curls tickling you as you started to giggle.

“Am I absolutely awful at this or something?” he asked, as your fingers started to run through his hair.

“No babe, you’re tickling me, but it feels good,” you said, squirming a little underneath him once he found your sweet spot. “It really feels good.” He smirked against you as you started to let out heavy breaths. “I think your shirt should come off, too.”

He pulled away to take his shirt off before he leaned down to kiss you again. Your hands started to run along his back as he melted into your touch.

You leaned up a little as you felt his hands try to snake around you to unhook your bra. He fumbled with it for a minute, making you laugh into the kiss.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said, jokingly glaring at you as you smiled at him. He finally got it unhooked, sliding the straps down your arms as he pulled it off you. “Are you going to laugh at me the whole time?”

“No, babe,” you said, biting your bottom lip to hold in your giggles. You didn’t have to for long though, your mouth falling open as you gasped when he took one of your nipples into your mouth. He alternated between licking and sucking, before he moved to the other side. “That feels so good.”

He pulled away and smiled at you, “If you want to stop at any point, let me know. I’m not going to get mad, I just want you to be okay.”

“Thank you, baby. I know you won’t hurt me,” you smiled, reaching up to run your hand through his hair as his eyes fluttered at the feeling.

He leaned down again with your fingers still tangled in his hair, as he started to place kisses along your stomach. He paid extra attention to your scars, now knowing the dark story of how you got them. You looked down at him as he started to unbutton your jeans.

“I love you, baby.” He said, as he started to pull them down your hips. “Your body is so beautiful. Please don’t ever think that it’s not, okay?”

“Okay,” you sighed, as his hands started to run up your bare thighs.

“Can these come off?” he asked, rubbing your panties along your hips.

“Yes,” you said, as he smiled at you.

“You know I have no idea what I’m doing, so please let me know if anything I do hurts.”

“Ethan,” you sighed, as his eyes connected with yours. “Just do what you think feels right, and I’ll let you know how it feels.”

“Okay, baby,” he said, as his hand ran up your inner thigh, and over your pussy. You whimpered at the feeling, as he kept rubbing you. “Can I taste you, babe?”

“Please,” you said, as he leaned in. His tongue gently licked your clit, as your hand started to run through your hair. “That feels…fuck.”

His mouth started to move faster when your moans got a little louder, loving all the sounds he was pulling from you. His cock was straining against his jeans, but that was the last thing he wanted to focus on. He just wanted to keep making you feel good.

“Can you use your fingers, too?” you asked, your chest heaving as his finger started to brush against your entrance. You gasped when he slid it inside of you, pumping it in and out.

He pulled his mouth away to watch you, “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

You whimpered at his words as his fingers started to curve a little. “Oh shit,” you whined, as he slowed his fingers.

“You okay?” he asked, trying to ready your face, scared that he’d hurt you.

“That felt good, keep doing that,” you said, gasping as his finger moved quicker. “You can use two.”

He added another finger and moved them against that spot as he leaned down to focus on your clit with his mouth.

“Fuck, a little faster, baby,” you moaned, feeling that coil in the pit of your stomach getting tighter.

He did as you said, before he switched from licking your clit to sucking on it.

“Oh fuck,” you whimpered, your legs starting to jolt. He gasped as your pussy started to contract around his fingers. He didn’t want to stop his actions too quickly, so he just kept going until you started to pull away. You were letting out shaky breaths as he sat up to look at you, the blissful expression on your face making him smile.

“Did that feel good?” he asked, as you smiled and nodded with your eyes closed.

“That was perfect, babe.”

He curled up on the bed beside you, caressing everywhere he could reach as he waited for you to tell him it was okay to go further. He noticed the gasp that slipped past your lips when his hand ran over one of your breasts, so he started to massage it.

“Baby, I’m not trying to rush you, but my mom will be home soon,” you said, smiling at him. “I really don’t want this to get interrupted.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he said, sliding off the side of the bed to take his jeans off. You giggled at him as he smiled at you. “Sorry, I’ve been hard for so long.”

“It’s okay, babe. I love that you’re so excited,” you said, as he nodded.

“Yeah, I’m excited to experience this with the person that means the world to me,” he said, as he grabbed a condom out of his wallet before he slid his boxers down. He was mumbling something to you, but you couldn’t focus as you stared at him, starting to get a little anxious. “Did you hear what I said?” he asked, as you shook your head. “I was just reminding you that if it’s too much, let me know.”

As he stood in front of you, you started to question if it would be too much. He opened the condom and rolled it on before he crawled back on the bed to hover over you.

“Can you go slow?” you asked, as he lined up with your entrance.

“Of course, baby. As slow as you want,” he assured you, as he started to push himself inside of you. He noticed you wincing at the pain, and even tensing up a little. He stilled, looking over your face. “Try to relax, baby.”

He didn’t move, he just waited for you to give him the okay. He leaned down to kiss you, as the pain started to ease.

“Keep going,” you said, as he slid in a little further. You tensed up again, so he just kept kissing you. He wanted you to know that this wasn’t just about him enjoying the experience. He wanted to take care of you. It was starting to get to the point where the pressure of him stretching you started to feel really good. “Can you move?” you mumbled against his lips.

“Uh, I’m almost all the way in…are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, as your lust-filled eyes looked into his.

“It’s not really hurting anymore,” you said, as he started to smile. He slid the rest of himself inside of you, a soft moan slipping past your lips. His hips slowly started to move as he looked down at you. He was internally screaming but was trying to play it as cool as you were. “Can you go a little faster?”

“Yes,” he said, but it really came out as a whimper as he started to move a little faster. You were just so warm and tight. It was better than he ever thought it would be. “You feel so fucking good.”

“So do you,” you moaned, as the tip of his cock started to hit the spongy spot inside you. “Fuck, Ethan,” you whimpered, as your hand reached down to rub circles on your clit.

“I love you so much, baby,” he whined out, as he started to go even faster. He didn’t know if it was going to be too much for you to handle, but the way you started to moan helped ease the anxiety he had about it.

“I love you, too,” you whimpered, feeling your second orgasm creeping up.

He started to get even more confident, angling your legs so he was able to go a little deeper. Your hands held on to his biceps as he looked down at you. He was trying so hard not cum, but the expressions on your face and the sounds you were making made it a lot harder for him.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered, as he sighed in relief, knowing he didn’t have to hold back much longer. He groaned out the second your walls started to tighten around him, your hands shaking as the grip you had on his arms got tighter. He got you though it, speeding up a little as he chased his own orgasm.

His thrusts started to falter as his mouth fell open and his eyes began to flutter. You watched him though your post-orgasm haze, smiling as he opened his eyes to look at you. His chest was heaving, a goofy smile on his lips.

“That was a million times better than my hand,” he joked, making you laugh.

“It better be,” you said playfully, as you heard the front door open. “Shit.”

You and Ethan both jumped off your bed, your legs wobbly as you tried to find your clothes. You slid your panties back on as Ethan got his boxers and jeans back on. The second you got your shirt over your head, your bedroom door opened.

“Hey, there’s some people out here to see you,” your mom said, looking down at her phone as she walked into your room.

“Uh, mom,” you said, as she looked up at you.

“What the fuck is going on here?” she asked, noticing you without pants, Ethan shirtless, and the condom wrapper on your bedside table.

“Can we talk about this in a minute?” you asked, desperate for her to leave the room so you could finish getting dressed.

She huffed as she walked out, slamming the door behind her. Once you got your jeans back on, you heard your mom yell “I’ll kill him,” as Ethan looked over to you, terrified. You giggled as he slid his shirt over his head.

“It’s okay, babe. Hopefully Brooks will back me up,” you joked, as the both of you walked towards the door.

Your mom walking in was embarrassing enough, but when you walked out to see all the friends you hadn’t seen for a week sitting on the couch curiously looking at you and Ethan, your cheeks started to turn red.

“Oh, uh, hey guys. What are you doing here?” you asked, as Mindy pointed to the take-out bags on the kitchen island.

“Yeah, we wanted to surprise you and bring you food,” Chad said, before directing hit attention to Ethan. “I tried to text you a few times to invite you to come with us, but I understand why you didn’t respond.”

Ethan awkwardly laughed, before he noticed your mom glaring at him from the kitchen.

“Babe,” Brooks said, walking up beside her. “It’s okay.”

“You think me coming home to see my daughter and her boyfriend trying to put their clothes back on is okay?”

Mindy was trying to hold in her laughter, Chad was, too.

“Can’t we all just be happy that I trust Ethan, and finally told him everything?” you said, trying to play it off as a joke as your mom rolled her eyes.

“That’s a good point,” Brooks said, “That’s something she wasn’t able to do before.”

“Are you just going to back her up on everything?” your mom sighed, looking up at him.

“I just want you to see the positives,” he said, before gesturing over to Ethan. “He’s a good kid. He cares about her.”

“I really do,” Ethan said, finally speaking up.

“See? I know you’re still going to worry about her, but let her be happy,” Brooks said, as your mom started to walk over to you.

“You are going on birth control. And you,” she said, turning to Ethan, “If you hurt my daughter, I’ll kill you.”

“I won’t hurt her,” Ethan said, as she stared him down.

“You better not. Let’s eat before the food get’s cold.”

#ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #scream smut #ethan landry smut #smut

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