#also you can see my finger pressing through the canvas lmao

[spencersawkward]

omg i’m so glad u have a tumblr!! ur literally my fav mgg fic author ❤️ i’m a hoe for that man can u do sleeping together for the first time with like an age gap or something spicy lmao

hi omg thank you 😊 that literally means the world to me! also thank you for requesting one of my fave things to write haha i love first-time-having-sex-together tropes. happy reading! 

summary: reader is an artist who needs some inspiration, preferably from her new boyfriend.

content warnings: unprotected penetrative sex, age gap, creampie, a little breeding kink, oral (male receiving), kind of Dom!Matthew vibes, dirty talk, praise kink with a hint of degradation as well (not super prominent). 

word count: 4.4k

relationship: Fem!Reader/Matthew

masterlist

I straighten up and bend backward a bit to relieve the pressure on my spine. my hair is falling out of the knot on my head and I push a stray piece behind my ear, placing the wooden paintbrush between my teeth. aside from the warm, mellifluous tones pouring from the speakers, the apartment is silent.

I've hit a creative wall, it seems. every time I've tried to paint this week, I find myself standing above a stretched canvas with nothing but a frown and crossed arms. even little details feel wrong to add; the empty space is taunting me. it doesn't help that my thoughts have been flooded with memories and fantasies of Matthew. we've been on a couple dates now, sweet outings that leave me fluttery inside. I remember the words he says, the shape of his smile and the curve of his jaw, like they've been been in my mind forever. he's elusive, however, and hasn't initiated anything sexual with me. I think he's afraid of coming on too strong. there's a considerable age gap between us, but I don't care. I want him all the time-- whenever I'm at work, or trying to paint, all I can think of is how good it would feel to have those strong, veined hands on me.

christ.

before I can lose my courage, I text him. if anything can inspire me, it's his presence. likely, he's at work and won't be able to respond or come over, but it's worth a shot.

I'm just sliding my phone into my back pocket when the response comes in. a smile spreads over my face; he'll be over in half an hour. in the meantime, I'll sweep the background with shades that remind me of him: rich, emerald greens, honeyed tones that reminisce of his eyes. he'll pop against any backdrop.

I'm bent furiously over my work when he tells me he's arrived, and my heart thuds in my chest. even after hanging out several times, the butterflies are as alive as ever. they flood my stomach while I buzz him into the building.

"hi." he greets me when I open the door, curls messy. he must have just come from work.

"hi, Matthew." I smile up at him. his gaze travels over my face, my body, taking in my appearance for a moment.

"you look lovely." he says it genuinely, despite the fact that I'm literally wearing a paint t-shirt under a pair of rummaged overalls. I forgot to fix my hair, too.

"thanks." I blush, about to turn away when he bends down and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. it's the first time he's said hello that way, and part of me flushes with the knowledge that he's attracted to me right now.

"now," he looks around my apartment as I step back to let him in. "what can I help you with?"

"I have a small favor to ask." I spin the paintbrush between my index and third fingers, reaching out to take his wrist and pull him towards the couch.

"anything," he replies, then sees my setup. "is this your studio?"

"slash living room." I chuckle. Matthew sits on the soft cushions before staring up at me. I don't miss his pupils dilating as they travel over the shape of my body. instead of allowing myself get distracted, I gesture to the wet paint on my canvas. "I need you to model for me."

"like, be your muse?" he beams at the notion, incredibly pleased with himself. I like this about Matthew; although he can be self-deprecating and doesn't take himself too seriously, he appreciates my admiration.

"oh, hush." I giggle. he laughs, reclining on the couch now that he knows why I invited him over.

"how do you want me to pose, Picasso?"

"well, let me re-orient myself." I hold up a hand, grab the abandoned easel, and try to get everything set up. he never takes his eyes off me.

"why were you painting on the floor?" he asks, slightly amused. I jerk my head toward him, narrow my eyes.

"it's my process."

"no judgement." he holds up his hands in surrender. I place the canvas carefully on the easel so that he can't see my work, then gather up my paints, palette, and brushes. there's a moment of pure silence when I frown as I glance between his face and the chasm of space awaiting its representation.

"you look tired." I observe. he lets out a sound that resembles a laugh.

"I am."

"how long did you sleep last night?" I ask as I start painting, focusing on the shape and planes of his face. if I don't get the composition exactly correct, I'll have to throw the whole thing out.

"three hours." he says this like it's normal. my eyebrows shoot up.

"three hours? why?"

"I had to work on lines." he shrugs.

"don't move." I order. he suppresses a grin.

"my sincerest apologies."

"uh huh," I dip my brush into a pale skin shade that I've mixed to match his pigment. "you need to get more sleep."

we continue on like this for a while, making light conversation while I get down the basics of my portrait. I can't handle anything that requires more than a fraction of my attention while doing this, and he seems to appreciate my concentration.

that said, it's beyond difficult to focus when he stares at me like every movement is magical, something he wants to memorize. I feel pliable under his watch, a little bit like a doll. he could bend me every which way, ask me to do anything, and I would give in. and who could blame me?

my thoughts slip into darkened territories, and the hue of my cheeks must do the same, because he gets this mischievous smile on his face that I can't ignore.

"what are you thinking about?" he asks softly.

"hm?" I turn to him. "oh, nothing."

"really?" his brows lift in that intimidating, delightfully entertained way that sets my skin on fire.

"I..." I trail off, wondering if I should give into the chaos in my mind. the thoughts that slash through my psyche whenever I see the width of his shoulders, the fit of his shirt. "I should have asked you to pose nude."

Matthew blushes-- actually blushes-- when I say this, his head dropping momentarily as a grin takes over his features. when he lifts his gaze to mine again, there's a different look in his eyes.

"yeah?"

"mhmm." no taking it back now. "I think that would be too distracting, though."

"how so?" the corner of his mouth tugs up.

"you know why." I avert my attention, only once flitting back to him. his tongue darts out over his lips and he holds contact.

"say it." he dares me. the tone of it, slightly dominant, makes my stomach flip. quietly, I swallow the lump in my throat.

"I have trouble keeping my hands to myself."

we stare at each other, words finding and dying on tongues in the silence.

at this point, my painting has been somewhat abandoned. brushstrokes sit unaccompanied by actual structure, except for the general godly shape of his face, and I'm clenching the utensil between my fingers as if to channel the sexual tension elsewhere.

"is that right?" he notes my absolute stillness and stands up, walking toward me in a relaxed, confident gait. all I can do is look up at him when he stands before me. the top button of his shirt is undone, and I can see the smooth skin beneath, each of the other buttons awaiting my fingertips.

"yes." the word is messy. he runs his index finger over the shell of my ear, bends down, whispers so low that the phrase almost gets lost in the air.

"me too."

he plants a gentle kiss on my jaw, hand reaching tentatively to rest on my waist. I can feel the caution in his actions, the worry he has about pressuring me. I'm cognizant of every breath he takes, especially the hitch when I give into myself and kiss him.

his mouth is warm and soft. the tension twists and knots between our bodies, roiling in the empty space as we resist the energy still. but I don't want to resist. I know that I want this, and he seems to want it just as much.

"Matthew." I pull away, his teeth tugging gently on my bottom lip.

"what is it?" his eyes, dark, search mine. my pulse quickens beneath my skin.

"I want to be with you."

"you are with me." he chuckles lightly, glancing at my features. the full circles of my eyes, the bloom of pink spreading over my cheekbones.

"no," I shake my head. "I mean... I want to be with you."

"you want to have sex?" he asks, clarifying. I nod eagerly, though he frowns a bit. "are you sure?"

"do you not want to?" I try to keep the disappointment out of my face. maybe I misread the situation. the most we've done is make out on his couch and once in an Uber on the way back from our first date. but there's a sweet, burning sensation whenever I see him, something I want to dive into. I want him; I've wanted him since the moment we met.

"of course I want to," he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. relief loosens my chest. "I just don't want you to regret anything."

"I couldn't ever regret this." my eyes travel over his frame, over the little scar beneath his chin. he angles my face up to examine my features. there's a smirk on his face.

"then what are we waiting for?" his hands move to encircle my waist, tugging me to him like I'm something long-awaited, like he needs my weight against his. our lips meet again, my head tilting as we kiss deeply, my fingers twining in his soft hair. I'm standing on my tiptoes as I do it, and one of his hands reaches down to squeeze my ass. he grunts as my pelvis moves against the quickly-forming hard-on in his pants. I can feel it against my stomach as he ruts against me just slightly. I smirk.

"sit on the couch again." I whisper when I pull away. he's holding my face with one hand, staring into my eyes with the kind of dominance that tells me he knows exactly what to do. but I appreciate that he follows my request, pulling my hips toward him as he backs up and sinks onto the cushions. he sits, awaiting my next move. when I sink onto my knees and settle between his legs, he bites hard on his lip. I don't move at first, willing to draw out this beautiful moment when he's watching with undivided attention.

"what are you doing down there, sweetheart?" he feigns innocence when I give him my doe eyes. I run slender fingers over the erection in his pants, his quickened breath an indicator of just how needy he secretly is. I revel in it.

my free hand wraps around his upper thigh, digging my nails in slightly. he's so gorgeous, and the tension of his muscles beneath me is enough to break my resistance. I start to palm him through the fabric, torturing slowly while he runs fingers through my hair and tries not to buck up against my touch. I finally get around to undoing the button on his pants. he waits impatiently. I tug them down his legs, lingering on the waistband of his boxers. when they come down as well, another kind of knot forms in my tummy. he's perfect.

"oh my god." he throws his head back when his dick hits his stomach, the pleasure of releasing it its own sensation.

"hm?" I wonder aloud, wrapping my hand around the base and starting to slowly pump him. he raises his head to look at me.

"you're just... doing so well." he breathes. I grin at how easily I've got him; I was worried about being too shy or him being more experienced, but he's greedy for me. I love the power I have right now.

I surprise him by flattening my tongue against the underside of his cock, dragging it up over the throbbing vein and pausing at the top. I let him stare at me with my mouth hovering over him, the head resting on the tip of my tongue. he moans when I begin to kitten lick the precum that leaks out, grip tightening in my hair as it comes out of the ponytail I made earlier. the veins in his arm clench as I sink slowly onto him. my cheeks hollow. his jaw drops open, dewy skin catching the light, as I start to suck on him.

"fuck..." he trails off. I begin to bob up and down, doing tricks with my tongue and swirling around the head, savoring every single second. his desperate touch, the way he bucks his hips up involuntarily when I try to take him to the hilt, all of it causes me to moan. vibrations draw out sinful noises from him as well, those heavenly sounds that he litters with my name. my hands rest on his thighs at first, then move up to rest on the warm, taut skin of his abdomen. I crave every centimeter of his skin, his contact, especially when I can feel the rushed rise and fall of his panting. I give him full use of my throat, sliding over him and moaning with every tug of my hair. he mutters profanities, praises me, struggles to keep his eyes open just to see me peek up at him from beneath my lashes. his expression tells me he's got plans for me.

"if you don't stop, I'm gonna cum, baby." he groans, smoothly tugging me off of him. there's a slight popping sound and I settle onto my knees, staring up at him. the smile on my face is unmistakable. I love that I can do this to him. I grip his legs and pull myself up into his lap, drawing myself across him just before his erection, glancing down at it. his hands rub over the tops of my thighs, tracing over the curve of my hips and resting on my ass. I start to roll my body down, my lips finding his throat as I suck and bite. my tongue licks over his Adam's apple and he shudders, drawing me closer so that my stomach brushes his cock.

"stop teasing." he starts to undo the straps of my overalls, chuckling a bit to himself as they fall easily. I blush.

"pretty sexy." I joke. Matthew suddenly grabs my chin, holds me in place so that I look him dead in the eyes.

"you're perfect." he smiles admiringly, then toys with the hem of my t-shirt. I reach down, pull it off and toss it somewhere in the room. I'm not wearing a bra, and Matthew slides his hands up my waist, ribcage, pausing just below my tits. when I grab his fingers and place them over me, his dick twitches.

"excited?" I smirk. his fingertips seem to have a mind of their own as they begin to toy with my nipples, the pad of his thumbs teasing me. I sigh, chest pushing out towards him desperately. he holds my body like he's worried I'll crumble, but also in a way that connotes a deep longing. something spilling over.

"can I take you to the bedroom?" he asks me breathlessly, one of his hands leaving my chest to stroke his own cock. the sight makes me groan helplessly while I grip his shoulders and grind against his lap. he picks up the pace for himself. "I can't wait any longer."

I nod eagerly, gasping when he stops touching himself to pull up his pants, hoist me up into his arms, and stand, carrying me with surprising ease down the hallway of my apartment. I point him to the correct room and he laughs when we get inside.

"you're messy." he laughs, although I'm not sure if he means the scattered papers around my bedroom or the whine that issues from my throat as I reach for his clothed dick while I'm pressed to him. it's sitting against my navel and I want to see his undone expressions.

I ignore the playful comment; he lays me down gingerly on the bed, straightening up to gaze at my figure before I push the rest of the overalls down my legs and cast them off. he lets out a giggle as I pout at the work I have to put into getting naked.

"stop laughing..." I blush, smiling. but I'm giggling too. he grazes the inside of my thigh, unable to keep from touching me while I discard my panties.

"I'm sorry." he laughs in a way that shows he isn't sorry at all, but the soft kiss he plants on my lips tells me it's all endearing to him. I wrinkle my nose slightly. for the first time being naked around him, I feel surprisingly comfortable. he watches me with a quiet adoration, like I've spun sugar and gold between my fingers. unable to contain myself anymore, I grab fistfuls of his shirt and undo the rest of the buttons. every second that his skin isn't against mine is a new kind of torture. it comes off easily and then the pants come off, too, until we're just staring at each other.

"do you still wanna do this?" he speaks carefully with me. I don't know where to look-- at his perfect chest, stomach, the purplish bruises already forming across his throat, or his enraptured face. it's almost overwhelming, and the waves of desire crash over me, hindering my words.

"yes," I nod. "yes, yes, yes." the word keeps falling from my lips even as he crawls on top of me, burying his nose into my collarbone and kissing feverishly. one hand supports his arm beside my head while the other reaches down to part my legs. I sigh at the cool air that's interrupted by his dick rubbing over my folds. he starts to grind down, drawing out every second of foreplay while I try to catch my breath. my eyes tilt to the ceiling, fluttering shut. I bask in every sensation. his warmth, his weight, all of it presses down.

"do we need a condom?" he asks softly, his cock throbbing against my center.

"birth control." I shake my head. he nods against my skin, allows me to tangle my fingers in his curls. "I'm clean."

"me too." I reply. he grabs my hip and yanks it towards him, pulling his chest away to straighten while he lines himself up at my entrance. he's concentrating on the place where our bodies meet, eyes full of lust when they peek up at mine.

"tell me if you need me to stop." he says softly.

"okay." I can't think of anything else. every cell of my existence is consumed with thoughts of impatience, and when he slides into me, my thighs tense and my mouth drops open.

"Matthew... oh my god." my voice is more like a mewl, in shock as my walls squeeze around him like they're trying to reject the sudden pressure between my legs. his jaw clenches, sinking into me until he reaches about halfway.

he lets out a surprising groan, leans down to kiss my shoulder as he finds a sweet spot. our chests are pressed together and, judging by the way he wraps an arm around my waist and lifts my torso to his, he likes the feeling.

we stay there a moment, him trying not to hurt me. but then I lift my pelvis up, trying to take more, and he inhales sharply.

"do something," I beg him quietly. "please."

I feel his lips curl into a smile and he pulls his face up to see my expressions. his hips push forward, my body sliding up the bed with the force. he watches my eyes roll back, my ribcage expand, my face overcome by pleasure. his gaze is unrelenting with lips slightly parted as he begins to thrust in and out of me.

I'm already a panting, moaning mess beneath him. he touches his nose to mine, swallowing each other's breaths while he moves.

"is this how you want it, baby?" he smirks, getting lost in his own lust. I nod and he gently turns my face to his. "tell me what you want."

"more." I sigh, hips again raising to meet the thrusts that are growing more forceful each time. my nails drag up his back, the nape of his neck, tangling in his hair and tugging at the ends. he sinks his teeth into my neck lightly and moans. I wrap my legs around his torso.

"such a pretty girl..." he growls in my ear. his grip on the sheets tightens when I clench myself around him, drawing him impossibly closer to my core. I can't help the helpless moans spilling out of me. I'm insatiable right now, scratching at his shoulders until I'm sure I'll leave red marks. he groans lasciviously at the clawing, ramming into me with an unrelenting voracity.

"oh my god," I yelp, back arching as he hits my g-spot. "right there, Matthew." my pleas fall on receptive ears: he holds me tighter to his chest and pounds into me.

"you like getting fucked by older men?" he whispers dirty things in my ear and I nod quickly, hardly able to speak through the ungodly sounds escaping my mouth. I cling to him and he lets me, treating every limb like it belongs to him.

"yes-- fuck, yes." I moan, almost sliding out of his grip from how hard he goes.

"you can take it," he breathes out, fingertips digging into my ribs while he holds me up. he's leaving marks that won't go away for a while, remnants of the full power of his desire. I want more, writhing and using my limited mobility to grind against him. he chuckles darkly over my skin. "look at you."

"Matthew, I'm gonna--" I gasp when he slams into me particularly hard. "I'm gonna cum."

"good." he shudders slightly, that attitude showing again. he reaches his hand up a moment to run through my hair. "cum on me, princess."

my lips part and I try to gulp down air, but it's impossible with the way he's holding my attention. the thing about Matthew is that he's so sweet and gentle that whenever he looks at me like I'm a plaything, it shocks my insides. they turn to jelly, eager to please and quick to satisfy. he switches so easily with me, and he doesn't even need to request my submission. I give it more than willingly.

"fuck me..." I pant out, feeling my pussy start to clench over and over around him. my orgasm fuzzies the edges of my vision, creeping up my spine until it's arched. "oh fuck-- Matthew!" I practically scream while my frame gives out. I'm shuddering, crying out at the absolute euphoria wracking my body.

"scream my name, baby." he groans, his own orgasms approaching quickly. the fluttering of my cunt around him is causing the vein in his forehead to throb. he rocks into me, the headboard knocking into the wall while he nears the edge. "such a good girl for me."

I nod and meet his thrusts with my hips while I ride out my orgasm, inadvertently finding myself wound up again. the pleasure of his fingers when they reach between our bodies to rub my clit causes me to buck into him, whining mercifully while he gets me off again.

"oh--" he sucks in a breath when I squeeze, keeping him here with me. "you feel so good."

he starts to lose control, hips juddering to get as deep as he can get.

"can I fill you up, baby?"

"yes." I reply immediately. he smiles a little, lifting me up more so that he can hold me under my ass while he pounds into me so deeply, I can feel his dick brushing my cervix.

"oh my god," he moans, the sound desperate as I feel him twitch and spill inside of me. he keeps pushing as though to keep his cum within me, panting over my skin. "such a tight little cunt."  

the circles on my clit, combined with the sinful things he continues to say, cause me to whimper and climax all over again. I moan his name, absorbed in the warmth of his seed in my stomach.

"you want more?" he slows his thrusts but pleasures me through my orgasm while I nod helplessly.

"I'll cum in you again tonight." he promises, taking my shaking, weak form as a sign to withdraw. both of us wince at the sensitivity until he lays me back down on the bed so gently, it makes me question if what we just did was real.

neither of us speaks for a moment, trying to regain our composure as he rolls down onto the mattress beside me. I stare up at the ceiling, feeling him drip between my thighs.

"that was..." he turns his head to gauge my reaction. I don't even bother to hide the satisfied grin on my face.

"amazing."

"yeah?" he rolls over onto his side and places one large hand on my stomach. his touch makes me bloom.

"mhmm." I hum. his face is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, a beautiful sight that makes me want to kiss him all over again. I didn't know it was possible to feel this way for someone so quickly.

"can I get you anything?" he smiles. I don't say anything at first, only reach out to cup his face in my hands and pull him to me for a chaste peck.

"no, thank you." I rub my nose with his. "I'm gonna take a shower and make something to eat if you want to join me."

"definitely." he examines my features once more as if to assess damage. but there's only pure joy painted across my face. "are you sure I didn't go too hard on you?"

"you can go harder tonight." I tease.

"what about your painting?" he suddenly recalls the project lying in the living room.

"rain check." I shrug. he laughs, wraps an arm around my waist.

"alright, then."

#matthew gray gubler #mgg #criminal minds #smut #mgg smut #one shot #first time #artist #spencer reid

[pro-fangirls-unsocial-life]

HEAR ME OUT: KIX BUT WITH MORE TATTOOS, I WANNA TRACE THEM 🥺👀🥵

DUDE YOU ARE SPEAKING MY LANGUAGE. (Am I going to become the tattoo blog cause I am totally ok with that lmao) Also sorry that this took so long to finally get to you. Things have been so crazy the past few weeks and I needed a bit of time to sort stuff out (and move hooray!!) and I just want to thank you so much for your patience❤ Also... this kind of got away from me. So instead of the drabble I originally had planned you are getting a 4131 word fic. I hope you enjoy!! (Also a bit of a side note, I plan on doing a smutty sequel to this in the future so... say what you will about that lol)

Also a HUGE thank you to @captainrexisboo for all of your help on this. I never would have gotten this finished without your unbelievable support.

Medical Canvas

Kix x Reader

Warnings: brief mentions of injury and the first half is just packed with ✨sexual tension and steamy stuff✨

How Kix had talked you into sparing with him, you had no idea. Five minutes ago, you had just been doing your stretches to warm up and now here you were. A sore side from missing an easy block and a small crowd that you could see betting on who would win between the two of you.

 In all honesty, you thought that you had a fair shot at winning. You had managed to get a couple of good hits in and after working alongside the medic for so long, the two of you could practically predict what the other would do.

 “Getting tired yet?” he asked with a smug smile and heavy breaths.

The two of you kept rotating around each other, fists raised in front of your faces and sweat covering your bodies as occasional cheers came from the edge of the mat.

 You let out a sharp laugh. “Not on your life, pretty boy.” You returned his smirk and lunged in, flinging your fists out just for them to be blocked.

 Jumping back, you kept your eyes on him, trying to gauge what his next move would be. “Oh! Well, if you find me so pretty, let’s try to avoid the money maker, shall we?” He gestured to his face, giving you a wink.

 Oh, you knew this game. You and Kix had been playing it ever since you first laid eyes on each other. Teasing and flirting shamelessly with one another while avoiding actually addressing the tension and want that had steadily grown between the two of you.

 The rest of the 501st could see it. How teasing jabs had turned into lingering touches and stolen glances. It was the reason behind the biggest betting pool in the 501st. When would the two of you finally stop being so oblivious to the others obvious pining and just do it already?

 Jesse was the one who would change his bet the most. Every time he saw the two of you interacting, his timeline would change, and this time was no different. He had taken one look at you and Kix on the mat and immediately commed Rex to change his bet to within the next thirty minutes.

 All of this was unknown to the both of you of course. You simply saw it as the guys trying to make some easy money off of each other while you and Kix spared.

 “Ha! The money maker? I’d say those gorgeous hands of yours would be good enough to get the job done for you.” You laughed mischievously as you saw more credits being passed on the side of the mat.

 Squaring your stance, you took a deep breath, readying yourself for your next move. Might as well make it interesting.

 Kix chuckled. “Sweetheart, if you want to see what these hands can do—”

 You spun around, bringing your foot to Kix’s side in an attempt at a roundhouse kick. But he was too fast. He grabbed your leg and wrestled you to the floor, straddling your waist. The wind was knocked out of you as your back hit the mat and before you knew what was happening, Kix had your wrists pinned above your head, his face just centimeters away from yours.

 He angled his brows at you and gives you a smooth look. “—all you have to do is ask.”

 His heavy breathing fans over your face, alerting you to how close he actually was to you. You could smell him. The earthy musk that all troopers seemed to carry that mixed so perfectly with the sterile scent of the medbay to create an intoxicating aroma that you just had to breathe in, replacing the dingy smell of the gym that you had grown to ignore.

 The weight of his body is keeping you flat against the mat and your eyes go wide as you feel your face start to heat up. Your skin burns under his touch, sending sparks flying through your nerves and not letting your eyes break their lock on his face.

 He stops smiling and his eyes go wide as he realizes the position that the two of you are in. The cheers and curses coming from the edge of the mat are all muffled, not breaking through the trance you had been thrust into as your heart rate spiked into your ears.

 You don’t know how long the two of you stayed frozen against each other on the floor and you didn’t care. All that mattered to you in that moment was Kix and how much you wanted to feel his soft lips against your own. You glanced down at them, immediately bringing your eyes back to his and hoping that he hadn’t noticed your slip up. He was one of your best friends. Surely, he didn’t feel the same way. You didn’t want to ruin what the two of you had.

 You heard him let in a sharp gasp before his eyes bolted to your lips and then back up to meet your eyes. Suddenly, all of your thoughts were halted when he lunged forward, hungrily capturing your lips with his in a burning kiss that had your heart leaping out of your chest.

 The room fell silent as all eyes turned to stare at what was happening in front of them, but the two of you did not care. For all you knew, you were the only people in the universe at that moment. All you could see, all you could hear, all you could feel, was him.

 Something in him broke, causing him to let out a deep moan as his tongue dragged across your bottom lip, begging to get more of the sweet cherry taste of your chapstick that had almost been overpowered by the salty sweat that covered both of your bodies while your hands fought against the hold he had on your wrists. You wanted to touch him, to feel the way his muscles moved as he was pressing up against you and to get more of the buzzing sensation of his skin against yours.

 Kix lets out a deep groan that vibrates throughout his chest, keeping your wrists pinned with one hand and sliding his other down your arm until he is cupping the back of your neck.

 “Stars you two, get a room.”

 Gasping for air as Kix pulled away from you, you turned your head to see Jesse standing over the two of you. A smug, satisfied look plastered across face and his arms crossed against his chest.

 Kix whips his head back to you, his breathing still heavy.

 “My quarters?” you breathe out.

 His eyes darken as a lustful smirk makes its way across his features. “Oh, absolutely,” he growls, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

 He releases your wrists and crawls off of you before running off to get his things from the other side of the gym. You rush over to the edge of the mat, picking up your bag as Jesse trails behind you, the arrogant and knowing grin still displayed on his face.

 “I should thank you. You just made me a lot of money.”

 You turn to him confused. “What?”

 Kix runs back up to you, taking your hand in his and gently pulling you toward the door.

 Jesse starts laughing, bringing his hand down to hold his sides. “I’ll tell you later.”

 With that, you shrug and start walking as fast as you can back to your quarters. As you pass by other troopers on your way there, you see eyes widen as they catch a glimpse of your hand entwined with Kix’s. Faces rise and fall and you see credits being exchanged between a few of the men you pass. You glance at Kix as you lead him through the halls toward your room. “I think that there was a betting ring on when we would get together,” you say with a laugh.

 He chuckles. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing.”

 You round the corner and finally make it to your quarters about halfway down the hallway. Letting go of his hand, you quickly input the code and the door whooshes open. Pulling him inside by the collar of his blacks, you both immediately drop your bags to the floor as your lips collide.

 Kix reaches behind him, feeling around until he finds the door panel. You hear the locks click and feel his hands trail their way down your body, gently squeezing whatever part of you he can reach as they make their way, until they stop on your thighs. His fingers tap you twice and you jump up, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck.

 The kiss never breaks as he walks forward, stopping once your back has hit the wall and you let out a small sound at the force of the freezing metal meeting with your hot skin. He breaks away, leaving you gasping for air and missing the subtle minty taste of him as he starts trailing kisses down your neck, stopping at your pulse point to lightly bite at the skin there.

 A small, breathy whimper of his name falls from your lips as his teeth continue to drag across your sensitive skin. You can feel him smirking against you as his hands dip under the fabric of your shirt and slowly slide it up until he gets it off and throws it across the room. “You’re so impatient mesh’la,” he growls as he starts aggressively marking your now exposed collarbone, desperate to push more pleading sounds out of you. His fingers start teasing your waistband sending sparks shooting up your spine as he presses delicate kisses against the tender spot he had just finished making.

 Clawing at his shirt, you start pulling it up, exposing the tanned skin of his stomach. “Off.”

 Chuckling, one of his hands comes up to cup your face, his thumb traveling along the line of your jaw, while the other travels down to your hip, placing it in a tight hold. He fiercely kisses you as your hands continue to try and pull his shirt off. “Very impatient,” he snarls out between kisses. He rolls his hips against yours, pushing a whine out of you. “Patience cyar’ika,” he murmurs against you. “I want to take my time with you mesh’la.”

 You let go of his shirt, bringing one of your hands up to grab his jaw and force his dark eyes to meet with yours, giving you a brief moment of dominance. “Stop teasing.” Your lips crash into his, a lewd moan escaping you at the way his breathing speeds up. You take his bottom lip between your teeth before pulling away and looking into his lust filled eyes. Giving a small tug to the fabric you bat your eyes at him. “And take this off.”

 “Alright,” he teases. “But only because I can’t deny a gorgeous thing like you.” He reaches his hands up and starts pulling the fabric at the base of his head up, exposing his stomach and lower back once again as your lips collide in another bruising kiss. Suddenly, a high-pitched beeping comes from Kix’s bag. Neither of you pay it any attention, too caught up in each other’s desperate panting and shameless moans as you continue to kiss each other until a muffled voice comes from the bag.

 “Hey vod, I know you’re probably busy making Jesse a rich man, but I need you in the medbay. Hardcase and Echo accidentally blew themselves up again and have some legs that need to be set.”

 Kix groans and pulls away from you, his head falling back to look at the ceiling. “I’m going to kill those two.” He gives you an apologetic look before stepping away from the wall, holding onto your midsection as you lower your legs back to the floor.

 Giving you one last kiss, he walks over to his bag and digs around until he finds his comm. “Rex, those two better be dying by the time I get there, or I am going to kill them myself,” he snaps, his jaw clenched in frustration.

 You chuckle, walking over and picking your shirt up off of the floor where Kix had thrown it.

 “Based on how out of breath you sound, I don’t blame you.” He lets out a small laugh. “See you in a minute vod.”

 Kix tosses his comm back in his bag and straightens up before turning to you and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. Those two—”

 You bring your hand up to rest over his still rapidly beating heart and place a light kiss on his lips. “It’s fine Kix.” You reach behind him and unlock the door, letting it whoosh open. Leaning forward, you settle your lips right under his ear and whisper against his neck. “I’ll be here waiting for you when you finish.” You playfully bite down on the skin under your lips, pressing a kiss on the newly formed mark you had just made before pulling back to face him.

 His eyes widen, and a playful smirk overtakes his features. “Well then, I’ll see you later cyare.” He takes your hand in his and presses a kiss against your knuckles before heading off toward the medbay.

 “I can’t wait,” you call down the hallway after him, smiling at the glance he throws over his shoulder before he rounds the corner and is out of your sight.

 You turn back inside, picking up your bag and starting to put stuff away while you mumble to yourself. “If he doesn’t kill them, then I sure will.”

 *******************************************************************************************

It was about five hours later when a knock came at your door. For some reason, today was the day that everyone decided to get injured so the medbay had been constantly busy once Kix had gotten there.

 One of the mechanics had his arm pinned under a ship when the jack he had it held up with snapped (thanks to the Republic buying cheap equipment). Someone at the gym got a concussion after a spar got a little rough. Some poor shinie had slipped in the mess and cracked his head open on one of the tables.

 Luckily, it was your day off as the on-call medic, so the only things you had to worry about were the reports that were coming across your desk from all of these medbay visits. But that also meant that Kix was getting all of the hard work in the medbay.

 When you opened the door to your quarters, you were met with a Kix that looked dead on his feet.

 “Long day?” Reaching up to trace his features, you gave him a light kiss and gently pulled him inside.

 He nodded, bringing a hand up to rub his face. “I’m so sorry mesh’la but can I take a raincheck? I’m just so kriffing tired and just want to rest right now.” He was tense. His shoulders were pulled up toward his ears and he stood stiffly in front of you.

 You hummed, pulling him toward your bed. “I thought you might be, so I had a better idea.” Giving him a soft smile, you pushed on his shoulders until he was sitting on the edge of your bed. “Take off your shirt. I’ll be right back.”

 He looks up at you in confusion. “Cyare, I don’t think—”

 Pressing a kiss against his lips, you grasp one of the hands he has in his lap and rub your thumb over his knuckles that are rough and dry after a full day of constantly washing his hands. You bring your forehead against his and look into his eyes. “Trust me.”

 Turning away from him, you walk into the small refresher that is attached to your room and pull out a bottle of lotion that smells like fresh honey. You begin walking back out into your room, rolling up your sleeves to your elbows. “I thought you’d be tense so I—”

 You stop dead in your tracks, seeing Kix stiffly sitting on the edge of your bed, his shirt laid out next to him.

 “Cyare? You ok?” Kix stands up and walks over to your frozen form, placing his hands on either side of your arms and rubbing small crescent shapes with his thumbs.

 Your eyes stay fixed on his chest, not leaving it as he stands in front of you. “I didn’t know you had more tattoos,” you squeak out, barely above a whisper.

 Kix looks down at the red medic symbol that covers the entire left half of his chest over his heart before meeting your eyes once again. “Do… Do you like it?” He begins to worry his bottom lip between his teeth, waiting for your answer.

 Your hand comes up and lightly starts tracing the symbol, outlining it and then brushing your fingers over the parts that are filled in, leaving goosebumps on his skin in the wake of your gentle touch. “Very much.”

 He clears his throat, it suddenly becoming dry as you trap him under your stare. “Oh. Y-yeah. I got them not long after I joined the 501st.”

 Whipping your head up, your eyes go wide. “Them?”

 “Um. Yeah,” he stutters hesitantly, bringing his hand up to the back of his neck. “I have a couple on my back too.”

 His back. You shook your head and brought your hand down from off his chest, remembering what you were doing. “Oh. Right. Um, how does a massage sound? You seem tense.”

 He sighs, bringing his hands up to hold your face and lightly kissing your forehead as he angles it forward. “Honestly? That sounds amazing.”

 Pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose, you take a step toward the bed. “Good,” you beam. “Lie down on your stomach and get comfortable.”

 Kix walks over to the bed, slipping his boots off before he crawls up so that his head is near the pillows close to the wall. He grabs one and crosses his arms under it before letting his head come to rest there. He lets out a deep sigh and shimmies a bit before settling.

 You gently press on his lower back. “Is it ok if I sit here?”

 His eyes are closed and for a moment, you think that he has fallen asleep already before he cracks his eyes open and gives you a small smirk. “You can sit anywhere if it means those pretty hands are gonna touch me.”

 Rolling your eyes, you quietly laugh, straddling his waist and squirting some of the lotion into your hands. As you rub them together to heat it up, you let your eyes travel over the smooth expanse of his toned back. His midsection steadily rises and falls with his breath, and there are scars that occasionally disrupt the path your eyes follow up his back. Then, your eyes fall still when they look between his shoulders.

 A grey, Republic cog that sits between his shoulder blades, taking up almost all of the space there and blue geometric markings that come down either side of it and angle away from his spine once they reach the bottom of the symbol. They stop about halfway down his back and break off before a small blue dot ends the lines.

 You begin rubbing the lotion onto Kix’s lower back, kneading the muscles there.

 The sweet smell of the lotion combines with his irresistible scent and the bacta that inevitably made its way onto his pants as you work it across his warm skin, causing you to have to suppress a shiver as you take in as much of it as you can in a single breath.

 He lets out an obscene groan and his eyes flutter shut the second your hands start working their way across his skin.

 You giggle, still working your hands over his back, feeling the tension disappear with your work. “Feel good?”

 He groans again as your hands work their way up his back. “Feels amazing,” he sighs.

 For a while, you work in silence, the only sound being your steady breathing and the occasional groan from Kix when you work over a particularly tense area.

 You squirt more of the sweet-smelling lotion into your hands, making sure to warm it up before running them over Kix’s back once again. “Kix?” Your voice is questioning and soft, not wanting to disturb him if he has fallen asleep.

 “Hmm?” he hums out.

 Trailing your hands over the tattoos on his back, you tap your fingers on them, letting Kix know what you are about to ask. “Jesse and Hardcase?”

 “M-hm.” He lets out a relaxed sigh as your hands begin tracing over the markings like they had with the medic symbol on his chest.

 “Mind if I ask about the story behind them?”

 He cracks an eye open, peering over his shoulder and meeting your stare before settling back down and closing his eyes. “Not at all cyare.”

 You begin to massage the muscles around the tattoos, occasionally stopping to just trace over them.

 “It was pretty early on in the war when I joined the 501st.” He breaths out a short laugh. “Commander Tano wasn’t even here yet. But because I was trained on Kamino as a medic, and because things were pretty rough at the beginning, all of my batchmates were sent to different battalions, so I didn’t really know any of the troopers in the 501st. But Jesse and Hardcase, well, they made me feel welcome and always had my back. We all got here at about the same time and just… clicked. Always knew exactly what the other one needed.” He laughs. “Hell, I probably wouldn’t be here now if those two hadn’t saved my ass more times than I can count.”

 For a brief instant you stop your movements, gazing at the soft smile on his face.

 “They’re my best friends and I know that they’ll always be watching my back, no matter where any of us are.”

 Your fingers lightly trace the tattoos one more time, gracing over every outline and filling in every shape. “That’s… That’s so sweet. I never knew that. I-I mean, I knew that you guys were close, but I just assumed that it’s because you joined the 501st at the same time.”

 He hums. “They have the same tattoos you know. Jesse has me and Hardcase and Hardcase had me and Jesse. We’re all watching each other’s backs. Makes us feel safer, you know?”

 You sit up, trailing your hands down until they are resting on Kix’s lower back. “Well,” you say leaning forward, “I’m glad that they do.” Then, you begin pressing gentle kisses against his skin, outlining the tattoos one final time. “Because it makes me feel better knowing that you’ve got such amazing people looking out for you.” You feel him shudder lightly as your breath fans over his skin and as your lips trail over the tattoos. You start at the blue marking on his right and trail up until you’ve traced the cog between his shoulders, and then back down the left blue marking.

 Placing one final kiss at the base of his neck, you climb off of him and lie down at his side. He turns his head to look at you as he opens his eyes. “How do you feel?”

 His hand comes up to the side of your face, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. He looks at you with pure admiration as a blissful smile overtakes his face. “Perfect.” He draws you in, brushing his lips over yours and speaking against them with a grin. “I can’t believe that I didn’t ask you to spar sooner.”

 Laughing, you push forward, fully capturing his lips with yours. “Yeah!” you tease. “What took you so long you di’kut?”

 “Shut-up,” he smirks, flipping onto his side and wrapping his arms around you as he pulls you close to his chest. He presses his lips to the crown of your head as your curl up into him. “Would’ve done it sooner if I knew it would have gone so well.”

 You brush your lips over his neck, snickering at the brief shutter it caused before burying your face into his chest. “I’m glad that you did even if that sparring match was unfair.”

 You can feel him smile against the top of your head as he places another kiss there. “You’ll get me next time cyar’ika.” His chest thrummed as a chuckle made its way past his lips. “Who knows, maybe I’ll let you pin me down instead.”

#kix x reader #kix x gender neutral reader #clone trooper kix #medical canvas #my writing #pro speaks #clones with tattoos #they sexy

[huenjin]

dripping.

pairing — lee minho x reader | devil!au

word count — 2.6k words

rating — 18+

genre — smut, includes jealous sex, semi public sex (in a gallery), manhandling, spit play, sir kink, breast play, possession kink, fingering, orgasm denial, blow job, deep throating, degradation, humiliation, spanking, marking.

note — happy lino day! i speed wrote this to post something for his birthday so it's heavily unedited. this is filthy af and i might, just might, make a part two of this to delve more into it, haha, because lmao, i love this so much.

It's a big red stroke over the area that should have been for the eyes.

You drop the paint brush with the ends of the bristles still coated in deep red paint. The white plastic sheets underneath your easel prevents the white floors of the room in the back of the art gallery you own from being stained. You look up at the man before you, your friend of all these years, Bang Christopher Chan, shirtless in all his glory as he poses for you. His hands are shoved into the jeans of his pockets, built abs that are clenched and shine under the spotlight and his sharp side profile in your clear vision, all for you to paint down on a white canvas.

"It just needs to dry up now," you smile at Chan and look at him as you lean to the side of your chair, your fingers gripping on the circular edge to keep your balance. "You did well!"

Chan relaxes and walks a few steps to the side to grab his black shirt, only to pull it over his built physique. You take the smaller brush and dip it in the water in the can by your side, lightly brushing it over the toned abs in the picture to highlight it. The model walks towards you, moving behind you and bends forward. He observes the picture. His hot breath fans over your skin and you can feel the goosebumps rise. Chan speaks into your ear, "Damn! I look hot."

A soft laughter leaves your lips and you turn to look at him. Bang Chan is way too close to you, enough for you to see the golden specks in his eyes.

"It better do. Those are a lot of hours gone into you flexing and me painting."

Chan straightens his spine and takes a step back. You place the brush on the projection on the easel and stand up, removing the apron off of you and placing it on the chair.

"Why do you not sell your paintings yet, Y/N?" Chan asks as you walk with him to the door. You shift your dress fabric slightly, a small smile to yourself and you look at him. He continues, frowning, "I mean, you put your whole soul into it."

His face appears into your head. Chiselled jaws, sharp eyes that are able to radiate sheer softness in moments, veiny hands that cup your face while he kisses you like he is going to take possession of what he owns. You respond finally, "You say I put my soul in it and maybe that's why I can't sell it. Because it's not mine. I can't sell something that is not mine, can I?"

Chan looks at you like you are of one screw short. He laughs nervously and pulls the glass door. You take hold of the handle from him, holding the door out for him. His right arm snakes around your shoulders and hugs you, his warm cologne hitting your nose as you let him hold you, to bid him farewell.

"See you later, crocodile."

"You too, dork."

You stand by the door, watching Chan walk away till you cannot see him anymore. You fondly stare in the distance and pull the door backwards to close it.

"Who would have thought the devil's girl is here flirting and drawing naked men?"

You hear the very familiar voice, cold enough to send a shiver down your spine. Your head quickly turns, back hitting the glass door as you look at the devil himself, clothed in a black shirt — of course, the devil wears Prada. Lee Minho grazes his thumb over the edge of the painted canvas before taking it up. You walk towards him, folding your arms over each other.

"Keep it back, Minho," you frown. You look up at the brooding man hovering over your height. His eyes narrow down at your figure and then stare at the picture. He laughs darkly again, "How dare you flirt with another man when you know you are clearly mine?"

He throws the canvas down and you huff in disbelief. The devil can truly act like a child at times and you swear to both the heavens and hell, that you will never get used to it. You bend down to pick it up but Minho clicks his tongue, almost as if he is sending you a warning — a final one because you already ticked him off seemingly with Bang Chan's presence.

"I wasn't flirting with him," you look away and Minho takes a step towards you, his fingers holding your jaw and pulling your face to look at him. He lifts it up slightly, locking his gaze with yours.

"Were you not now, my darling?"

You remember the abdominal muscles of Chan's — sculpted and formed that you sigh, and his broad shoulders, wide and strong. Everything, however, changes when Minho's eyes darken and your mind is filled with lust. Minho's other arm snakes around your waist, pulling you closer into him. You are pressed against him and you gasp. A lustful expression makes its way to your face and your thoughts are clouded with Minho now. Everything Minho. His arms, his hands, his eyes, his plump lips that edge closer to you.

His thumb digs into your cheeks and the other four fingers grip your face as he opens your mouth with pressure, tongue jutting out slightly. Minho sniggers, "You might as well be begging to get fucked right now." Your eyes glisten, thighs and core clenching. Minho spits into your mouth and you swallow immediately. He laughs. "Ah, you slutty whore."

Your hand brushes against his growing bulge, up and down gently and you beg as he grips your face tightly, "Do me, please, sir." Minho's hand leaves your face. His nose brushes against the skin by your neck as he breathes hot air against it and you feel a pool of wetness gather on to the already damp fabric of your underwear.

"What thoughts do you have of me generally, angel?" He presses a chaste kiss against your jugular. "Were you hoping for something like this to happen tonight?" His head drops in between your breast, teeth clasping onto the thin fabric and pulling it down, exposing your supple breasts to the devil. He buries his face in between them, sucking in sharply. One of his arms pulls you in impossibly close to him whole the other sharply moves under your dress, teases the wetness of the fabric before rubbing his fingers against them. You gasp, inhaling air sharply.

"S-sir," you stutter. You know for a fact that you would have collapsed had it not been for Minho's grip around you. "I didn't—"

Minho's fingers pull the underwear strap away from your flesh, wrapping around them and in a minute, he pulls them down furiously. Strings of your wetness connect your dripping core and the underwear that is pulled down and Minho is laughing. Loudly.

"What lies! You are dripping, angel." Smirking, he raises an eyebrow at you and taunts, "See, I was correct."

He runs his index finger along your slit teasingly. You buckle under the sensation, gripping on the collars of his expensive black shirt, knees slightly buckling. Minho mumbles, "So wet and all for me. This is all mine," and he prods the index and the middle finger into your core, slightly circling the edge before entering completely – knuckles deep – without any warning and you gasp, scream leaving your lips with words calling for mercy from the devil himself.

Minho thrusts his fingers, in and out, as he sucks on your breasts. His tongue laps around your flesh, areolar and then the nipple. He sucks on it, the sound resonating loudly in the gallery and you worry if the security guard would come in to check.

"Minho—"

Thud. You jerk, spine straightening up and pain seeping through every end of your nerves as Minho's palm hits against your pussy. Your eyes water and you pull Minho closer, your head dropping onto his shoulder. His fingers come in a harsh contact with your core once again and you let out a choked sob.

"It's sir to you, slut. It is sir to dirty whores like you, flirting with men when you clearly know who you belong to. You belong to the devil, angel."

He slaps your pussy once again, your spine straightening up and your head thrown back and he orders, "Who do you belong to, angel?"

"The devil's," you cry, a sole tear falling down your eye, staining his shirt. "I belong to you, sir. I belong to you."

"Good girl," and his fingers enter you once again. You moan out his name. The intrusion is sudden and you are overwhelmed. You gasp, the air raspy against your throat before falling. Your hand clutches his shirt tightly, pulling it a bit and you hear the slight ripping sound.

He presses his thumb on your clit, tapping it slowly, simultaneously and you think you are going delusional. Your mind is empty and the devil is contaminating you, slowly like black ink in water, ripples that soon spread around, ruining everything.

"Sir, oh my fucking heavens."

He sucks on your breasts, tongue lapping against your erect nipple. He lets go only to hover a little above and suck purple hickies all over, telling you, "Fuck, you are insane. Insane for this." His teeth graze against your nipple and you shudder in his hold. His fingers, three in already at your sopping wetness, thrusting in at an impeccable pace. "Look at this sex. Wet and dripping. What a mess you are making and look at this filthy hole, sucking my fingers in and devouring them. You really are a slut."

You cry out at the feeling of being overwhelmingly full, your head falling down and your teeth biting into Minho's shoulder. Your walls are stretching out and you catch him mumbling, "So fucking tight and all for me. Look at this slut being a needy girl for me."

He curls them up into you and your back arches slightly at the tingles. You feel Minho slipping his fingers easily into you and the slick of your arousal dripping down your thighs, making a mess. He rubs your walls, his attention also on your enlarged button and your hips gyrate with him, thrusting and chasing after his fingers desperately. He finds your spot easily and pushes at it constantly. You feel the knot building up and you are moaning, voice barely leaving your lips.

The devil is evil and that is what Lee Minho is.

He removes his fingers the minute he realises you will snap any minute. The emptiness you feel breaks your heart and makes you weak. Your voice, croaky and husky, barely lets out, "Why?" Tears fall down your face at the orgasm denial and your knees fail to keep you up as they hit the ground. Minho lets you fall down on your knees, your vision now his huge bulge.

"Sluts don't get it easy. Ever."

Minho unbuckles his belt, unbuttons and unzips his pants, lowering the pants to his mid-thigh and he takes out his cock. His hot angry girth with heavily leaking precum is right in front of you. His fingers coated in your wetness enters his mouth and he wraps his tongue around it, loudly sucking. His eyes do not leave yours and you understand what he is asking you to do.

He expects the same. You open your mouth wide, tongue slightly stretched out like a girl thirsty and Minho shoves his cock into your mouth. You gag at the sudden entrance, arms lifting up automatically and hands wrapping around his length as you begin sucking on it.

Before you know it, his hand is flat against the back of your head, shoving your head forward. His big cock pushes past your buccal cavity, going deep down your throat and you gag against his length loudly. Minho moans before holding you there, your nose brushing his pubis and you are breathing through your nose, eyes watering.

There is nothing gentle in the devil's movements. He pulls himself back only to thrust his hip forward, cock going down your throat again. He abuses your mouth to his pleasure as he moves against you, procuring pleasure from you hollowing your mouth and your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, slightly wrapping around the length and teasing it now and then.

Your fingers try to move down without his notice. Your index finger finds your clit silently and you rub against it fast, trying to drive yourself to the orgasm you were just denied. With a blink of the eye, Minho pulls himself back, pushing you away from him and you whine. You are on your knees and you look up at Minho, arm stretching forward to grab his length, mumbling like a bitch in heat, "Want it, want it, want it."

He hums, gloating and pride washing his whole face, "What? You want more of it?" He slowly takes many steps backward before falling onto the stool before the easel. He spreads his legs, dick up and erect and he points at the ground before him. "Alright. Come here."

You are quickly on your four. Your right hand moves forward, followed by your right knee flat on the ground and then your left limbs. You crawl towards Minho, lips dark pink, swollen and open in desperation. You want to suck him off more, feel him down your throat, constriction your airways. You want to feel him so close. You want to taste him more.

You wrap your lips around his cock once you reach, pushing your hair away. Kissing the angry purplish red tip, you suck at the head. Minho throws his head back in ecstasy. You feel him twitching in your mouth, every single time you take him deep down your throat, gags hitting off the flesh and dying in your mouth. He pulls out barely before he is pushing back in, teeth gritted and eyes focused.

The sounds of your gagging bounces off the white walls of your bedroom, followed by the deep moans and sighs emitting out from Minho's lips as he fucks your mouth mercilessly. Each thrust of his hips causes the head of his cock to push past your airway, your throat constricting and eliciting a groan from him.

The flat of your hot tongue presses against his length. He finally lets you take control by a bare minimum. You lick his length, moving your head up and down as your wrists twist slightly, the right amount of pressure applied. Minho mumbles, "You finally decide to act like a good girl, didn't you, you slut? Did you think you might get rewarded then?" He holds a fist full of your hair and pulls you back to have you look him in the eye.

"You are mine," he emphasizes. His eyes darken and your heart beat races for the personification of evil. "Your soul, your body, your heart," he tightens his grip and your eyes widen, "They are all mine." He bends forward to kiss you, his tongue lapping against yours, taking in the salty taste of himself. He kisses you like he wants you to lose your sanity or bring him some.

And when he lets go, he holds his cock and he finds you salivating, eyes fixed on it, lips wide apart.

"Now, make the devil the happiest tonight."

#stray kids smut #skz smut #minho smut #lee know smut #kpopscape #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz imagines #skz scenarios #minho scenarios #minho imagines #lee know scenarios #lee know imagines #minho fic #lee know fic #minho fanfic #lee know fanfic #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #lee know #lee minho #stray kids #skz #minho x reader #lee know x reader #kpop smut #dom!minho #sub!reader #devil!au #writings.rue

[periminkle]

blazes of deceit

this fic is a part of the disney collab hosted by @btswritingcafe​!! please go check out all the other talented writers and their works 💕

+ summary. When the opportunity to finally venture past the stone walls you’ve grown up in presents itself, you jump at the chance to discover the origin of those mysterious lights—even if the trip comes with a harsh truth and a suspicious, yet undoubtedly attractive, tour guide.

+ pairing. jungkook x reader

+ genre. fluff, angst. tangled!au.

+ word count. 26.052

+ rating. 18+

+ warnings. threats against a baby’s life, unwarranted death, mom problems, trespassing, pan violence, hiding a (not dead) body, tying people up with hair, curse words, drinking, thievery, deadly chase, sword/pan fight, recklessly jumping from a great height, graphic descriptions of wounds and blood, general violence, dark family matters (it’s pretty twisted!), orchestrated infidelity.

+ author’s note. happy early birthday to golden baby jungkook!! this fic took me wAY too long to write but she’s finally here! HUGE thank you to my big brain frenemy @guklvr​ for beta reading and hyping me up by boosting my confidence level +2000 even tho she’s on vacation and should be relaxing LMAO i would’ve postponed this until next year if u didn’t push me so TY ILY LOADS CARL 💘 i also wanted to shoutout #1 jk ryder supporter @dewykth​ and wofe @yeojaa​ for encouraging me every step along the way, y’all are the best n ily both to pieces 💝💕

You are positively ravenous.

Flurries of people scurry past the towering bars of your crib, yet none spare a glance in your direction despite your boisterous wailing. Like moths to a flame, they’re all huddled in one corner, surrounding a panting woman that clutches her rotund abdomen in one hand while tightly clasping onto a bejewelled crown in the other.

“What are you waiting for?” she spits out, hardened orbs narrowed in on your pathetic form.

“Your Royal Majesty, it’s only been an hour since you have given birth, please reconsider—”

Her glower is redirected onto the younger woman’s trembling form. “Are you questioning your Queen? Shall we reconsider your life as well?”

“No,” she begs, her tone quivering with anguish, “please spare my ignorant self.”

Your facial muscles begin to cramp and the walls of your throat feel like sandpaper, which only serves to exacerbate your violent sobs. The insistent suckling on your thumb is doing nothing to quell your raging stomach.

Her lips peel back to reveal two rows of pearly white, dazzling teeth framed by a nasty snarl. “Somebody slit that brat’s throat!”

Another midwife adorned in the bloody rags of childbirth darts across the cramped space with a weeping bundle of rough canvas in her arms. As she scrambles to deliver the shuddering newborn into his counterfeit mother’s arms, the clumsy woman trips over thin air, flying across her enraged Queen’s lap. Without a second thought, her backside is pierced by a shiny steel sword, sullied in a crimson liquid when it reappears.

The introduction of another babe deters your cries for attention. Instead, you distract yourself with a dull glimmer that you catch in your peripheral. Your chubby fingers hopelessly extend toward the dingy stars dangling above your head, just out of reach, reflecting the bright orange tiger lily printed onto the high ceiling of your cage.

“Not a soul shall speak of today's treachery.”

You’re well aware that your short arms could never stretch the distance required to satiate your unending curiosity; but they stay aloft, searching for the reassuring warmth of your mother’s embrace.

“Our blood will remain on the throne.”

Screams of agony overwhelm your developing eardrums as your tiny hands come to cradle your head, willing the pain to end.

Every inch of your walls is covered with abstract paintings, doodles of twisting branches snaking around the edges, dainty birds in every colour under the sun, and a joyous little girl dancing in her own brilliant freedom. No matter where you look, bespeckled tiger lilies are buried within the intricate linework like easter eggs, waiting to be found.

Your favourite by far is the uncanny depiction of the image stashed deep inside the crevices of your memory, a sight your heart desires to view most from up close. The miniature illustration captures your longing gaze pinned on the multitudinous lights ascending from a foreign location, golden hair streaming down your back and flowing over the fireplace in your determination to capture its vast length.

You attempt to steel your nerves for the umpteenth time, but you can’t help your nervous pacing across the minuscule length of your room. The entire tower is spotless as a result of your mindless cleaning—floors scrubbed twice, nonexistent dust wiped away, and trinkets set at the perfect angle to encourage your mother to comply with your outrageous request.

Today is the day, after all. The day that you’ll finally convince the stubborn woman to bring you out to watch the masses of floating lanterns disappear into the night sky.

The pitter-patter of your bare feet scuttling against the concrete floors nearly drown out the melodic appellations from outside your window.

“—down your hair!”

You dash over to the aperture, hastily gathering the ends of your mane to fling down while fixing the bulk of it onto the hook above your head. When the figure enshrouded in a black cloak snatches up your tresses, looping it around to create a foothold and carefully wedges one leg inside, you haul them up through the makeshift pulley.

By the time both of their feet are safely planted on the ground next to yours, sweat is beginning to form by your temples and the perpetual ache in your arms flares from consistently being forced to heave another grown adult up the stretch of the colossal tower.

“Welcome home, Mother.” You pull the rest of your hair inside and turn to face the stunning woman who lowers her excessively long hood, the extra length of fabric intentionally stitched on to keep her identity obscure as she travels.

Your mother sweeps you up into her comforting embrace and you allow yourself to relax in her arms, resting your cheek on her chest while your digits tightly clasp on to one another around her middle. Her chin settles onto the crown of your head.

“You would think that lifting me up all these years would give you some more upper body strength,” she says, her disappointment practically tangible. Placing both manicured hands upon each of your shoulders with a light squeeze, she pushes you back to examine your body from head to toe. “But look at you! My poor, delicate, little flower.”

Your forehead creases from your raised brows as a tense smile completes your agitated countenance.

“Oh, darling, what’s wrong? Come, come with Mother.” The adamant woman latches onto your forearm, dragging you over to the rustic fireplace and pressing down on your shoulders. Ever the obedient child, you kneel down onto the thick rug below.

Your mother delicately takes a seat on the antique chair beside you, a weary sigh slipping past her lips before she starts sweeping a brush through your golden strands. As per tradition, you sing the incantation that’s essentially engraved in the back of your mind at this point.

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine,”

A gleaming shimmer races across your tresses at the verse and from the corner of your vision you watch the light creases marring your mother’s features fade in rapt attention. She hums along to the tune with a detached, distant look in her eyes.

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fates' design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine,”

You allow your lids to slide closed, gathering all the courage you can muster for the following conversation.

“What once was mine.”

Once the last note fades and a deafening silence reigns, she gently urges, “Tell Mother everything.”

This is it, it’s now or never.

“Uh, well, as you know,” you mumble, clearing your throat, “my eighteenth birthday is tomorrow.”

“Mhm, and I’ve already gotten your present as well,” she hums, steadily working her way down your mass of hair.

You falter at the information she casually reveals, guilt eating away at your conscience for preparing to ruin her good mood. “Yes, I know you’re always thinking of me, but, uh, well—”

“You can tell me, darling.” You register your mother’s heavy palm stroking your head, coaxing the words to tumble out of your mouth.

So you lay it on her. “I was just wondering if you would take me to see the lanterns this year.”

“What was that?” she questions, rightfully so when the garbled words blurt out quicker than you can process.

Before you can second guess yourself, you stammer, “C-can we please go see the lanterns?”

The brush suddenly halts in its path, suspended within the waves and dips of your many strands. Although you can’t see her, you know your mother well enough to feel her stiffen up, peeved at the topic you’ve brought up many times before.

“Petal—”

You interrupt, desperate to plead your case, “Mother, please, I’ve been waiting for—”

“Zip it.” You instantly clamp up at her hissing.

Your mother takes her time to stand, stalking over to halt directly in front of your hunched form. Her daunting figure looms above you, fierce orbs evoking a filthy shame that sinks its claws into your spine, and you lower your stare to her ankles from its intense weight. “Enough. I don’t understand why you keep asking this idiotic question when you already know what my answer is going to be.”

Her spontaneous refusal dampens your spirit, but you press on. “I just, uh, thought that I could see them once for my birthday a-and then I’d never ask to leave the tower again.”  

With a scowl as cold as an executioner’s axe, her arms come to cross beneath her bust. “I’ve already told you time and time again that they’re to celebrate the healthy birth of the Prince, any special ‘connection’ you feel to these lights is simply misguided and naive.”

You scramble to gather the scraps of bravery she shredded in order to sputter out, “But it’s my b-birthday too. Even if it’s just a coincidence, I wanna see them with my own two eyes.”

“How many times do I have to explain to you how dangerous the world is outside these walls? Do you know how many people are jumping at the chance to use your magic for themselves?” She rolls her eyes, chiding at you as if you’re a petulant child who disobeyed their elders one too many times. “If your little heart wants some adventure, you can go downstairs and explore the living room, besides darling, you should be thankful that nothing has happened all these years.”

“How am I supposed to be thankful for anything when you keep coddling me like this!” you lash out, frustration bubbling over at her usual response and refusing to toe the line any longer. Any notion of gently swaying her judgement or prompting her to consider your point of view is thrown out the window.

But your mother is nothing if not resolute.

“What?” Her words turn to ice—syllables forming razor-sharp blades that figuratively line your throat, poised to strike the second you step out of place. “Do you want to repeat that?”

Your breaths quicken, deathly afraid of the repercussions that will follow if you decide to continue your rebellious act. It wouldn’t be the first time that she punished you for begging to leave the tower.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, head hanging low and voice laced with resignation, “I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Aw, my precious petal,” she coos, her mood drastically flipping one hundred and eighty degrees as the edges of her lips subtly point upwards at your obedience. “That’s why Mother is here, to guide you in the right direction. You know that I’m only looking out for you, right?”

“Of course, Mother.”

Evidently content with the outcome of the conversation, she turns back to continue brushing through your tresses.

By the time her ebony cloak rests upon her thin shoulders, hood draping over her face, your hair is already hanging by the hook above the window and she hops through the opening to lower herself to the ground below. You watch as her figure shrinks with the increasing distance, only turning back once to give a short wave before disappearing through the lush greenery.

And then you’re alone once again.

In the hours that pass after your mother’s departure, you become well acquainted with the five stages of grief. Of course, your requests to leave have been denied more times than you can count on both hands, but you foolishly believed that mentioning the eighteen years you spent cooped up in one place, fending off boredom, would hit a soft spot.

You forgot that your mother doesn’t have any of those.

Obviously, she anticipated your attempt to convince her by throwing yourself a pity party, as she deliberately mentioned purchasing a gift in advance. Out of all your celebrations, you couldn’t recall a single time where she prepared—much less remembered—your birthday.

Utterly absorbed within your final stage of acceptance, you lose yourself within your thoughts. That’s why the steady, rhythmic tapping on the cobblestone metres below makes you jump, mind wiped clean of everything except questioning the origin of the sound. Goosebumps manifest across the length of your arms, already slick with cold sweat.

Initially, you believe that your mother may have misplaced something, but your doubt accumulates when you don’t hear her usual jingle follow the rapping. You wonder if she is harbouring acrimony at your earlier outburst—even though she seemed quite pleased as she left.

Thus, like the loving daughter you are, you gather the ends of your hair, about to throw the lump over the aperture when you take notice of the stranger’s bulky frame and lack of disguise. Last time you checked, Mother certainly hadn’t chopped all her curls off either.

You can feel your heart thumping in your head, chest rising and falling expeditiously to compensate for the sudden rush of adrenaline surging through your veins. In your distress, her words come back to bite you, echoing within your mind that he must be after your magic.

Mother knows best, after all.

Discreetly glancing back down, you spot the man scaling the wall using two arrows, a feat which you’re sure he wouldn’t be capable of performing without those well-defined muscles, attractively outlined through his thin clothing. Realizing that you’re wasting time ogling at the intruder, you spin back to survey your room, scanning the area for any weapons you can use to defend yourself.

You disregard any prospect of overpowering him and decide to approach the confrontation by taking advantage of your ability to startle him. Before long, the sounds of the rigid arrowheads wedging into the spaces between the stones are no more than a couple of metres away, and you grab the nearest object in a blind panic.

All too soon, his large hands are gripping the window sill, and you scurry to press your body against the wall directly next to the opening. You grip the handle of metal tighter, struggling to keep your heavy breaths silent as you watch his fit form effortlessly raise himself up past the open window.

When he lands inside, you’re transfixed by the way his shirt hangs on his brawny body, the veins in his arms enlarged from the physical exertion of carrying his weight up the tower. Just for that moment, you let your eyes roam his lean figure in unadulterated fascination.

“Hah! Stupid guards, thinking they could catch me after—”

And then that moment ends.

A loud clang resounds throughout the cramped space as a result of the pan in your hand bashing into the back of his head. For a split second, you worry if the force behind your swing is enough to knock him out cold, but then he meets the floor headfirst. You wince for him.

With the substitute weapon in hand, you circle around his seemingly unconscious form up to his head, which is turned away from your prying stare. In order to decipher his level of cognizance, you crouch down and bow over him to get a better look at his face.

Long, dark locks that were perfectly mussed before his fall now cover nearly half his countenance, so you push them to the side to reveal his closed lids and strong brows. Following the curve of his cheekbones, you pass his cupid’s bow to gaze upon his thin lips, a tiny beauty mark laying directly underneath—an intimate detail that you feel uncomfortable knowing.

A faint blush colours your cheeks as you comprehend how utterly breathtaking the stranger is, drastically disparate to the stories your mother told you as a child, where men resembled ogres that lived under bridges, grotesque and unkempt.

He is nothing like that. Not at all.

He reminds you of the princes you read about in picture books—dashing and strong, willing to go to extreme lengths to find their Princess, their one true love. You know you’re taking it too far when you begin to fantasize about his personality purely based on his, admittedly, strikingly handsome appearance. With a vigorous shake of your head, you force yourself out of your reverie and get back to your task.

You stretch two fingers out to rest just beneath his nostrils, feeling the warm air that leaves his body at constant intervals, a good sign that he was not only alive but knocked out cold.

You prod at his shoulder, whispering, “Are you awake?”

No reaction.

With this confirmation, you take hold of one of his wrists with both hands and clench your jaw while leaning back, trying to use your body weight to help drag him. He proves to be much heavier than you initially believed, though you feel him moving inch by inch. Rather than another human being, you simply think of him as a heavy sack of potatoes for the sake of your conscience as you shuffle backwards, heading for the wardrobe on the other side of the room.

By the time you reach said armoire, you collapse on the ground next to him, gulping in as much air as you can. Now, there was simply the problem of shoving him inside. You turn your head to face the stranger, pouting at the prospect of having to lift his bulky self.

After much pushing and rearranging, the doors finally close behind him, although, as you predicted, stuffing him in there took much longer than you would like to admit. You aren’t sure how comfortable he is in the disfigured pretzel position you left him in, but his contentment is not at the top of your list of priorities right now.

Rubbing your palms together, you go to pick up the frying pan that lay discarded on the floor near the window when you take notice of the brown satchel that sat next to it. You have no use for any kind of travelling equipment, obviously, what with your whole life existing in this tall building, and your mother only carries a quaint, woven basket around. She is insistent on living as modestly as possible, and that includes whatever goodies she brings back from her adventures.

That rules out everyone but the stranger. The bag does look more masculine, anyway. Grabbing the strap, you raise the object in question up to have a closer inspection and find the leather to be heavier than expected. There are odd bumps protruding from its exterior, filling you with a tenuous curiosity.

Carefully, you lift the flap open to expose a heavily jewelled crown. Perplexity is written within the creases of your brows as you reach to grab the item within and drop the empty satchel. From your inexperienced eyes, the thing is as real as it gets, a shimmering gold decorated with the finest jewels in the kingdom. The different colours of each gem catch the light, reflecting the brilliant rays onto the walls of your room.

Your impromptu analysis concludes with an inexplicable pull towards the diadem, which you’re uncertain how to act upon until you involuntarily place the crown on your head. You turn to face the mirror leaning against the wall and it feels so right, as though two matching puzzle pieces have finally been brought together. The reflection staring back at you seems complete in ways you have never been before.

Yet, you can’t begin to fathom the reasoning behind all these strange epiphanies, unfamiliar with the tranquillity that quiets the constant buzzing in your head. Overwhelmed, you remove the crown and not a moment too soon, for a familiar, shrill shriek meets your ears.

“Petal!”

Your stomach lurches. Eyes darting to the wardrobe, you’re reminded of the man inside. You know if Mother saw him, she would definitely freak out, maybe even refuse to visit for the next week to drive you insane with solitude. But, then again, you could use him as an example to show that you could handle yourself out in that dangerous world she was always going on and on about.

“Let down your hair!”

You stuff the diadem back in the bag and stow it in an empty flower pot.

Giddy at the prospect of having a legitimate argument to reinforce your reasoning to leave the tower, you dash to the window sill and fling your hair over without a second glance outside. The rush of excitement blinds you from the sensitivity of your sore muscles as you haul her up.

“Petal,” your mother grits out, staggering inside due to your rushed actions, “what did I tell you about checking who’s calling before letting your hair down?”

“Hello, Mother!” you brush off her question, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. “I have something really important to show you!”

“Don’t change the subject.” She squints her eyes at you, lips pursed with frustration. “You're getting more and more reckless. One of these days, a crook will make their way up here and you’ll be foolish enough to invite them inside, maybe pour them a cup of tea while you’re at it?”

“I’m truly sorry.” You decide to humour her to prevent her temperament from flaring, throwing out a meaningless apology—one you’re used to blurting out left and right.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” she says, as smug and haughty as always. Your mother removes her coat, handing it off to you. “But today’s your lucky day! Just as I was about to visit, I remembered to bring your present!”

Your heart warms at your mother’s unusual thoughtfulness, although you’re much too eager to prove your strength first. “Ah, thank you, Mother. But I really want to show you—”

“Something more important than your mother’s present?”

“Of course not! I just wanted to get it out of the way so that I could enjoy your present later.” She seems unconvinced, so you add, “Y’know how they always say to leave the best for last?”

The older woman heaves an exasperated sigh, shoving you out of the way as she heads for the armchair in the corner. She slumps her tired form on the rickety seat as it creaks its refusal, then waves her hand, gesticulating that you get on with whatever it is you have up your sleeves.

Perspiration gathers within your palms and you fight to ward off the minuscule smile that plays on your lips while you gradually make your way back to the wooden armoire, “So, you’re always going on about how weak and fragile I am…”

“Yes.” She rests her chin in her hand, scrutinizing every hair on your head as though the answers to your ridiculous behaviour are buried within the multitudinous strands. “And what of it?”

“Well, I just thought that I should show you,” you start as your back hits the old furniture and your fingertips graze its rough texture. “That I’m more than capable of handling myself when we go out to—”

“When we go out?” she interrupts, irritation hardening her sharp features as she fixes you with an enraged scowl. “And where do you suppose we’re going exactly?”

You hesitate as your earlier confidence slips and you scramble to correct your word choice before she completely blows you off. “Uh, I just meant that this will show you how strong I am, and, uh…”

An eerie silence occupies the room when you find yourself at a loss for words. You know that your blabbering will get you absolutely nowhere, so you tighten your grip on the handles of the wardrobe, counting on your actions to speak louder than your words ever could.

“How old are you turning again, Y/N? It was eighteen, was it not?”

You shrink under her abrupt question, choosing to play along to pacify the shreds of annoyance flickering in her orbs. “Yes, Mother.”

“And for how long are we going to play this game?” she asks, standing with her basket in tow. Your mother rounds closer to you and your gaze automatically flies to the floor.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“What’re you hiding this time? Did you find another mouse? A rat?” she mocks, resting one hand on her hip. “Ooh, did a raccoon find its way inside?” Once her face is a mere couple of inches from your nose, you allow your eyes to meet her own, dreadfully empty ones. The sight sends a chill down your spine.

You release your hold on the furniture, dejection seeping from your tone. “Two mice this time.”

Her boisterous cackle echoes off the stone walls and she clutches her stomach in an attempt to quell the onslaught of laughter. The gesture reminds you of the countless other times you tried to ‘prove yourself’ through similar methods when you were younger, catching rodents that occasionally found their way into the nooks and crannies of the tower.

The first time you caught a mouse, you’d been ecstatic, rushing to show it off to the only person you knew. Although at that age, rather than a ticket to freedom, you were simply seeking your mother’s approval and perhaps a few praises here and there. You wanted to prove that despite your lonely upbringing—with your mother lounging around the tower for only a few hours every other day—you could handle yourself. She wouldn’t have to worry.

Evidently, you were too young to understand your mother’s rash nature, and she immediately assumed the worst—that you had somehow managed to sneak outside and wanted to prove your calibre by hunting down a nearby animal. The harsh scolding you received that day still lingers as a scar on your wrist, a painful reminder to never cross your mother.

“The outside world is not a simple matter of ‘two mice’ darling. You should know better than to think I’ll ever be impressed by these foolish displays of strength.” She swoops you up into her arms and you automatically bring your hands to circle her lithe waist. “That’s why you’ll always need Mother to protect you.”

Your chin rests on her shoulder, stare unfocused as you dismally state, “Yes, Mother.”

“Now, onto more exciting matters.” A couple of light, successive pats strike your back and you’re released from her hold. She is quick to open her wooden basket and rummage through the contents, reaching inside for what you assume to be your birthday present. The vegetables in her hand don’t excite you, but you put on a fake grin for her anyway. “I’m making your favourite soup!”

She scurries away from your static form to head past the doorway, but you stop her in her tracks with a low voice. “I’m not really feeling up for soup today.”

“You know how far the journey is to get some of these vegetables, let alone how expensive each one is!” she exclaims, waving said produce in her hand as she spins to face you.

“I’m really sorry, Mother,” you mumble, flashing her your best puppy-dog eyes. “But I ran out of paint recently and I’m feeling kind of down about it.”

She tuts. “That’s a three-day journey, Petal.”

“I know, it’s just that when I can’t distract myself with painting, I get these horrible thoughts of leaving the tower.” Doing your best to reason with her, you shift your weight to the other foot and fiddle around with your fingernails, attempting to appear as innocent as possible. “And I think those paints are a much better idea than going out to see the lights.”

A few seconds pass before a groan escapes your mother’s lips. “You’re lucky Mother loves you dearly.”

You stumble into her torso, grateful that she is unintentionally following along with your plan—a tedious scheme that you were saving as a last resort. She strokes the crown of your head, allowing you to nuzzle your cheek into the comfort of your mother’s embrace before her immediate departure.

Goodbyes are exchanged with some more reprimands sprinkled into the conversation, then she scales down the building and is no longer in your line of sight. You rub the nape of your neck, inching towards the armoire as you ponder whether a trip to indulge in your greatest desires is worth it when weighed against the lifelong bond you have with your own blood.

While navigating through your moral dilemma, you twist open the knob and watch as the scruffy man’s body slumps down to the floor without the support of the door to hold him upright. You refrain from cringing at his reddened nose.

Prioritizing your safety first, you retrieve your trusty pan and manhandle his body onto a chair, the seat still warm from your mother’s presence. This time around, you won’t be able to attain the upper hand by catching him off guard, so you settle on tying him up.

The question is: with what? You have no reason to keep ropes casually lying around the tower and one glance at his bulging biceps assures you that sewing thread will not be enough either.

As you’re thinking about stuffing him back into the wardrobe until you come up with a better idea, the blond strands at the edge of your peripheral catch your eye. For the first time in your life, your excessively long hair proves to be of use.

When he is tightly restrained to the armchair, your tresses acting like a straitjacket around his torso and snaking around his legs, you step back to appreciate your work. Your eyes drift over his corded muscles and roam over his face once again.

Before you let yourself get lost in his model-like features, your free hand reaches out, palm outstretched, to slap him across the face.

You nurse the stinging pain ebbing atop your outermost layer of skin, cradling the appendage to your chest as you hiss out a low whine, although the sound is masked by the low timbre of a groan. Your body stiffens while you gawk at the stranger, watching him gather his surroundings, whipping his head back and forth before his chestnut orbs land on you.

Your grip on the handle of the pot tightens.

“Wha—”

“No! Uh, I mean, hush!” you exclaim, deepening your voice for a rather weak, intimidating effect. “I’m doing the talking here.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat before you can utter another word. His doe eyes bore into yours and you step back, instantly feeling threatened by the intensity of his gaze. He wriggles around in his restraints, testing his extremely limited range of motion.

A prolonged, slightly awkward, silence stretches in the air as you attempt to recall the interrogation questions you practiced while tying him up. Regrettably, you come up blank.

He rolls his eyes at your lack of speech, raising a single brow.

“Well?” he questions, seemingly accepting his lack of free movement and slouching comfortably against the back of the chair. “I thought you said you were gonna do the talking?”

You grit your teeth at his impertinence, shaking off the nerves of talking to another human being that was not your mother as you adorn a superficial, bold facade. Striving to exude the same persuading tone that all those mystery books depicted, you mimic the slow strides you’ve read detectives take around their suspects.

“How did you find me?” You round the corner to escape his unimpressed glare, circling around him.

In turn, he cranes his neck to peer over at you, bewilderment written in the slack of his jaw. “Find you? Who says I was looking for you?” He whistles lowly catching sight of your mane, “That’s some hair you got there. Is that what’ve you tied me up with?”

A scoff escapes your lips, unconvinced at his act.

“Oh yeah?” you challenge, marching back to the front of the chair to dramatically slam your hands down onto his bound wrists, effectively halting his faint wriggling. “Then why did you come all the way up here, huh?”

The dashingly handsome stranger’s tongue prods at his cheek, serving to rile you up further. Taking his sweet time, he inspects the space around him before his focus comes back to you, and he leans in, smirking devilishly. “Sure as hell wasn’t for you, Princess.”

At the odd nickname combined with the close proximity, a flush tints your cheeks and you take a few steps back. He chuckles at his small victory—a deep, melodic sound that sends your flustered state into a muddled craze of butterflies, threatening to burst from within. You purse your lips and narrow your eyes at the man, more so to collect yourself than to unnerve him.

“Got something in your eye?”

You tilt your head back and grumble, exasperated at his lack of cooperation followed by his audacity to tease you further. “For your information, my eyes are working perfectly fine.”

“Good for you. Now, if you’ll just untangle me and give me back my bag, I’ll be out of your hair. Literally.” He grins at his joke, which you don’t find quite as funny.

“Like I’ll believe that.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest. “I’ll ask you again. How exactly did you find me?”

“As I said, Princess,” he jeers, his impatience made visible by the bulging veins lining his neck, “why would anybody be after your poor ass? I mean, just looking at the place, doesn’t look like you’ve got much else other than a bunch of hidden property and a shitty old tower.”

“Shitty?” You repeat, accosted at the stranger’s portrayal of the place you grew up.

He takes another look around the place as if to confirm his accusations before curtly nodding his head.

You glower at his blunt words, taking personal offence for the many hours you spent decorating, cleaning and doting over the building. “Well, I didn’t know we were expecting a rude guest. Then again, guests are invited inside, aren’t they?”

“Listen, you seem like the ditzy type, so I’ll keep this short and sweet. I got into a bit of a scuffle with some scoundrels and before I knew it, I was outnumbered!” he recounts slowly and melodramatically as if he is presenting a bedtime story to a child. “Then I stumble through some vines and find this gigantic tower!

“And to my surprise, rather than hidden treasure, this place has some naive, pan-wielding maniac at the top,” he concludes with a sigh, soundlessly implying that you should pity the unfortunate situation he stumbled upon—the unfortunate bit caused by your interference. All you feel is a burning itch to sock him across the face again, although that wouldn’t be too helpful in discovering his real objective.

His whole story sounds like pure bologna to you, but you feed into his obvious lies with a hum of acknowledgement. “Must’ve been so hard for you.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he whines, a pout forming on his pink lips.

You flash a close-lipped smile and thrust the metal weapon centimetres from his nose with more force than intended, though it seems to do the job when you catch his eyes widen slightly before reverting to the same relaxed stare as before. His posture is evidently tenser than a few seconds ago, which builds your pliant determination.

“Either some truths are gonna come out of that smart mouth or you’re gonna take another nap,” You threaten, waving the pan back and forth.

“Okay, easy now.” The stranger bends his hands upwards by the wrists, waving his fingers down slowly, as though he were calming a raging bull. “There’s no violence needed in this okay? We can make a deal.”

The sound of his cooperation piques your interest, so you inquire, “What kind of deal?”

“First of all, can you lower that?” You comply with his request, although you keep the skillet in the air, ready to strike at a moment's notice if he tries anything funny. “Okay, Princess, how about you give me the satchel, let me go without any trouble and I won’t tell anyone about your little hideout here, hm?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m the one with the upper hand here.” If you two are to come to a compromise, you’re going to need more from the stranger than his word to keep quiet. “And I need you to take me to see the lanterns at the capital.”

A hacking cough morphs into a distorted chuckle in his throat. “Hm, you see, that would be a bit difficult considering the rocky relationship I have with the royals.”

You cock your head to the side, raising the metal menacingly.

His fists curl into balls as a strained grin stretches across his face. “But I guess we could make it work.”

Pleased with his compliance, you continue with your conditions, “You take me to see the lanterns tomorrow night, bring me back home in one piece and I’ll give your bag back. Then you can jump out of the window for all I care, just keep your mouth shut about this place.”

“Do I even have a choice in the matter?”

“Nope.” His lack of protest makes you giddy, and you allow yourself to credulously overestimate your influence over the man. It has to be that or your frightening frying pan, right?

“Then what’re we waiting for?”

A childlike wonder brightens your countenance as you speedily unravel your locks from around the stranger, whipping the bulk of it over the hook and out the window. With his newfound freedom, you catch him combing through miscellaneous trinkets and in fear of him identifying the location of his bag, you call out, “There’s no use, you could ransack the whole tower and never find your precious satchel. You’re better off fulfilling our agreement.”

Fitting your trusty skillet under your arm, you don’t spare him another glance and hope that your bluff is enough to deter his scouring. Thankfully, the clattering of objects ceases and he saunters past the vase with his dear bag inside. Your attention flits to the verdant scenery below.

You allow an exuberant screech to rip through your vocal cords while you effortlessly fly down, your body wrapped around your hair as though the strands have solidified into a firepole and land on the plush, vibrant grass with a bounce. The prickly sensation on your bare skin is not what you imagined the spindly plant to feel like, yet you revel in its oddities nonetheless.

Your companion follows along with less flair, steadily climbing down using the two arrows that were left between the stones. By the time he reaches the ground, you’re already feeling the consequences of sticking your bare feet in the mud by a river.

He rolls his eyes at your antics and darts off while you tread toward the water to wash off the muck between your toes. You swish your foot back and forth, watching the current run off with the dirt and avoiding the miniature fish that gather around you. Their bright orange bodies are stark against the rocks underneath, easy to spot due to the clear, crystalline stream that you’re splashing around in.

When one of them decides to start nipping at your ankles and the rest of his posse tag along, you wade deeper—searching for a grassy area to withdraw from their persistent suckling. As you’re scouring the landscape, enjoying the slight breeze blowing through your hair, you find yourself alone.

This doesn’t bother you at first, used to the notion of having only your own inner thoughts as company. You’re preoccupied with rinsing the brown stains that mark one section of your tresses and gather the clean, soaked mass into your arms before you realize that the tour guide you recruited has gone missing.

At first, you can’t believe he abandoned the precious crown that he appeared to cherish so greatly, but before you can think too deeply about it, a light smack meets the nape of your neck.

“Looking for me, Princess?”

“Stop calling me that,” you whip around, a glare directed at his triumphant smirk. “And where were you anyway? Not trying to run off already, are we?”

He raises his hands up as though he has been caught red-handed, although his digits are curled around what looks to be strips of tree bark and long strands of weeds. Just as you’re about to question him further, he crouches down and grabs one of your ankles, lifting your leg out of the water and closer to him. You yelp and shift your weight to rest on your other foot.

“What?” He secures a few layers of the rough wood to the sole of your foot, wrapping the flexible plants around the bark and expertly tying it at the top. “This is what I get for being considerate isn’t it?”

“Is considerate even part of your vocabulary?” you tease, the relief at his presence causing you to lower your guard.

He freezes halfway through fastening the second makeshift shoe onto your other foot when the orbs staring up at you light up with mischief. Changing position, he folds forwards then rocks back to stand up to his full height. “Ah, I see how it is. Then I would never do something so thoughtful, right?”

“I take it back! I take it back, just finish it up,” you beseech.

“That’s what I thought, Princess.” He bends over to complete the second knot then scampers off to the forest as soon as the job is complete.

As you test out the peculiar slippers—inwardly marvelling at the barrier they provide against the elements of nature—you vocalize your displeasure with the nickname he has taken to calling you, “I thought I told you not to call me that.”

His strides ease up from his hurried pace, shortening to compensate for your smaller steps. “Aw, does Princess dislike being reminded of who she is?”

“I’ve never heard of a Princess living outside of a castle before.”

He hums, tilting his head in wonder. “Is your tower not considered a castle?”

“Not when I’m the only one living there,” you mutter under your breath, although you’re not sure if he catches it or not based on his silence. Regardless, you change the subject before he has a chance to respond. “So are you gonna tell me your name or what?”

Sneaking a peek at his side profile, you catch the endearing crinkle that appears by his eyes when he grins. “What’s with the sudden interest? I mean, I understand the enthusiasm but—”

You strike his elbow with the bottom of the skillet and he whines like a kicked puppy.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I just thought we should be on a first-name basis if we’re going to be travelling all this way together.” You amuse yourself by twirling the skillet around in your grip, acting as though there’s a gigantic pancake that you professionally flip onto its other side. “I would prefer my name over ‘Princess.’”

“I kinda like the ring of it though.” He winks at you, but you’re too invested in your cooking charades to notice. “You can call me Geum.”

“Geum? Like ‘gold’? What kind of name is that?”

“Ooh, someone’s judgemental.” Snatching the pan, he brandishes it around like a deadly cutlass in a seasoned pirate’s hand, bounding around you. He ends his show with the tip aimed straight at your heart.

“Just saying. You’ve got to admit it’s a bit… unique.” You halfheartedly brush him off, fighting to keep your grin from showing. As a side note, you announce your name.

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

Before he can prance off, you pluck the skillet out of his grasp and tear through the dense bushes with your treasure. His war cry echoes throughout the expansive woodlands as he rushes after you, untangling your hair from lone branches as he goes.

To claim that your feet are about to fall off is a gross understatement.

You have been travelling alongside Geum for hours now without a single break. Despite the high spirits that you two kicked your trip off with, the elation from brushing against the silky plants, cooing at the wildlife that crossed your path, and inhaling the fresh scent of damp moss and wet tree trunks from yesterday’s showers wore off quickly.

You’re inclined to believe that your enthusiasm began to subside when Geum yanked you away from running your finger along one set of rich emerald leaves—narrowly avoiding what he explained to be poison ivy. Your curious hands have been cemented to your sides ever since that close encounter.

After your lively bickering dies down, rather than a peaceful, quiet walk, listening to the whispers of the wind and the pleasant chirping of the birds, the antsy man beside you puts you on edge. He can’t stop looking from side to side, trying to peer past the endless birches and elms that obscure your view.

Is Geum expecting someone?

Perhaps some parts of his story are true. Perhaps having a ruffian with other delinquents hunting him is not the best partner to accompany you on this journey—not that you have much of a choice in the matter, it’s either him or no one. You’re unsure which option is worse.

Any conversation you strike is met with teasing remarks, so you give up on prodding him for any substantial information. But with the sky darkening and the breeze turning brisk, you’re about to mention camping out somewhere when Geum says, “We should settle down for the night.”

“I never thought I would agree with something that came out of your mouth.”

“That’s why you’re wrong most of the time.” And there it was, another snotty retort that practically begs you to deck him with the pan you keep tucked in your underarm.

The quibble ignites a fire under your skin, the flames licking at your sides and providing some warmth amidst the chill in the air. “Most of the time? So you’re saying that you’re wrong sometimes?”

“Yeah, nobody can always be right.” He flashes a lazy smirk your way, adjusting the bundle of your locks in his arms. “Like when I said that your hair isn’t an inconvenience.”

You take a second to process his snarky words. With your mind occupied, stuck in a whirlwind of potential reprisals, you unintentionally head towards the distant outline of the castle when you approach a crossroad branching in two opposite directions.

Just as you’re about to let loose a nasty quip, his warm hand wraps itself around your wrist, dragging you away from the faraway mansion. You overheat at the source of the touch, thoughts going haywire.

“Hey, hey!” In hopes of snapping him out of his reverie, you raise your voice. “You can’t blow off our deal now, don’t you want your precious satchel back?”

When he offers no explanation for his cryptic actions, you attempt to pry off his fingers with your other hand—making sure not to trip over your own two feet while you’re at it. Your wriggling is all for nought because Geum’s iron grip is too durable to be outmatched by your fumbling digits.

“Geum, please just,” you plead, ceasing your struggle when the delicate skin in his grasp begins to sting from his strength, “let’s talk about this, okay?”

You’re so preoccupied with regaining your freedom that you don’t notice the dingy sign you two pass; a rubber duck with the words The Snuggly Duckling etched onto the wood. “Shut up and hurry.”

Your jaw drops at his insolent tone, astounded at his change in demeanour. There’s no playful spirit behind his words this time, only a sharp annoyance accompanied by his sudden haste that you feel all too strongly in your wrist. You stumble after him and duck your head through a small doorway, your mind caught up in formulating a coherent response that consists of sounds other than your outraged sputtering.

“Don’t tell me to—”

You’re cut off by the ruckus inside the establishment. Burly men surround the two of you, drinking, howling in laughter, practicing their aim with throwing knives—there’s even a large group of people fighting in one corner. The amount of blood streaked across the walls, their clothes, and pouring out of their open wounds is concerning. You can smell the metallic tang from the entrance.

When the hand around your wrist disappears, you find yourself yearning for the physical connection, serving as some kind of reassurance that he is not leaving you to the metaphorical, and sort of literal, wolves before you. In order not to lose Geum as he wades through the crowds, you latch on to the thin hem of his shirt. He pays you no mind and continues onward.

Skillfully slipping through the giants while you bumble behind him, you two arrive at a row of vacant barstools. You loosen your grip at the unexpectedly tranquil space, such a drastic contrast to the commotion in the background that it’s like you’ve been transported to another place altogether.

You’re brought back to reality from the loud grunt that booms throughout the joint, although you tune out again when you hear a punch being thrown, then a crack that you can only hope isn’t a bone. Or two.

“Uh, Geum?” you ask, although he pays your appellation no mind. His attention is focused on the intimidating, tattooed man behind the counter.

“Joon.” Your unofficial tour guide takes a seat. “A mead?”

Determined to stick close to the only familiar face in the building, you slide onto the seat next to Geum. The overwhelming scent of liquor hits you hard, causing you to crinkle your nose the exact moment that your narrowed eyes spot the bartender, Joon, awkwardly cough into his fist, trying to stifle his snickers for your sake.

“Just a water for her.”

While Joon confirms Geum’s order with a slight nod, you cast your head down to stare at your twiddling fingers. Your mind is still reeling from the abrupt change in scenery, unsure how to carry yourself in this new setting. It was no problem in the dense forest, with only Geum to judge you—but it isn’t like you’re trying to impress him anyway.

In here where hordes of broad men are gathered, drunk out of their minds with crimson staining their attire, you’re scared. Everything is too raucous, too rancid, too overwhelming. You’re uncertain whether the trip to the capital will play out as you’ve imagined and you turn towards Geum to tell him as much when—

“Was this from me?” You instinctively flinch at his tug on your elbow, although regret rushes down your back, clawing against your spine like ice-cold water when hurt flashes across his shadowed orbs. Before you can blink, it’s gone.

As a feeble apology, you offer a tightlipped smile. Referring back to his words, you examine your arm and grimace when you spot the blooming scarlet streaks encircling your wrist, taking the shape of Geum’s slender digits. “Oh, uh, don’t worry. It’ll fade.”

It’s not a lie since the marks will eventually fade. You hope it doesn’t turn black and blue before that though.

A clear glass is thrust your way, which you’re overjoyed to snatch from Joon’s hand, noting Geum’s copper liquor from the corner of your eye. Hours of travelling without any form of hydration definitely took its toll on you, evident by your severely chapped lips that you can’t help but swipe your tongue over every minute—not that the dried saliva is doing you any favours.

Before you have a chance to sip from heaven in liquid form, you’re halted by a gentle finger tracing the length of your forearm. Thankfully, you’re not as skittish this time around, remaining frozen until Geums pulls back; the pale, discoloured scar he was following having tapered off into your natural skin. “Where’s that one from?”

His strange inquiry confuses you with its unusually intrusive nature considering his inability to chat seriously five minutes ago. You pause for a second to debate on revealing the truth or constructing a comical narrative for the sake of avoiding a sombre turn to the light conversation. Despite your decision, your lips rebel, taking on a mind of their own. “A punishment.”

Bronze orbs snap up to yours, boring into the deepest parts of your soul and uncovering each of your secrets one by one as if they’re gems, buried within the layers of your lonely childhood. You’re transfixed. “Mother said it would remind me to never leave the tower.”

The condensation running down the side of the chilled cup meets the edge of your palm, sliding down your index finger and becoming a stark reminder of your parched mouth. You lift the glass to take a sip, but a taste renders your control inoperative as you guzzle down the rest, leaving not a single drop inside.

Your famished stomach makes itself known with a growl when your thirst is quenched. Attracting the attention of the bartender with a small wave, you ask, “Is there any chance you’ve got some food here?”

“We’ve got anything as long as you’ve got the coin for it, blondie.”

You shudder in alarm at the introduction of another patron in the bar. Leaning away from the repulsive drawl to your left, you shift over to position yourself as far away as possible. Seeing your discomfort, the stranger takes a few steps forward to invade your personal space once more and you recoil back with a jerk of your torso.

The abrupt motion messes with your centre of gravity, tipping you over the edge of the barstool. Just as you’re about to have an unpleasant meeting with the floor, a palm darts out to the small of your waist and steadies you. You follow the arm up to Geum’s clenched jaw.

“She’s not looking for anything that you guys can offer.”

Your throat tightens at your companion’s harsh answer, wary of how the other men will react. The burly man to your other side bursts out in obnoxious laughter and a glint of light reflecting off of his silver teeth catches your eye, which you recognize from earlier. He’s one of the goons that was involved in the fistfight near the entrance.

“As if you’re packing anything better.” He nudges his lackeys behind them and they chuckle along like they’re all in on one big joke.

“It’s not hard to top a baby carrot.”

Panicked at his provocation, you glimpse at the challenging smirk plastered across Geum’s lips. You aren’t sure why he’s trying to pick a fight or if there’s any logical reasoning behind his actions at all, but you tap on the arm still attached to your torso, conveying your opinion on his moronic pride with your widened eyes.

Of course, men will be men, and the little posse arranged behind the silver toothed boss riles their leader up, encouraging him with disgruntled yells and unintelligible speech to prove their dominance. With you in between the two blockheads, you’re sure that you’re not going to like how this plays out.

Dismissing your distress, Geum takes a sip of his drink. He seems unbothered by the commotion surrounding him and you envy his nonchalant demeanour.

“You got any bite behind your bark, pretty boy?” His lackeys change tactics, switching over to goading Geum on. You assume their greater numbers spark their courage, reassured that they could overpower one man. “Or are we just trying to impress this little miss right here?”

“I’m not sure if it’ll be very fair for you guys,” Geum says cockily, scrutinizing each member from head to toe then returning to his sweet mead. “I mean, just looking at you boys, doesn’t look too impressive if you ask me.”

If the atmosphere didn’t thicken with a fatal tension, you would have giggled at his smart mouth. But the other man’s nostrils flare in resentment, beginning to surge forward before he’s interrupted by a spindly boy who thrusts a paper below his nose. “Boss, you were right, it’s him.”

His unsightly features twist upwards in joy, displaying his horrendous set of chompers once more as he chuckles. That’s when you realize that a sinister smile can be much more frightening than any bellow of rage. “Looks like you’ve got quite the bounty on your head there, Geum.”

At the snarl of his name, your eyes dart to the wrinkled sheet in his hand which he graciously flips to face your direction. An uncanny depiction of Geum’s face is drawn, a sum containing many zeroes painted underneath his name. What appalls you the most is the red, bolded letters at the very top, distinctly spelling out wanted.

Geum is a wanted criminal.

While your mind is reeling, sight blurring and breath quickening from the influx of information, the man in question unabashedly finishes off the last of his alcoholic beverage and proceeds to slam the glass onto the counter. Through all of the clamour, you pick up Joon’s exasperated sigh in the background.

The door to the establishment flings open, hinges creaking as the wood bounces back from the sheer force of the blow. While everyone is distracted by the bustle, Geum stealthily hops off his seat, slipping an arm around your waist to soundlessly lead you to the other side of the counter. Although you’re reluctant to follow, you refrain from squabbling with him in order not to attract any unwanted attention.

“We’ve received a report that a well-known thief has been spotted in the premises—”

Geum kneels in front of the shelves lined with drinks of all shapes and colours, fiddling with something you can’t see from your position behind him. Following his lead, you crouch behind him, softly muttering in disbelief, “You really think they won’t find us hiding here?”

A click is heard as a few of the racks cave in on themselves, revealing a concealed passageway. Geum shakes his head towards the opening, silently directing you to enter first. You’re hesitant to accompany him any farther but you’re pushed forwards by Joon’s calf on your back and you understand that you don’t have much of a choice in the matter anymore.

If you’re caught now, you’ll be accused of being an accomplice to whatever crimes Geum committed.

You spare a thankful nod to Joon, stealing a glance at the guards blocking the entrance while you’re at it. Their white uniforms are decorated with accents of bright oranges and reds, a familiar flower fastened to the right side of their chest. One of them holds another copy of Geum’s wanted poster which you tear your gaze from, willing yourself to escape from this mess before thinking about anything else.

Geum shoves you through the opening, and you crawl through the underground passage as fast as you can in order to keep his pinching fingers away from your ankles. You two are far enough to safely whisper short phrases to one another, but he insists on being a nuisance as he urges you to pick up the pace.

It’s pitch black when the trapdoor shuts behind Geum, and you’re unable to make out your own hands in front of your face; with no other path in sight, you blindly head forward. As you continue, you pass torches burning with a bright fire that provide light, illuminating the stones around you and the shadows following you. You wonder how often this underground system is used to have fire running at all times.

Eventually, the tunnel’s height expands enough for the two of you to comfortably tread through on your feet. If you weren’t tired enough from walking for hours on end, the brutal jog which Geum sets is more than enough to tire you out within mere minutes.

“Geum,” you heave, unable to catch your breath with your chest fruitlessly rising and falling, never passing enough air for you to gather your senses. He’s too far to catch, effortlessly sprinting ahead, yet you still uselessly reach out to capture his attention. “Geum.”

You push yourself to the limit, another few minutes passing by before your powerless body can no longer handle the stress of the strenuous activity, and you slow down, coming to a full stop. One hand on the rocky wall steadies your dizzying sight as you hunch over, throat burning and stomach aching. Even though you try to remain standing, your legs involuntarily give out and you end up on the floor.

As you try to regain your breath, hands grasp your shoulders and gently shake you back to reality. Geum’s intense gaze is only centimetres away, torso bent to level with you. “You can do this, come on. We have to lose them.”

“I,” you huff, “I can’t… It’s… too much.”

Geum’s arms return to his sides, his brows furrowing as you watch the gears whirring in his head through your blurry vision. When he spins around to face the exit, you cry out in a hoarse voice, believing that he’s leaving your pathetic, crumpled form to fend for yourself—but instead of running off, he crouches to the ground with his backside to you. “Get on.”

In spite of your resolute will to arise from your folded position, your legs can’t seem to extend outwards in order to climb onto his back, which you convey by tapping his shoulder and pitifully shaking your head. Geum’s lips pry apart to respond, but his words are drowned out by the pounding footsteps that echo throughout the tunnel walls. He curses under his breath as he turns and scoops your fetal form into his arms.

All you can register is his natural woody scent enveloped in the sweaty musk that drenches his frame, your body clutched tightly to his torso as he races to the end of the tunnel. You grip his thin shirt in one fist, unfamiliar with the warmth fluttering in your chest, so you brush it off as another side effect from the arduous sprinting.

A bright light can be seen at the very end, but your eyes are locked on the well-defined jaw of the man carrying you as if you were as light as a feather, running as if your lives depended on it—which they kind of do.

You couldn’t differentiate the pounding of Geum’s shoes from the mob of guards pursuing you two. As you slowly recover from your exhausted state, the guilt of becoming a burden settles into the creases of your face, worrying lines etching onto your features from thinking about your impending fate.

Your thoughts wander to the reasoning behind this violent chase. By the fancier uniforms they sport, you suspect their position to be rather high, perhaps palace guards or ones belonging to the royal family. Reminded of the wanted poster clutched within one of their hands, the image stirs unease within the depths of your stomach that’s already stinging from the massive amounts of cardio you’ve done today.

Before you can connect any dots, you’re out in the wilderness again, although instead of the sun’s blazing rays on your face, the moon’s tender beams spill over your surroundings. The sort of serenity that accompanies the stillness of the later hours are interrupted by your rapidly beating heart, which is amplified by the pulse felt on your left side.

After a few more strides, Geum comes to a sudden halt.

“What’s wrong?” You tilt your neck to look at his face in curiosity. Although he doesn’t appear fatigued, his cheeks only slightly flushed from exertion and a few sweat droplets racing down his temples, you ask anyway, “Are you tired?”

The grip under your legs lower you to the ground and you stand in front of Geum, beginning to worry about losing your advantage over your pursuers. He doesn’t provide a verbal response to your questions, simply shaking his head and causing the tips of his hair to sway back and forth with the motion. The strands cover his eyes when he stops, but he doesn’t bother to brush them aside.

Geum’s shoulders slouch, heavy from the weight of defeat. You’re unnerved at his strange actions, turning to look ahead at the obstacle that’s forcing him to give up all hope.

You two are standing at the edge of a cliff.

Your knees buckle at the length of the drop, which seems never ending from your viewpoint. The tenebrous shadows of the night obscure the bottom, painting the jagged walls with uncertainty at any chance for survival. Your heart constricts as the despondency emanating off of Geum slithers its way into your rapidly diminishing resolution.

“When they get here,” he announces, bravery shining through his firm tone, “I need you to run as fast as you can. I’ll distract them, just focus on getting back to the bar. Tell Joon to take you somewhere safe and trust no one but him.”

You’re baffled at his complete change in attitude as well as his idiotic plan. There’s no trace of humour in his piercing orbs though, simply an obstinate determination that implores you to obey his orders. But you aren’t about to abandon the first friend you’ve ever made. “Are you insane? What do you think you can do against trained soldiers?”

“There’s no other choice.” He nudges your torso to position yourself behind him, both your backs to the cliff, watching the guards get closer and closer. Dread weighs ponderously on your limbs, the adrenaline pumping in your veins with every footstep marching to surround you two. You’re cornered.

The soldier closest to Geum unsheathes his sword and steadily approaches. You slip the rusty pan into his hand and he inconspicuously reaches back to pat your thigh, reminding you of his reckless scheme.

Seeing your defensive stance, the guard rushes forward, thrusting his sword forward to slice through layers of skin. Instead, the clang of metal against metal resounds throughout the empty cliff and your apprehension increases tenfold with your front row seat to Geum’s doomed duel, fending off a glinting sword with your rickety skillet.

Although he’s fighting well considering his enormous handicap, you spot more soldiers creeping their way into the skirmish, unable to stand and watch one of their own be bested in battle. Overall, the odds weren’t looking too great for your pan-wielding knight.

You have to do something. With Geum’s plan off the table, you can’t think of anything other than taking your chances with the cliff. You gather all your faith in the landscape, Geum, and yourself while taking a deep breath. Waiting for an opening within the clash, you cautiously inch towards Geum and when one particularly hard blow jolts both men back a few steps, you snatch up the opportunity.

Before another guard can take his ally’s place, you rush over to snake an arm around Geum’s lithe waist, tugging his back to meet your chest. During this process, he nearly elbows you in the face, writhing around in your tight hold until he recognizes your delicate hands on his stomach.

With the enemy frozen in confusion at your ostensibly desultory actions, you take advantage of their shock to stumble backwards, proving harder than necessary due to Geum’s long legs tangling with your own as you head towards the edge. You’re nearly there when one of the guards pick up on your plan to escape, jumping into action with his razor-sharp sword and waving it in a deadly arc that nearly slices both of your heads off clean.

Thankfully, you lose your footing on a slippery rock and tip over.

While airborne, any air is momentarily robbed from the heavy drop in your gut and a terrified shriek rips past your mouth as you lose your tight grip on Geum, utterly absorbed in your fear. The distance between you two grows, but because of his quick reflexes, Geum is able to fist a clump of your clothes in his hands and pull you into his chest with one hand resting on the nape of your neck.

You don’t have enough time to react to the new position before both your bodies are enveloped in gelid water. All of your nerves fire off, enraged at the sudden change in temperature. A violent shiver overtakes your limbs in a weak attempt to warm yourself up.

Although Geum’s palm on your neck withdraws to wade your bodies back up to surface, the grip around your middle only tightens.

The stream parts as you two float back up to meet the chilly air, greedily filling your lungs as you unravel from one another in order to paddle your way to shore. The current sweeps you along, aiding your furious efforts to reach the ground again.

Geum arrives at the muddy grass before you, swiftly lifting himself out and turning to fish for your soaked form. White puffs of your breath escape your mouths because of the low temperature, yet they dissipate as quickly as they’re formed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” You close your eyes and nod. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

The fire crackles alongside the chirping crickets, forming a peculiar orchestra with the breeze blowing through the rustling leaves. You extend your frigid digits as close to the flames as you dare, desperate for its warmth, yet recoiling from the sting of its heat all the same.

“Might as well stick your whole hand in there while you’re at it.” Geum emerges from the tenebrous thickets of the forest, making his way into the dull glow of the bonfire with a bundle of skinny twigs in his arms.

You’re drained from the day’s events, but you flash him a smile brimming with gratitude, appreciative that he’s intent on keeping the fire alive despite his inevitably numb appendages. You insisted on swapping turns, allowing his body to warm up a bit while you scavenged for wood, although he dismissed your offer multiple times, claiming that moving around was much more effective for him than any flames.

You’d have to disagree with him there. The burning fire feels incredible heating up your skin from the outside in.  

“If you take a second to come and enjoy the warmth, then maybe you wouldn’t be so moody,” You jest, rotating the fish skewers that Geum expertly caught in the river with a sharpened branch. By the slightly burnt edges, you suppose it’s ready. “C’mon, let’s eat before you head off again.”

He grunts his affirmation, depositing his findings on top of the ever-growing pile of wood and taking a seat on a fallen log located a couple of feet away from you. You allow the meat to cool down before separating the fish from the stick it’s impaled on and passing it to him.

“Is your hair dry yet?” He’s too preoccupied with forcibly ripping the fish in half to avoid scaling it, so he doesn’t catch your affectionate, lingering gaze.

You hum, grabbing a lock of your wet strands. “Not quite.”

He places his meal next to him on the log and leans over to take the bulk of your tresses in his grasp. You watch as he lays the blonde strands near the fire, quietly giggling at his strange logic.

“You think the heat is going to make it dry faster?” The appearance of his wide grin elicits the return of the bizarre tightening in your chest, a crushing pain that makes it difficult to breathe. You haven’t had a bite of the fish but nausea swirls in your stomach as your hands turn clammy and you rip your eyes away from Geum in hopes of collecting yourself.

Seeing your doubt towards his surely infallible rationale, his brows scrunch together and he pauses his movements in his perplexity, a distant look swirling in his eyes. He should be completely unaware of the turmoil raging within you, yet all your previous worries dissipate with the smoke of the fire as his face becomes increasingly wrinkled, flashing an expression more ludicrous than the last.

After you beg and plead with him to stop, cheeks aching from smiles and belly throbbing from laughter, he breaks out into his own set of snickers. More than satisfied, Geum grabs his fish again and begins to nibble on the meat inside. “You never considered getting a trim?” he asks between bites.

A few seconds pass as you calm yourself down from your hysterical state. “Never allowed to,” you answer, short and vague to keep the pleasant atmosphere.

“Allowed to?” His voice is laced with his astonishment. “Who’s telling you what to do at your age?”

Fidgeting with your own skewer, you ponder over an answer that’s precise enough to satisfy his curiosity, yet obscure enough to conceal your identity at the same time. Your eyes dart from side to side, following the light of the fire as it illuminates a wet, crimson stain on the sleeve of Geum’s jacket.

“What’s that?” you question, scuttling over to his log and sitting down next to him. To get a better look, you grab his elbow and pull it towards you.

“Nothing. Don’t change the subject.” He tries to shrug off both your concern and your hand that’s clutching onto his arm, which only makes you tighten your grip. At the increase in pressure, a low groan slips past his lips and you instantly release your hold at the sound.

“Does it hurt?” The memory of the guard wildly slashing his sword in the air comes to mind and you realize that although the blow didn’t cost either of your lives, his upper arm must have borne the brunt of the force instead.

“It’s fine.” He attempts to brush you off again, but you’re as clingy as a leech and refuse to budge from his side.

You latch on to the lapel of his jacket and tug. “Take it off.”

Despite your solemnity, his low chuckle sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Already asking me to strip? I’m not that easy, Princess. How about you take me on a date first and I’ll think about your offer?”

“You know what I mean,” you grumble, exasperated that he persists on maintaining his incessant teasing while injured.

When he finishes cleaning off one half of his meal, about to reach for the other, you move to stand in front of him. You dismiss the wild pounding of your heart to focus on slipping his jacket off of his opposite arm.

He puts forth no effort to stop you, although he’s definitely not helping much with his limp, bulky appendages that are a lot heavier than expected. Slowly but surely, you tenderly thread his injured arm out of his sleeve with careful hands.

The white, short-sleeved shirt he’s sporting underneath makes it easy to spot the splotches of crimson dyeing the hem of his sleeve through the dim, orange light. You approach his laceration delicately, treating him like a frightened animal. He snorts at your earnest actions.

Lifting the fabric covering the entirety of the gash, you gasp softly at the depth of the wound, grimacing as though it’s your own limb that’s been hurt. “You shouldn’t be moving around with this, you’re not letting it heal.”

“I’ll endure any pain to keep you close,” he whispers, sweet honey dripping from his words as he loops his other arm around your waist, effectively pulling you in between his open legs.

His chin is a mere few centimetres from your belly button, gazing up at you with a flirtatious wink as he perches his hand onto your lower back. You hold your breath, worried that he can hear the utter chaos erupting within your chest due to the close proximity.

Flustered, you push at his broad shoulders, desperate for some room to breathe. Geum flinches at your touch and you instantly regret your thoughtless behaviour. Your concern at the severity of his wound multiplies tenfold, feeding into a disquiet that nestles into every cell in your body. “I’m serious, it doesn’t look good.”

One hand falls into his lap while the other comes up to ruffle his damp locks. “Don’t get shy now, Princess.”

Taking in the defeated slouch to his back, the distant glaze that darkens his bronze orbs, you think about your hair. You think about how much younger your mother appears after she detangles each strand. You think about all the scars you’ve avoided throughout the years by singing a simple tune.

This man saved your life, and it’s time for you to repay the favour. You consider waiting until he’s asleep to heal his arm, plagued by the distress of being mistaken as a witch. Mother warned you about those kinds of people, who are ready to ruin your life in order to improve their own—anything ranging from taking advantage of your unworldly qualities to selling you for a pretty penny.

Mother always knows best. Right?

You peer into his expressionless eyes that stare holes into the dancing flames, the other uneaten half of the fish still laying untouched. From the limited time you’ve spent together, you shouldn’t feel this distraught at his pain, as though a chunk of your heart is bleeding out with him and leaving you in a puddle of your own misery.

But one look at Geum’s laceration and even a child could tell that the relentless stream would end his life before long. No matter how well he can conceal his shallow, rapid breathing, you begin to make sense of his sweaty, pallid countenance that shreds any remaining skepticism you hold against him—dismissing the wariness brought about by those wanted posters.

“Geum.”

His eyelids shut close at your grave tone. “I know. It’s fine.”

At your hesitant tone, he sluggishly spares you a placid, tame smile. You hate it.

The Geum you’ve come to know is exuberant, taking all his hardships in stride with a sly smirk to boot. He’s brilliant, craftier than any artist, and resourceful even in the face of despondency. He’s compassionate, extending his own neck to save yours, always sympathetic to your plight.

This Geum is hollow, a shell of the person you knew.

The crushed downturn of his doe eyes doesn’t belong to his captivating features. You yearn to watch that classic, mischievous glint sparkle in his irises as he taunts you endlessly, testing how high your pulse can spark when he invades your personal space yet again.

You take a seat next to him. “No, uh,” you stammer, “I got a solution. You just can’t scream or freak out or anything, okay? Most importantly, you can’t tell anyone. Not a single soul.”

Before he can react to your cryptic warnings, you separate a lock of your hair, wrapping it around his wounded bicep. He raises a single brow at your strange antics but provides no further opposition. You’re pleased with the amount of trust he’s placed in you.

You close your eyes, and then you sing.

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine,”

Starting from your roots, a golden glimmer races across the tresses of your hair. Bewildered, Geum recoils in his state of shock but remains rooted in his spot nonetheless.

“Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine,”

He follows the scintillating shimmer in your strands until he reaches the portion wrapped around his bicep. You absentmindedly wonder if he can feel his flesh reconstructing, cells dividing at a rapid rate to close the smooth gash.

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fates' design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine,”

Your lids slide open to stare at his wide eyes, his jaw hanging ever so slightly. You’re glad to see that his previously pale complexion has given way to his natural, lively undertone.

“What once was mine.”

When the last notes fade out, eventually overpowered by the lone hoot of an owl, you gingerly untangle your hair from the shell-shocked man. Geum slaps his other hand over the healed skin, his head rapidly darting between examining his arm and making absurd facial expressions that convey his amazement. From his naturally cool composure, you treasure this rare moment of awe.

“Wha—”

Your stressed squeak halts him in his speech. “Please don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.” He looks like he’s trying to convince himself more so than you when he continues, “Not freaking out. What’s there to freak out about? I mean, magical healing hair? Completely normal.”

Your grin is filled with mirth at his nervous tone, and you lift his prodding digits from the site of the wound. Or at least where it used to be. “You feel okay?”

With all of your attention directed towards analyzing his healthy appendage, ensuring that your magic had not screwed up somewhere along the process, you miss Geum’s tender gaze roaming over every inch of your countenance. “Yeah, I guess I’m more than okay now.”

“I promise I’m not some kind of witch or anything like that. Just, uh, was just born with it,” you try to explain despite being in the dark about many of the nitty-gritty details yourself.

“Born with magical hair?”

You giggle at the absurdity of his question, although the validity remains true, it’s rather peculiar to hear it out loud. “Some of us are born with more talent than others. But that’s also why I can’t cut it,” you smile sheepishly, deciding to answer his earlier question now that your secret is out in the open.

“It turns brown and loses its magic.” You gather all your strands into one fist, pulling the mass to the side to expose the short, chestnut coloured strands underneath. You feel vulnerable and exposed with your neck out on display, sharing the fragility of your powers with a man you’ve known for less than twenty-four hours.

But it’s Geum, and he doesn’t feel like a stranger to you. “An overbearing mother is also part of the reason, but that’s a story for another time. Carrying it around can be heavy and the tangles can be brutal, but I guess it has its perks.”

He hums, stretching his torso to throw some twigs into the fire in hopes of enlarging the dwindling flames. “Yeah, I, uh…”

You stay silent, neither dismissing nor pressuring him into voicing his thoughts.

“My name isn’t actually Geum.”

A teasing smirk lifts the corner of your lips as you lean closer and nudge his arm. “You don’t say?”

He scoffs at your playful demeanour and pushes you back with one finger on your forehead. When your upper body is tilted away from him and your head is facing the starry night sky, he retracts his digit and speaks so softly that the noise is almost carried away by the wind. “It’s Jungkook.”

“Jungkook,” you test it out, matching the syllables to the face. It’s a bit strange after getting accustomed to associating him with the name ‘Geum,’ but in a way, it complements him better.

“Yeah.” He pauses and you shift your body to study him, memorizing the slopes and angles of his side profile. His orbs reflect the flickering fire, engulfing the newly added branches in its blaze. “I just thought somebody should know.”

“Is Geum your alias... for when you’re being a criminal?” Although you’re hesitant to delve into the subject, especially right after he’s begun to unveil his true identity, your curiosity outweighs reason and you can’t contain yourself. You can’t say that you’ve never questioned the diadem hidden in his satchel.

Crowns don’t belong to convicts who run from justice.

You wait for his answer with bated breath, unintentionally trapping your lower lip between your teeth in anticipation. Please, Jungkook.

“If you’re trying to ask what I did,” he hisses, knuckles turning white from his clenched fists, “Yeah, I stole it. Those assholes don’t deserve their riches.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenches, his anger radiating off him in waves. You wish you could eat your previous words because of how furious he’s become, but you’re committed to finishing the job. “Are you talking about the King and Queen?” Your brows pinch together in your discomfort. “Was that their crown?”

“This is your first time out of that tower, right?” You confirm his inquiry with a quick nod of your head. “How much do you know about the kingdom?”

“Jungkook—”

He tuts, fixing you with a strict glare. “Answer the question.”

“Well…” While recalling all the knowledge you picked up from your mother and the few historical books within your collection, you fiddle with a strand of your hair and organize your thoughts. “The castle is located in the middle of the capital, said to loom over the entire kingdom with its height. After it was rebuilt to accommodate more space for the Prince, everyone, from poets to milliners, cried over the beauty carved within those walls.”

He expels a deep sigh, causing you to question the legitimacy written in those pages you recited. “I asked about the kingdom, not the castle.”

His question leaves you dumbfounded. The information you collected over the years is limited to everything inside that grandiose, opulent building. There was nothing about the land, animals or even the common folk.

A gust blows the smoke of your little bonfire towards you, and you blink rapidly to avoid any soot from lodging itself into your eyes. Jungkook plucks a large leaf from one of the plants nearby, lazily fanning the fumes away. “That cozy castle and the royal family sitting on top of it all couldn’t care less about their people. They rake their luxuries from our hard work when even one jewel off that crown could feed hundreds.”

You process the cold truth in silence, a shiver overtaking your limbs in spite of the heat in front of you. “Is that why you stole it?”

“I don’t care if they want to plaster my face all over the kingdom and put a bounty on my head, I’m not going to stand around and watch people die from their greedy hands,” he states, proud and resolute.

You’re torn between the anguish nipping at your heels and the relief washing over your head. Living sheltered in that tower, you had no clue about the perils outside your own stone walls, is this what Mother was trying to protect you from?

However, discovering the true nature behind Jungkook’s crimes restores your faith in him, and your shoulders relax as you crane your neck to peer at the stars again. With your curiosity quenched, you move on to another question. “So, how many people get to call you Jungkook?”

He follows your example, leaning back and revelling in the breathtaking sight. “Nobody knows my real name, everyone calls me Geum.”

Your jaw drops a fraction from the admittance, feeling rather privileged that he chose to share it with you. “Your family calls you that too?”

“Don’t have any,” he brushes off your sympathetic gaze with a shrug.

“Why the name Geum?”

You catch his tiny, forlorn smile in your peripheral. “I grew up hearing all about the royal family’s massive parties, overflowing with family, friends—people. They were never lonely. And since they were parading their money around, I thought that was it, that was the secret.”

The dejected tone in his voice clogs your airways and makes it difficult to breathe, stunning your motionless form into remaining as still as a statue, the magnitude of his sorrow sweeping over you in fatal waves.

“And I hoped that maybe naming myself ‘gold’ might give me some luck with that.” With his shoulders downcast, his eyes flicker over to you, gauging your reaction.

You desperately wish you could turn back time to console the young boy whose heart was too big to fit inside his tiny body. Although he’s grown into it now, you strive to ease his suffering by even the slightest fraction. “I think ‘Jungkook’ is even better for making friends.”

The edges of his lips flip upwards as he navigates his face to halt directly right in front of your own, pressing one hand to the other side of your farthest thigh and caging you in. “Would you be my friend, Princess?”

All your blood rushes to your head, warming your cheeks. In a futile attempt to preserve any of your remaining dignity, you shrink back to maintain some distance. But his smirk grows at the sight of your shy response to his advances, his orbs flitting down to your pink lips before returning to your eyes. He looks absolutely ecstatic over your flustered state.

His hot breath fans over your lips and you gather any rational sense you have left inside your muddled brain to push him back, missing the split second his confident facade cracks and a sliver of insecurity shines through. It’s instantly replaced by a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No matter what you decide to call yourself, I’ll always be your friend.”

Seconds seem like hours as the two of you stare at each other, seeking to uncover the words left unsaid. Jungkook’s palms press against his knees, pushing off of them to come to a standing position and effectively ending your little moment. “I’m gonna go get some more wood.”

You nod, staring at his retreating backside that ventures into the adumbral forest once more. Even though the perpetrator of all these complex emotions is no longer within sight, you feel unsettled from the mere thought of him, yet your heart yearns for him all the same.

“Oh, Petal, I thought he would never leave!” A distinctly high-pitched cry rings out in the empty space, a voice which you didn’t expect to hear until at least tomorrow night.

Your head whips to the side to confirm your suspicions. “Mother?” Her dark figure emerges from the shadows and your heart drops to your stomach. You fumble for the right words, at a loss from her unexpected appearance. “How did you—”

“The better question is how could you, Petal?” she corrects, continuing to step into the light provided by the fire. The once comforting flames turn harsh, sharp pops bursting forth from the aggressive combustion. She lowers her hood to reveal the disappointment etched into her youthful features—and without fail, the sting of upsetting her burns through your conscience. “Really, how could you betray your own mother like this?”

You stand, determined to explain yourself, “Mother, he’s different from the monsters you told me about. If you get to know him, he’s sweet and caring and kind an-and he isn’t after my magic!”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, my naive, little Petal.” She tilts her chin up slightly, peering down at you. “Everyone is the same out here, all looking after themselves.”

You approach her within a few strides. “Mother, please listen to me, he’s different! Even though he puts on a tough front at times, he’s really considerate on the inside.” You fiddle with the tips of your fingers as you whisper the next part, “And I, uh, I think he might like me.”

The reaction you least expect is her startling outburst of laughter, powerful enough to fold her in half, and you wait for her giggles to quiet down before warily stepping forward. Your mother is acting awfully strange. “You think he likes you? And what makes you think that?”

You blanch at her ruthless words, wincing as though they assumed a physical form and punched you repeatedly in the gut.

Her maniacal snickers abruptly cease and a frown mars her lovely face once again, her expression one you recognized from previous reprimands, whether it was shattering a vase or begging to go outside. Your chin falls down to meet your chest, unable to muster up your faux bravery for any longer.

“I’m asking what gave you the idea that he would like some insolent, unsightly brat like you?”

You can’t open your mouth to respond, frozen in fear.

“Hm, what’s with the silence? You seemed so certain earlier, Petal. This is why you never should have left, look at this pitiful romance you’ve created,” she mocks, rounding your nervous form like a predator playing with their prey. “Let’s put him to the test then, shall we?”

Your head snaps up at her odd suggestion, eyes widening at the satchel she uncovers from behind her slim form. “You found it?”

She tosses the bag to you and you outstretch your arms—only to catch it a second too late. The bag drops to the floor and the flap flips open. You race to collect the sparkling crown that tumbles out, hastily shoving the diadem back inside before Jungkook wanders back, even turning towards the fire to ensure his continued absence.

“Why so scared?” your mother questions smugly, “I thought you said that he’s different from the rest of them?”

“He is!” you exclaim, rushing to defend him.

“Then give it to him, let’s see if he stays once he has the crown back in his hands. But don’t come crying back to Mother when he runs for the hills,” she snarls, lifting her hood over her short curls and withdrawing into the woods.

Your mind reels from your mother’s visit, but your concern lies with where to stash the leather satchel in your grasp. Dead leaves crunch under approaching footsteps and you examine your body, contemplating the best area for your idea.

Hiking the hem of your dress up to your stomach, you loop the strap of the bag through your left foot, twisting and repeating until it’s coiled around your ankle and the pouch snugly rests against your skin. You shimmy the satchel until the middle of your thigh where it refuses to go any higher.

Satisfied, you release your dress, smoothing the fabric down and confirming that nothing is suspiciously sticking out. You violently shake your leg back and forth to ensure there would be no future problems and sure enough, the straps tenaciously cling onto your thigh throughout all your testing.

“Hey, look what I found! He’ll definitely save us some travelling time tomorrow, but I don’t think he likes me much.”

Jungkook appears from the area your mother disappeared with an overwhelming pile of lumber in his arms. You stroll over to lessen the load, but he brushes you off and bypasses you to drop it beside the fire.

A white horse tromps along after him, trying to nip at the crown of his head while he shoos it away with a waving hand. The comical sight distracts you from the dreary thoughts of your mother, although the stiff strap wrapped around your leg forbids you from forgetting about it.

When you snap out of your reverie, Jungkook is cocking his head to the side at your unusually spacey behaviour.

You spare him a weak smile and shake your head.

Rather than sore feet, the next day your entire crotch is painfully numb from riding Maximus, the quirky horse who holds an obnoxious grudge against Jungkook for reasons unknown to you. While Max allows you to rub his cheeks, scratch his neck and run your fingers through his mane, he huffs if Jungkook so much as breathes too loudly.

Oddly enough, the stallion follows Jungkook around like a lost puppy despite his cold attitude. What is with males and their inability to show their appreciation for one another?

Jungkook insisted on being in front and taking hold of the reins even though Max refused to let him mount his back at first. After some caresses and loving words with the sweet animal, Max permitted you to hop on—which Jungkook was not pleased with. It was a nice change of pace to watch the ordinarily suave man lose his cool over a horse’s favouritism.

In the end, the only way Jungkook was allowed on was by sitting behind you, latching onto you for stability. The animosity growing between the two males adds to your amusement, so you remain unbothered by the hostile glares you can feel Jungkook throwing over your shoulder and the aggressive puffs of air that blow through Max’s nostrils every once in a while.

“Tell me how you found Max again?” Skepticism leaks into your tone, courtesy of Jungkook’s thieving habits.

You could practically feel his eyes roll back into his head as his arms tighten around your waist. His built torso is glued to your back, which repeatedly distracts you from the path ahead. “I told you that I was collecting some twigs off of the ground when this guy appeared out of nowhere! I was scared shitless.”

“You mean to say that someone accidentally lost their horse in the middle of the woods?” You glance sideways to peek at his chin, lodged into the crook of your neck. His face is merely a couple of millimetres from your own.

When he insisted on resting his head there, you had thoroughly embarrassed yourself with a flaming face, resembling a ripe tomato ready for the picking, coupled with your inability to enunciate any word properly. But after hours of his head smooshed against the side of your face or leaning against your upper back, you finally relax into his hold, finding comfort and safety in the appendages coiled tightly around you.

“Sounds plausible, doesn’t it?”

You scoff at the impish grin stretching across his cheeks at his own horrible excuse.

The castle comes into view in the ensuing half-hour, the imposing building no longer obstructed by the towering trees of the forest. Your spirits are dampened slightly by the cruel secrets Jungkook revealed yesterday night, although your giddiness at the prospect of living out your dreams makes you vibrate in excitement. You remind yourself that you’re here for the magical lights, not the castle.

The faint pounding against your back picks up speed for a reason drastically different to your own. He is essentially walking right into his own imprisonment—his wanted posters more than likely plastered across every flat surface inside the marketplace with soldiers littered around the premises. You gather the sturdy reins into one hand, freeing the other to hold Jungkook’s conjoined digits over your stomach.

Completely engrossed in Jungkook’s dilemma, neither of you notice Max racing into town until a screech pierces your ears. You apologize profusely for the spilled legumes that begin rolling away from the young woman, and you whip Max into trodding off before she curses you out.

Once you’re satisfied with the amount of space between yourselves and the unlucky woman, you tie Max’s reins to a nearby fence and race to join the festivities carrying on all around you. Spotting Jungkook’s unsure form lagging behind, you dart back to tug on his wrist, flashing him an encouraging smile before lugging him from one stall to another.

You don’t get far before you experience a sharp pain on your scalp. With the large amounts of people bustling around the tiny square, your hair is a tripping hazard that you try to quickly bunch up into your arms. Your hair is way too long to carry by yourself, so you turn to ask Jungkook for help, though he’s nowhere to be found.

Your mind races to the worst-case scenario. The guards must have caught sight of him, capturing him off guard while you were none the wiser and now he’s going to be hanged for his crimes all because you were too stupid to—

A couple of little girls with flowers decorating their braids physically yank you out of your trance, their tiny hands gathering your multitudinous strands and dragging you off to the side. You’re about to protest against their actions, more concerned over Jungkook’s whereabouts than anything, but after catching a glance of said man playfully waving at you from a few feet away, you allow yourself to be whisked away.

The three girls deftly move from left to right, taking locks of your hair with them as they knot it all into one humongous five strand braid. When you stand up to your full height, you’re amazed to see that none of your hair touches the ground. Considering the hefty weight that pulls at the back of your head, you know this solution can’t last too long.

They scatter various fresh flowers all over, the scent of the blossoms wafting around your figure. As you’re appreciating their handiwork, an arm wraps itself around the curve of your lower back, drawing you into a herculean chest while you blow air kisses filled with your gratitude to the snickering girls.

Jungkook maneuvers you into a narrow alleyway, and you get a chance to admire his glittering irises from up close.

“Guards?”

He only grins.

You’re certain to keep an eye out for any wandering soldiers from that point on, with you pulling Jungkook behind crowds or him dragging you into the gaps between small buildings. Despite the situation being rather stressful with your lives at stake, your escapade is thrilling nonetheless and you enjoy being pressed up against his lean frame, carelessly giggling to yourselves.

Although neither of you carries any silver, window shopping proves to be equally as amusing—browsing through homemade accessories, toys and masks that you play around with, flashing ridiculous faces at one another.

The delicious smell of baked goods drifts through the streets and prompts your mouths to fill with saliva. You appreciate the artistry behind their beautifully decorated exteriors, adorned with colourful frosting and sprinkles. One booth catches your attention and you latch onto Jungkook’s hand to drag him along.

Rows and rows of shiny green bottles are positioned in perfect rows on a table inside the booth and plushies hang from the sides, acting as bait to any passerby. You tug on the hem of Jungkook’s dark vest, gesticulating towards the game with awe.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few silver coins that glint in the sunlight. Your eyes widen into saucers at his mischievous grin and you smack his arm, chiding him for his wandering hands as he assures you that he found them on the ground. When he goes as far as to insist that he saved them from being trampled on, you can’t help your tinkling laughter from escaping.

Perhaps it’s karma that prevents your rings from landing on top of any bottle, but the exhilaration of watching the rings soar in midair with a flick of your wrist as Jungkook’s chants fill your ears is priceless. Certainly more precious than any stuffed animal.

You two amble about the streets again, side by side. Long fingers intertwine with your own and your heart flips in your chest, suppressing the raging flush that threatens to colour your cheeks whenever Jungkook is involved. You look around your surroundings, trying to conceal the cheeky grin on your face, resembling that of a toddler with their favourite candy.

Before long, your travelling gaze takes notice of the people hunched over on the ground, concentrated on the stones below them. With a closer look, you discover the sketches littered across the stone pathways—some spanning the entire street and some smaller than your palm.

You bolt over to join them with Jungkook in tow. This whole hand-holding business is proving to be more useful than you thought.

There are pieces of different coloured chalk dispersed throughout the streets, and you pick up an orange one, urging Jungkook to do the same. He searches around for a bit until he decides on a white coloured chalk.

By the time you’re finalizing the tiny drawing you sketched onto the uneven stones, the stub in your hand is half the size of your pinky. Your joints ache from kneeling for so long, but you’re more than satisfied with the bright tiger lily staring back at you.

You stand up, brushing off of any stray rocks that have embedded themselves onto the bare skin of your legs and nudge Jungkook’s arm with your foot. He grumbles under his breath that you ruined the white blob he claims to be a bunny, but you jest that it was doomed the moment he picked up the chalk.

The retort silences him and you stretch your hand out to help him stand, grinning sheepishly at the pout on his pink lips. He accepts your peace offering, although rather than using your aid to get up, he yanks you downwards and your unstable body lands right into his lap. You squeak at his retaliation and wriggle violently in his hold as he curls himself around you, his chin resting onto your shoulder and arms wrapping around your torso to quell your futile efforts of escape.

“You like the nation’s flower?” He questions, nuzzling his face into your upper back.

“Nation’s flower?”

He hums his confirmation and you feel the pleasant vibrations on your neck before he’s nodding towards the purple pennants that dangle off of thin strings, stretching between buildings. Now that you’re actively inspecting the marketplace for the flower, you notice the continuous motif of the orange lily sprouting everywhere from decorations to paintings.

Jungkook seems to have abandoned all hope on his own masterpiece, for he lifts you up by your underarms and leads you away.

As you venture through the rest of the market, grazing through the various stalls, you examine all the knick-knacks depicting the famous tiger lily. It soothes you slightly, recognizing the flower decorating your walls back at the tower.

Lost in your trance, you don’t catch Jungkook slinking away, disappearing into the crowds.

As you turn the corner to browse the next stall’s wares, a massive stained glass window depicting a family of three catches your eye. The man appears stern with his furrowed brows and deep-set frown, and the woman’s forced smile fits awkwardly onto her face. She’s holding a tight bundle of canvas, a tiny face peeking through the layers of fabric in her arms.

Rays of the setting sun pierce through the coloured, translucent material and surround the art piece with an ethereal glow. You’re transfixed by the woman, reminded of your own mother’s delicate features.

You shake off the unpleasant feeling of your last encounter with her and analyze the three squares dedicated to the child’s crumpled face. The only noticeable detail you can make out is his chubby cheeks.

“Interested in the Prince?” A warm breath whispers into your ear, “Am I not good enough for you anymore, Princess?”

You spin around to face Jungkook, barely able to contain your delight as you examine the playful glint in his eyes. “Bold of you to assume there was ever a point where you were good enough for me.”

He scoffs, hands automatically coming to loop around your middle. “I know you’re not suggesting that I’m anything less than stellar company.”

You hum aloud, feigning contemplation by rubbing at your chin and a wide grin breaks his irked performance. He tries to hide his little slip by burrowing his face into the crook of your neck.

His soft cheeks on your bare skin along with his large hands squeezing at your sides elicit all your muffled giggles to burst past your lips. Pure, unadulterated glee bounces around your stomach.

Some of the lilies lodged within your golden strands fall loose and flutter onto the ground with the movement. You intercept one that drops from near your temple, plucking it out of the air and slotting the stem just above Jungkook’s ear.

He pulls away from subjecting your clavicle with his tiny nips in order to rest his forehead against yours. Your head is cradled by one of his palms and you watch as his heated gaze roams down to your lips. Entranced by his overwhelming presence, your eyelids slide shut as he leans forward slightly, tilting his head to the side before a meaty hand encloses around the circumference of your upper arm, yanking you away from him.

Panic seizes your muscles. Your heart threatens to shatter your rib cage with its fierce pounding. The soldiers. You extend your other arm to reach out for Jungkook—the same alarm piercing your flesh is reflected in his blazing orbs. Before he has the chance to rush after you, a dainty woman clothed in a primrose dress sweeps him away as well.

Barely a whole day has passed since you began running away from the soldiers, yet you’re more than certain that the soldier’s attire solely consisted of their royal uniforms, which did not include any flowy, pink garments. You whip back to your own abductor; a stout, jolly man with a cheshire grin stretching from one ear to the other.

He releases you in the middle of a swarming mass of people, moving their bodies left and right to the beat being pounded out on tabors and the sweet melody spilling from a nearby flute.

The man spins you around, encouraging you to let loose and sway your hips to the upbeat song as you’re handed off from one partner to the next. Somewhere within the chaos, you spot Jungkook’s longing stare and you subconsciously inch closer to his side.

The second that you two are within reach of one another, you dart into his arms. Just as you’re about to slip into his comforting embrace, a scrawny boy takes your place while an older woman wraps her arms around your shoulders. She wastes no time before guiding you into a dip, her palms supporting your back.

Upside down, Jungkook’s annoyed countenance is an amusing sight that you gleefully chortle at. Knowing that he is similarly distraught at the prospect of being unable to dance together soothes your aching desire and you savour the thrilling experience of moving as one part of a greater whole.

You prance and twirl your heart out as if it’s your last time. And you’re sure that it will be.

Eventually, both of you are able to slither your way out of the dancing crowds, and the cheers die down the farther you get from the main square. The sun is rapidly falling past the horizon and the capital is shrouded in the deepening twilight. You assumed that he would lead you to see the lanterns about now, but you’re clueless as to why you two are heading away from the castle.

“Jungkook?”

He turns back to you with a breathtaking smile resting on his lips, the dwindling light casting an otherworldly radiance around him. Reaching for your hand, he intertwines your fingers with his own as he leans down to softly bump his forehead against yours. “You’ll see.”

Jungkook directs you towards the moat that surrounds the marketplace, ushering you into one of the many gondolas lined up against the dock. You narrow your eyes at him and he attempts to reassure you with a simple, “We’ll bring it back.”

This man will truly corrupt all your morals.

But you’re so entranced in his spell that you follow along without more than a tiny squeeze at your interlaced digits. You release his hands before he jumps into the boat, the wood swaying back and forth under his weight, worrying you instead of the unbothered man a few feet away. As you take a sharp inhale, about to follow in his footsteps, Jungkook grips the sides of your hips and lifts you into the gondola with him.

You fix him with a reproachful glare at his unexpected actions yet the silent scolding doesn’t last long, for you’re hopeless to the sight of his elation, sticking to him like a second skin. Powerless against his charms, you sit on the thin wooden seat on the other side of the boat and watch him grab an oar, dipping it into the water and propelling you two forward.

You want to admire the unobstructed view of the sparkling night sky, but nothing can beat the galaxies hidden within Jungkook’s eyes, thus you try to seem as inconspicuous as possible in ogling him from your peripheral. However, your futile efforts are rather pointless considering your position, facing the handsome thief rowing the boat at the other end.

You think the title is fitting since he’s stolen your heart without a problem as well.

Once he deems your spot satisfactory, Jungkook strolls over to your side, taking a seat on the bench across from you. His legs slot in between the spaces of your own.

“Now that I think about it, it’s the Prince’s eighteenth birthday too,” he states. “He must be pretty excited, taking over the throne and everything.”

You perk up at the news. “He’s succeeding the King?”

“Mm,” he affirms, wetting his lips with a swipe of his tongue. “King announced an early retirement or something because they’d already found the Prince’s betrothed. His coronation is today.”

You nod your understanding, thinking about the responsibilities bearing down on the poor boy. “It’s kind of weird to think about, y’know, being the same age and even sharing the same birthday but leading completely different lives. He’s about to get married, lead a country and me...” you falter, pausing to string your thoughts into a coherent sentence. “Well, this is my entire dream. Seeing these lights is everything to me.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he asks, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re living your own life, on your own journey. Comparing yourself to others does nothing but rob yourself of your own happiness.”

You hum with a teasing lilt to your tone. “Suddenly the boy who named himself ‘gold’ in the hopes of attracting some friends is giving me advice?”

He breaks out into a chuckle, doubling over and laying his forehead on your shoulder. His hands reach out for the locks of hair resting on your lap, plucking one of the flowers swimming in your strands. Like Hansel and his bread crumbs, many of the blossoms that fell off throughout your time in the marketplace left tracks of your whereabouts. Only a few flowers remain with you.

With the delicate daisy between his thumb and index finger, he rolls the pads of his fingers against each other, spinning the white petals so fast that they blur together into a splotchy circle surrounding the yellow centre. Once he becomes bored with the flower, he lifts his head and stretches his arm out with a classic smirk that heightens his flirtatious nature. “For you, my lady.”

You huff at the offering. “You act as if it wasn’t already mine in the first place.” Despite your sharp words, you gingerly pluck the stem out of his grasp, fingers brushing against his own. When you raise the daisy up to your nose, the invigorating floral scent startles your senses once more.

With not much else to occupy your time, you decide that now is a better time than ever to dislodge the wilting buds from your tresses. You face the side of the gondola overlooking the water, grabbing onto the ledge and leaning forward.

You muster all the grace you have within your bones to place the ivory daisy onto the water’s surface. The flower drifts along the calm current, painting the atmosphere with a tranquil serenity.

Despite your best efforts to suppress them, your clumsy tendencies shine through when you tip your torso over a smidge too far, losing your balance and diving headfirst for the water. Jungkook is quick to latch on to your wrist, steadying you before you accidentally throw yourself overboard.

You’re sheepish in both your apology and thanks. To avoid any further mishaps, one of his hands remain on your lower back and the other collects the remaining blossoms in your tresses, handing them off to you.

A slow rhythm develops between you two and your raging thoughts come to a standstill, a red light halting the traffic within your mind. In front of you, a garden of assorted blossoms assembles, floating gently towards the ornate castle. One sprout catches your eye.

A tiger lily.

Directly below its long petals, a flash of bright red catches your eye in the reflection of the water. Jungkook’s deep voice cleaves through the soft sloshing of the water. “The lanterns.”

“It’s…” You struggle to piece together proper words to describe the sight before you. One lantern lightens the dark sky, drifting alone in the expansive space before a bunch of others race to join the first. Their warm, yellow glow overpowers that of the moon, painting the landscape in an orange tint that seems to welcome you into its embrace.

“Beautiful.”

You’re too distracted by the enchanting sight before you to notice his eyes trained on your profile, and so you soundlessly agree with a nod of your head. It’s as if time has ceased in its endless ticking, halting in its tracks for another world to open where only you and Jungkook exist.

You don’t mind the idea as much as you think you would.

“I have a surprise.”

You turn over to face him, head tilting in curiosity. He carries a paper lantern in his open palms and your brows furrow at his attentive, considerate behaviour. “Jungkook?”

“We should join in on all the fun, right?” A genuine smile illuminates his soft features instead of the usual smirks he casually throws your way. Oddly enough, despite your inability to operate in front of his flirty personality, you adore both sides equally.

“Kook, wait.”

He perks up at the nickname, reminding you of a dog with its tail violently wagging back and forth—you can’t help but be enamoured by him. You raise the hem of your dress up to the middle of your left thigh and he sputters, looking away. “Hey, hey! I know I’m pretty irresistible but this boat is not the place to—”

“No, you idiot.” You snicker at his unexpected timidity, shimmying the coiled strap down your leg and covering your decency once again with the fabric. “I have something for you too.”

He peeks at you, ensuring that you’re sufficiently clothed before turning to face you. A cold sweat settles over the outer layer of your skin as you watch his brows raise at his satchel in your hands. Keeping the lantern in one hand, and his steady gaze focused on your eyes, he gently pushes the bag down to the floor of the boat, the metal of the crown banging against the wood.

“All I need is you,” he whispers the words into the empty space of the night, the syllables getting lost somewhere within the mellow breeze blowing by. Your heart constricts at the reassurance that this time, Mother is wrong. You fight back the tears gathering at your waterline and grab the other edge of the lantern after he lights the candle inside.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod and the two of you slowly lift your arms to release the lantern with the masses drifting above you. After a bit, you lose sight of your paper lantern and you glance back at Jungkook to ask whether he was able to keep track of its location, but your voice gets stuck in your throat when you become captivated with the childlike wonder buried within his orbs, roaming over the sky and examining every single lantern at once.

His scouring eventually leads him back to you. He catches you staring, but neither of you care enough to break the moment. His eyes soften and you two shuffle forward on your seats, being pulled toward one another like magnets. Your legs entangle with his in the cramped area and you lean forward until your lips are millimetres from one another.

From this close, you have a perfect view of your reflection within his brilliant irises, the shallow scar that runs along his cheek, the cute birthmark right under his mouth. His eyes are locked on your mouth and you take that as the go-ahead signal to close the gap and slot your lips against his soft ones.

With your evident lack of experience, Jungkook takes control immediately, a hand flying to the back of your head, threading through your hair to keep you in place as he sucks at your lower lip. His tongue swipes at the closed seam that blocks him from your mouth, and you instantly open up to clash tongues, although you shrink back soon after, letting him explore your hot cavern.

You sneak a peek at him every time you two separate for air, confirming that this is indeed reality and not some product of your wild imagination. He invades all your senses and keeps you locked to him like an addict desperate for their fix, his other palm searing through your clothing with its heat and burning a hole through the thin fabric of your dress.

When you finally pull away, you feel feverish and dizzy as a raging blush colours your cheeks. You can’t find it in yourself to look directly into his eyes, but he reaches for your chin and forces you to study the haze of passion in his gaze.

Every part of your body is lit aflame from his touch. Hooked on the feeling of his plush lips pressing against yours with your tongues swirling in tandem with one another, you’re about to lean in for more when his eyes dart off to the side and he abruptly jerks away as if you burned him with your embrace.

His startling jolt snaps you out of your dazed state. With your head out of the clouds, you notice that the lanterns have already moved onto the next town over, taking their warmth with them. The fire within you, kindled by Jungkook, dwindles with the uncertainty of your future together.

Without so much as another word, Jungkook snatches the oar from the bottom of the boat and jumps back to his position at the front of the gondola. He urgently paddles the two of you back to land and you fumble for words. “Jungkook, I—”

“It’s not you.” His statement is reassuring in writing, although his tone is detached, distant in a way that crushes the passages to your lungs. Lost in your dejection, you’re powerless to prod him for any more information than that.

Before the boat can hit the edge of the dock, Jungkook springs out with his leather satchel tucked under his arm, pausing to mutter, “I just—I have to take care of something. Please believe me when I say I’ll be back.” His anguish leaks into his voice and you will yourself to nod, a forced smile on your lips. “Wait for me.”

He dashes off with your heart in his hands. You steady your shaky breath and place your faith in him, the man you have come to trust with your life.

You spend the next half hour struggling to get out of the gondola, craving the flat land to ground yourself. By the time you manage to clamber out, there are a couple of discoloured blotches on the length of your dress that put your many failed attempts on full display. You fan one of the bigger spots to help it dry faster, but the fabric becomes chilly with the extra wind and a shiver slips down your spine from its icy temperature.

Languid footsteps approach your frigid frame and you brighten up, forgetting about the cold. “Took you long enough. Y’know, for a second there I was worried you’d actually lef—”

You pick up more than one pair of feet advancing on you and your eyes widen at the lanky, redheaded twins that stop in front of your path. Cursing your quivering limbs, you cringe at the tremor in your voice when you ask, “What did you do to him?”

They simultaneously snort at your question and the one on the left replies, “Sorry about this, lass, but you’re gonna have to come with us.”

The blood drains from your face and you repeat, louder, “What did you do to him?”

“Aw, don’t get all riled up now. But don’t worry your pretty little head, we’re going to take you right to him.” They corner you back to the dock and you scramble to locate a weapon to defend yourself with. At your wit’s end, you prepare to jump into the murky waters.

However, before you get the chance to move another muscle, an intense pain blooms at the back of your skull, wrapping around to your temples accompanied by a flash of light exploding behind your eyes. Then everything goes black.

Your head pounds as a dull ache nestles itself deep within your bones. Your vision is nothing but a blurry, indecipherable mess of colours, so you opt to keep your eyes closed instead. You’re kneeling on cold tiles that rub your knees raw when you subtly shift into a more comfortable position, discovering the existence of the shackles around your wrists and ankles.

“—nd the girl. We expect you to keep your end of the deal.” The rugged tone that speaks is one that you recognize from before your blackout—one of the redheads.

“Yes, yes, all the charges laid against you have been cleared,” a high-pitched voice meets your ears and you subconsciously grimace, physically recoiling from the sound. Thankfully, your sharp motions go unnoticed. “You’re free to go.”

“What?” You hear shuffling nearby, the rustling of clothes getting farther away from you. The distinct, metallic sheen of a couple of swords being unsheathed follow and the footsteps come to a sudden stop. “You promised us gold.”

The woman scoffs, “Now why would I give you crooked-nosed knaves anything more than a death sentence?”

Many polished boots clamber against the ground with such force that the vibrations can be felt through the flesh of your folded calves. The grunts and garbled screams that ensue are silenced within seconds and two hefty weights hit the floor with a limp, lifeless thud.

“A pleasure working with you boys.”

There’s more shuffling, then something is dragged past your crumpled form. The throbbing across your cranium worsens and you’re incapable of fending off the blissful oblivion of desolation any longer, thus you surrender to the darkness once more.

The next time you open your eyes a harsh light coats your surroundings and the blocks of colour are clearer, sharp enough to decipher the intricate detailing painted on the tiles beneath your knees. Someone chokes on a wet cough, and your eyelids snap shut once more. Your nose crinkles in disgust as well.

“Her tiny skull should have been rolling through these halls eighteen years ago.” The woman’s wretched tone fills your ears, words full of deadly poison.

You remain chained, kneeling against the ground with your head lowered. A numbing sensation lingers no matter how much you fidget in place, bearing down your limbs with the weight of your useless nerves that refuse to fire off.

Another, deeper, voice responds, “Tone it down. Her magic is powerful, the advantage we hold over the other kingdoms is colossal with this kind of sorcery on our side. If she falls, the whole empire will fall with her.”

Sorcery? Although you can count the number of people you met on one hand, you’ve studied heaps of books and drilled your mother with enough questions to know that your magic is unique and rare—a product of alchemy that occurs merely once every millennium.

“I see no point in keeping her around when we cannot access her magic at our will, she is as good as worthless to us. That halfwit of a sister was incapable of locking this churl in a tower for long enough, and look at her now, running around, wreaking havoc with a criminal.”

Your mind swirls with the sudden barrage of information, unsure as to why these two strangers hold deep insights into your life, as well as the knowledge about your unusual hair.

“There is nothing to worry about, Jimin is on the throne. We will simply send her away once again,” the gruff voice states, exasperation clear in his tone.

A deafening thud reverberates throughout the spacious room. Helpless to the dreadful fear swimming in your veins, your body shudders in response to the noise.

The woman shrieks, clearly at her wits’ end, “I want her dead! Guillotine, hang, drown, burn, I could care less. She poses a threat to Jimin’s throne with her existence, and we have gone through too much to have our plans foiled by this knave. We were merciful enough in having my imbecilic sister continue to meet with Jimin throughout the years.”

There’s a long, drawn-out sigh before the man answers, “Have some heart, darling, that is her son you speak of.”

“In the eyes of the people, he is my son and the King,” she seethes. Her enmity is strangely familiar, yet you fail to identify the woman through her voice. “Quit acting as if I am the only sinner here and remember how much we both sacrificed for our blood to inherit the King’s throne.”

“It is not your blood though, is it, dear wife?”

The tension within the room is thick, palpable in the dense air in the way that makes breathing difficult. “You must have enjoyed sleeping with my sister more than I believed. Do you want to call her back here? Play a good husband and wife for the counterfeit King?”

You couldn’t keep the tremours from breaking out over your body as your breaths quicken and an abundance of liquid races to your eyes. It was all beginning to come together, but you wait for the two to confirm your suspicions.

The man chuckles with hollow intent. “Do you fail to recall your own words, pleading with me to follow this foolish scheme of yours? I would have much rather preferred a foreigner rule the kingdom alongside our daughter.”

“Funny, that’s not what you said eighteen years ago.”

You let out a choked sob, unable to repress the sounds of anguish that tears at your skin to brutal shreds. Enraged rivulets stream down your cheeks, and you lift your torso to stare at your legitimate parents. They turn to you, the man distraught and the woman with pure disgust.

“How—” you stammer through your heavy wails, “how could you?”

“So the Princess found out.” Your biological mother raises from her royal seat, storming over the short distance to your trembling form. “Fine, we can strike an agreement.”

She reaches behind your head to grab a handful of your hair, yanking your head up to peer up at the exquisitely decorated ceiling. When you yelp in pain, she crouches down to your level, baring her pearly white teeth as she threatens, “Leave. Be a good little girl and go hole yourself back up in that tower. Don’t worry, Mommy will come get you if we ever need that magic of yours, hm?”

You desperately wriggle around to loosen her hold, but she only grips your strands tighter, pulling downwards to introduce more pain to your scalp. “That thief will stay right here to ensure you keep up your end of the deal, alright?”

At the mention of Jungkook, your heart stutters and your expression morphs to that of despair, momentarily forgetting about the strain to the sensitive skin of your head. “Where is he?”

She smirks and snaps her fingers. The door to the throne room is pulled open with a loud clack, and Jungkook’s weak, bloody form stumbles through the grand entrance, hanging upright with the help of two sturdy guards.

“Kook,” you achingly howl.

“Mopping all his blood off the floor would be terribly tiresome for the maids.” She jerks your head down to bear witness to the sneer stretching across her lips. “It’s all up to you, really.”

“Let me heal him!” you agonize, sobs ripping through your chest, burning through every tissue to the outermost layer of your skin. “Pl-please, please let me heal him. I’ll leave, I won’t say a word, I’ll do anything you want—I’m b-begging you, please.”

The wicked smirk playing on her lips grows wider at your pleading. She shoves your head away, the momentum of the push throwing your whole torso over to the side, bringing about a harsh meeting with the floor. With Jungkook occupying every crevice of your mind, there’s no space to register the pain pulsing through your groggy body.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

You scramble to your hands and knees, disregarding the scrapes and bruises littering your limbs. Despite your tunnel vision directed towards reaching Jungkook, your movements are sluggish from the extended period of time spent kneeling in one position.

The guards supporting him release their hold on his arms, and you scramble to catch his limp frame in your arms, but your depleted muscles can only manage to soften his fall with your body. You detangle yourself from him and hurriedly begin wrapping your hair around his torso.

Your jaw trembles at his damp locks, sodden with sweat and stuck to the side of his head dripping in crimson. The vicious colour oozes out of the deep gashes you locate across his back, peeking through the tears in his shirt and stains the bloody spit drooling from the corners of his cracked lips. Great purple welts fill the rest of his exposed skin, completing the heart-wrenching picture before you.

You pick up the weak croak of your name, and you hiccup from your fierce laments at his red-rimmed eyes. “Guess I was right all along, Princess.”

Your mother’s cruel words follow the nasty glower she shoots his way. “Shut up or we’ll end your pitiful life now, you filthy criminal.”

“Jungkook, I’m here,” you reassure him, beginning to wrap your excess strands around his arms before he stops you with a stained hand. “Jungkook let me—”

“Stop,” he mutters, gripping his side in pain.  

“No! I can’t—I can’t let you die.” You grit your teeth, disobeying his words and going to wrap your tresses around his broken body once more.

“If you go back there,” he coughs, an alarming amount of blood spurting out, “then you’ll—”

“It’s fine, everything will be alright, okay?” You press your palm over his hand and the icy bite that greets you hardens your resolve. “We’ll figure it out.”

You take a deep breath, readying yourself to sing the incantation engraved into the back of your mind when Jungkook’s fingers graze your cheek. You unconsciously lean into his touch, examining every crimson stain marring his delicate features.

His doe eyes soften at your orbs roaming his face and when your gaze settles on his thin lips, he snatches the chance to land a peck against your mouth. The fleeting kiss fills you with greed, and your eyes flutter shut despite your rationale as you dip towards him for another.

You halt, gasping at the gut-wrenching sound of your tresses being severed from the base of your neck, the noise snapping you back to reality. Your eyes widen at Jungkook’s relieved countenance as his torso reclines to the ground, the sharp dagger in his hand rattling onto the tiles beside him. When you reach back to assess the damage, your hand grips onto the short strands that reach no further than your shoulder.

You glance back at the heaps of dead, brown hair sprawled across the palace floor and your mind wipes clean of any coherent thought. Instead, your chest caves in on itself, breathing made impossible because of your collapsed airways and you choke out, “Jungkook, what did you—”

“What an absolute halfwit, does he think he did anyone a favour with that little stunt of his? Without your hair, we have no need for either of you.” Your biological mother laughs, the notes turning ominously maniacal towards the end. “Kill them.”

Guards immediately surround you two, and in a weak attempt to protect him from their pointed swords, you cradle Jungkook’s powerless form to your chest. You prepare yourself to bear the end of their piercing blades.

“What do you roaches think you’re doing?” she seethes, blazing orbs flashing with white-hot fury. “I said, kill them!”

The gigantic doors burst open again, but this time, a lean man strides forward. His blond strands are neatly styled away from his forehead and the regal red robe hanging upon his shoulders elegantly sway after him. The soldiers part ways to make room for the intimidating man and one of his retainers at the door announces, “The King is here!”

You struggle to even out your frantic breaths, thankful for the distraction that grants you a break to rack your brain for a method to escape the dreadful situation you two have found yourselves in. Debating whether you should fight back, sneak away or plead for forgiveness, your eyes dart wildly around the room. A woman donned in a black cloak lingers slightly behind the King, gazing at you with a murderous glare that sends pin needles into the thin lining of your stomach.

“That’s enough,” the King states.

“Jimin.” The former Queen races up to him but is stopped by the retainers that encircle the King.  “What business do you have here? There are more important matters for you to attend to.” Her eyes narrow at the sight of the woman behind him.

“No, I think this has gone on long enough.” He sweeps his gaze over to the two of you, Jungkook barely clinging onto life, nestled within your protective embrace. The woman latches onto his bicep, her head vigorously shaking back and forth, yet you’re uncertain whether her disagreement will relieve your anguish or worsen it.

Despite her insistence, his head nods in your direction and the woman that raised you begrudgingly marches up to you, barely acknowledging your presence in favour of pressing her palms against Jungkook’s open lacerations. He winces at the pressure and just as you’re about to tell her off, you discern the thick gauze that rests between her hand and Jungkook’s side, the sterile white shade expeditiously being replaced by a bloody crimson.

“What are you talking about, dear?” the former Queen asks, a hard edge to her tone. “These two are hedge-born lowlives, simply not worth your time.”

He crinkles his nose in disgust, flicking his hand towards the former King and Queen. “Lock them up in the dungeons.”

Both their eyes widen comically, jaws dropping to the floor. However, you can’t find joy within their despair when Jungkook’s survival is still up in the air.

The woman sputters, recklessly thrashing her body to escape the soldiers’ grip. The man simply lowers his head, seemingly having accepted his fate as he follows the guards without another word.

“Did you forget who put you in that throne, Park Jimin?” the woman screeches, the blood vessels lining her neck about to implode. “How dare you disrespect your pare—”

“How could I ever forget your treacherous actions?” he spits out, disgust lacing his voice, “How could I ever forget how many lives you’ve ruined, dear aunt.”

“We did it all for you!”

“You did it for yourselves,” he hisses. Relief trickles through the tips of your fingers, spreading across your body like wildfire from the King’s aid. “Get them out of my sight.”

“You worthless—” Her shrieks echo throughout the halls, though you’ve long lost focus in their conversation after watching the two wretched souls being punished and put in their rightful place.

Your aunt passes some thick bandages from inside the bell sleeve of her cloak. You gratefully accept the offering, pressing it against his lower back—wishing that it’s not too late, that Jungkook has not lost too much blood yet. The passive stare that your aunt fixes you with crams your head with doubt and you begin to panic, bringing one of your hands up to cradle his face.

Although you’re convinced that you wailed through an entire year’s worth of sobs, the tears sliding down your face refuse to stop, dripping down and landing onto the dirtied skin of Jungkook’s cheek. You press your forehead against his, hoping against hope that some magic remains within your body, that the tiniest bit will reveal itself like a bag trick and heal his wounds.

But your magical hair was extraordinary enough, and this is no fairytale.

“Get those two to the physician’s,” the King orders.

Guards scramble to action, ripping you apart from Jungkook as you unsuccessfully attempt to resist being separated again. You’re absolutely spent from the tiring events of the past couple of days and your weary legs give out as the soldiers lift your drained form into a standing position.

Jungkook is moved onto a sturdy sheet, then carried away past the double doors and out of sight. Your flimsy arms wrap around the shoulders of two guards as they assist you in following Jungkook to the physician, passing the King on your way.

His plush lips stretch into a sympathetic, tight-lipped smile, but the adrenaline from earlier wears off and the sting of your own wounds drains you of your manners, uncaring that you’re facing the King. Thankfully, he dismisses your discourtesy instead of beheading you, and you’re hauled away from the gracious man.

On the way, you’re close enough to overhear what he mutters under his breath. A garbled scream rips through your throat in protest, and you shoot the King the deadliest glare you can muster. He releases a deep sigh at your childish antics, waving as you turn the corner.

“Poor guy doesn’t look like he’s going to make it.”

You spend the next few, rather tedious, days in a luxurious bed, being fretted over by everyone from the maids to the chefs. It was difficult to indulge in the extravagance that the castle had to offer when you were anxiously awaiting news regarding Jungkook, which they refused to disclose until your own condition improved.

After all the pampering, you were permitted access past the confines of the expansive room you were forced to recover in. Your injuries were minor in comparison to Jungkook, thus you were granted freedom much earlier than him.

Not like he was capable of stepping outside of his room anyway.

Although his body is repairing his torn flesh incrementally, he shows no signs of consciousness—not the twitch of a finger, the flutter of an eyelash, nothing. Doubt claws a bit higher up your torso each day, waiting for the moment that the disquiet slithers up your esophagus and suffocates you.

Despite the crushing news of his coma-like state, you work diligently to ensure that neither you nor Jungkook becomes a burden to the castle by picking up various duties. Jimin continuously waves off your attempts to help, but you’re restless and desperate for a distraction from wondering about Jungkook’s condition all the time.

Jimin banned you from performing some of the maid’s tasks once, then sorely regretted it when he had to tend to your nervous breakdown in the afternoon. Since then he has kept his comments on your excessive working habits to himself.

Today you’re in Jungkook’s room, dusting off the spotless shelves that house the many herbs being grounded into powders and rubbed as a salve onto his injuries daily. You organize the rolled bandages for the second time in the past hour and mop every inch of the floor.

You can’t devote yourself to lingering by the unconscious man’s side for too long, otherwise your mind gradually begins to spiral into every possible worst-case scenario and you simply can’t handle the reality of a future without him. It sounds overly dramatic—many of the maids you have grown close to over the months claimed as much when you brought up your journey together.

But they didn’t hear his melodic laughter that followed his teasing smirks when he said something flirtatious, effectively making your heart skip a beat. They didn’t feel his hand always reaching out to make contact with you in some way, craving your touch to ground him to reality. They didn’t see his eyes softening when he gazed at you as though you were holding his entire world in your eyes.

They didn’t know Jungkook the way you did.

You strain the mop of its excess dirtied water before stowing the tool away in the storage room. When you return, a draft filters in through the open window and you race over to close it, worried that Jungkook may catch a bothersome cold that will delay his healing process.

You take a seat on the lavish mattress adjacent from his thighs as you stare out the window in front of you. The air remains stale in spite of the fresh breeze that blew into the room seconds prior, and the dull atmosphere persists due to the lifeless man inhabiting its space.

You’re uncertain how many more times you can handle walking into this room with his weak body lying motionless on these pristine sheets, but you will endure it all without complaint for him. A knock at the door catches your attention, and you twist around to meet Jimin’s friendly beam. “How is he?”

“Same as he always is,” you state, allowing yourself to take in Jungkook’s sunken cheeks and pale face. “Unresponsive.”

“You wanna join me in the gardens for some fresh air?” At your unsure raise of a brow, he convinces you with, “You’ve been cooped up in the castle the whole day.”

The both of you head out to view the lush scenery outside, seated amongst the blooming tulips, although your eyes are drawn to the lilies that border the lilac cosmos. You trace the familiar shape of the orange flower with your pupils, reminiscing on the doodles decorating your room’s walls back at the tower. That seems like forever ago now.

Other than his lack of consciousness, Jungkook’s condition remains relatively stable and yet you still find it burdensome to stray too far from his side. The staff is under orders to instantly notify you should he arise while you’re away, but that doesn’t ease the disquiet that rouses whenever you leave the castle walls.

You’re convinced that the second you wander off, he will wake up without you there; a thought too unbearable to consider. You crave to lose yourself within his molten ember orbs once more, exploring the undiscovered galaxies in his gaze.

“These past few months must seem unfathomable,” he starts, pressing his lips together to ponder over his next words before continuing. “I don’t know how my mom treated you in the tower but, knowing her, I’m guessing it wasn’t too great.”

His casual mention of the affectionate term you pleaded to call your mother for ages—the topic she despised almost as much as you begging to venture outside the tower—stung the slightest bit. From her actions, it was evident that she never cared for you as much as her own, biological son, but it was difficult to dismiss the joyful memories you shared with her, no matter how few and far between they were.

“She started visiting me a few years back, explaining all their horrendous crimes and insisting that she was the only one I could trust. She told me about you, too. Your mother ordered her to lock you away in that tower and ensure that nobody ever found out the truth in exchange for my seat on the throne. ”

Your head lowers at the information, brows furrowing as you contemplate your true relationship with the woman that raised you from birth.

“When my mom caught word of you travelling with the thief, she returned the crown in hopes that Jungkook would run for the hills, and you would be left to come back with her. Her goal was to overtake the kingdom from your mother.” His eyes gloss over with a distant sheen and you sympathize with him; the boy was used as a tool, just like you.

“It’s reassuring in a way.” His strange admittance prompts you to glance up at him, confusion swirling within your orbs. “At least we’re both suffering from our family’s despicable actions.”

Our family.

His optimistic viewpoint hits you like a wave crashing against the shore, sharing his vast fortitude and washing away a fraction of the sombre agony tormenting your heart. Although Jimin’s life was no doubt disparate from your own, you two are connected through the blood running through your veins. Even if those same bonds brought you to a tragic meeting with your own wicked parents, at least you could rely on one person within your family.

The edges of your lips curl into a tiny smile aimed at the blond man across from you, your own short, chestnut coloured hair providing a stark contrast. “I’m glad I can rely on you, Jimin.”

He readjusts his weight on the green, iron chair and leans forward to rest his elbows on the metal table between the two of you. “I think this is the first time you’ve called me by my name without me having to remind you.”

You quietly giggle at the memories flooding your mind, from the hostile attitude you first approached him with, then the days he comforted you over Jungkook’s motionless form, to Jimin demanding that you call him by his first name. You consider yourself extremely lucky to have someone as gracious and compassionate as Jimin to be your half-brother.

“I know we’ve already gone over this,” he starts with a serious edge to his tone, “but this is your last chance.”

You rip your gaze away from the plants to lay a couple of light pats to his hand. Despite the lack of context, the topic is familiar to you, as he has gone over this with you many times. “No, I don’t want the throne. You trained for this position your whole life, so I’m entrusting the kingdom to your capable hands. All I ask is for you to fulfill my request.”

Jimin releases a heavy sigh. “If you really want him free of all his crimes, there’s no way you two can live within the capital.”

“That’s fine with me.” You shrug your shoulders, unconcerned about the prospect of having to leave the busy city. “I don’t think I could live somewhere like this anyway.”

You don’t expand on your reasoning, and he doesn’t question you further, simply sparing you a solemn, understanding gaze. Supposedly, you aren’t supposed to pick favourites within your family, but Jimin is definitely golden in your eyes.

“Deeply sorry to intrude, Your Royal Majesty, but your betrothed is at the door and wishes to meet with you.” A guard inches his way towards your table with his head bowed, hands respectfully gathered behind his back.

Jimin looks to you with an apology on his tongue, but you wave him off before any explanations can spill from his plump lips. “Go get your girl.”

A bright smile enlightens his features as he springs up from his seat, dusting off his uniform before bounding after the guard. When he quirks his head back, you demonstrate your encouragement through a thumbs-up that you wave from side to side until he is satisfied, facing forward with a gleeful snicker.

You inhale the outdoor air, about to head inside yourself to rearrange Jungkook’s bandages again when your eyes wander back to the tiger lilies that caught your eye earlier. Within a few strides, you reach the vibrant buds, stretching your hand out to pluck a few stems. The sweet smell invades your senses.

With a tiny bouquet in hand, you make your way back inside, the metaphorical load on your shoulders a bit lighter than it was before. You expertly maneuver your way through the halls towards Jungkook’s room with the dwindling hope that today will be the day that his honey orbs reflect the sun’s light filtering in the window, filled with the mischief and tenderness that you remember.

When you’re met with his unmoving form instead, another sliver of that faith shatters into tiny shards.

You shake it off and head back to the windowsill, where an empty flower vase rests. The lilies within your grasp are carefully inserted inside and you place the bouquet back onto the tiny platform. Their floral scent wafts throughout the space as you take your place beside his legs.

As part of your usual routine, you use this time to relax. Just for a moment, you give yourself the room to breathe, giving your brain free rein to feel the emotions raging within you and fantasize about your future with Jungkook. You imagine yourself in a tiny cottage, craving a quaint place to live after the immense tower you were raised in.

The two of you would settle down there, adopting a pet to keep you company before you inevitably brought a few children into the world. Their genders didn’t matter, as long as you could raise them with Jungkook, forming a tight-knit family that shared all the love the both of you lacked growing up.

A warm hand wraps around your wrist. Your head snaps to follow the direction of his arm, curving into his broad shoulders, and past his sharp jaw with your heart in your throat. Tears gather at your waterline, spilling over onto your cheeks as you hiccup from the sudden sobs that overtake your body.

The doe eyes that stare back at you carry your whole world in their weight.

+ epilogue.

Tiny footsteps scuttle around the wooden floors, screaming in delight from being chased by a much larger, yet still very childlike, man. “Betchya can’t catch me, daddy!”

Your husband playfully roars at the taunt, speeding up his strides to snatch the little girl up into his arms. She shrieks at the hand that comes up to tickle her little torso.

“Okay, okay, enough playing you two,” you command, calming the baby boy in your arms that becomes far too excited from the chaotic energy erupting within your cottage. “It’s dinnertime!”

“Dinnertime!” your oldest repeats, violently wriggling around in her father’s grip to force him in lowering her back to the ground so that she can run to her spot at the table. She looks from side to side, doe eyes flitting back to you with a pout on her lips. “But where’s Pascal, Mommy?”

You pass the baby to Jungkook, freeing your hands in order to bring the steaming hot food from the stove to the table. The beige chameleon fades back into his natural emerald colour once you grab him by his scaly torso, dropping him into your daughter’s awaiting hands.

Her squeaky voice chides, “You can’t hide from Mommy.”

A boisterous, yet melodic neigh notifies you of Max’s presence in your backyard, and you shamble past the wooden door to hand the carrots you prepared for him. He snorts in delight as he lowers his head to the floor and begins chomping away. At the sight of his dirtied mane, you take a mental note to give him a thorough wash and brush later on.

Before you head inside, you catch sight of a blond man making his way towards you. “Jimin!”

His eyes reduce to two crescents from the wide grin that occupies his face. He swapped out his imposing robe for a commoner’s shirt and slacks, and they strangely suit his lithe form better than his bulky uniform.

“And where’s our lovely Queen?” You tease, elbowing him when he reaches out to ruffle the top of your head.

“Taking care of things that I don’t want to do.” You two snicker, ecstatic to see one another, and you step aside to let him coddle your children. The slight breeze in the air gingerly kisses your face, rustling the leaves on the trees surrounding your tiny house, and you close your lids to relish in the tranquillity of nature.

A pair of familiar arms curl around the shape of your waist and a smile creeps onto your lips as you open your eyes to examine Jungkook’s face, inches away from your own. He brushes your brown strands over your shoulder, leaning in for a quick peck as a loud chorus of disgust is vocalized behind you.

Both of you break out into giggles at your daughter’s behaviour and turn to face your family waiting for you inside. With your hand tangled with his, you walk to a brighter future together.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook imagine #btswritingcafe #heartsforbts #jungkook x reader #jungkook au #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts imagine #bts au #bangtanscenery #btsgoldnet #ficswithluv #goldenclosetnet #cypherwritersnet #bangtanhq

[nostalgiahan]

Still Into You

genre: songfic, fluff, smut

pairing: graffiti artist!changbin x afab!reader (gender-neutral language)

word count: 2k

warnings: drug use (cannabis,) trespassing, oral sex (f,) car sex, little dialogue, changbin and reader run from the cops lol

a/n: i was listening to still into you by paramore and this just kinda. came into existence. it’s also very song focused so if you’ve never listened to 2000s alt rock... i’m sorry lmao. the sugarmill in the story is also a real place that my friends and i used to visit and smoke take pictures at, although the cops never found us there haha. anyways enjoy folks.

Your nails had been tapping on the windowsill enough to wear them down to nubs by the time Changbin pulled up in front of your house. When his beat up Subaru pulled up next to the curb, you just about jumped out of your skin from excitement. Today was your fourth anniversary, as well as Valentine’s Day, and the adrenaline rushing through your blood was a sign that you were more than looking forward to whatever fun plans he had up his sleeve.

Compared to most couples on Valentine’s day, your outfit was pretty plain and not at all glamorous. Practical boots, jeans, an old band hoodie and Changbin’s dark green parka were your clothes of choice, but you knew that your boyfriend wasn’t going to take you to some fancy restaurant. No, you two were going adventuring.

As soon as you hop in the passenger seat of the car, shoving a couple of receipts into the foot well, Changbin reaches into his hoodie pocket and gives you a card. It’s crude, made of a folded sheet of printer paper and hastily scribbled on in pen but it’s very fitting for him.

“You better enjoy the card,” he says with a smirk, “because it came to me in a dream. This is pure, undiluted Changbin, packaged for your enjoyment and convenience.”

Giggling, you open the card. Inside is a barely legible “i love you so much y/n” surrounded by hearts, and in the corner is a drawing of a cow dressed in a lab coat and holding a beaker labeled “Moorie Curie.” It’s perfect, but what else did you expect from him?

“Happy anniversary, my love.” When you look up at Changbin, he has the widest smile on his face, cheeks dotted with flecks of paint and eyes crinkled up into little crescents. He’s dressed similarly to you, hair sitting in a pile on top of his head, clearly not having been paid attention to before leaving the house. It doesn’t matter, though, since the both of you will be wearing hoods over your heads anyways. You lean over the center console to give him a quick kiss, although it takes a couple of tries to get his lips since you’re both smiling so hard.

Changbin kicks his old car into gear as he sets off towards his destination. He’s explaining where you’re going, but you can barely hear him over the car speakers blasting Simple Plan and Green Day.

“So yeah, it’s this sugarmill that caught on fire in, like, 1910, and they never renovated it. There’s a bunch of cool abandoned shit around there, too. I think there’s, like, three fucked up couches.”

As you listen to him talk, you stick your fingers through the gap at the top of the side window. It’s permanently cracked open like that, and you have vivid memories of trying to throw cigarette butts through the gap when the two of you were bored.

After a while of listening to pop punk and playing with Changbin’s fingers over the gear shift, you arrive at your destination. Several charred brick buildings sit in the middle of a field, dead trees framing an open area in the center where someone has set up some logs and rocks to form a makeshift circle. Your boyfriend’s eyes scan the landscape, looking for his next canvas. Eventually, he tugs your arm and leads you towards one of the buildings, smiling back at you. “C’mon, let’s go explore this place.”

The two of you wander for a while, over rickety walkways and up staircases, taking pictures with your Polaroid and holding hands the whole time. Eventually, Changbin finds a stretch of wall big enough to start his work. Setting his duffel bag on the ground, he beckons you over and crouches down, inviting you to hop onto his back.

He pulls out a can of white spray paint, shaking it and popping the cap with his thumb. As he starts to paint, making large, sweeping motions with his arms, you really wished he had worn something sleeveless, however impractical. After lighting a slightly crushed joint you’d fished out of your pocket, you nestled your nose into his shoulder, holding the joint up to Changbin’s lips. He takes a few pulls as he works, the previously bland wall turning into a beautiful blend of blues, purples, and whites. It’s always fascinating to see how he works, seemingly not thinking before laying down a line of paint, yet each stroke seems to perfectly fit in with the others.

As he’s switching colors, Changbin lets you off his back, settling his hands on your sides. He stares at you for a bit, trying to study every bit of your face that isn’t covered by the oversized hood of his jacket. After a while, he smiles, pulling you close and kissing your forehead. Changbin always called you his muse, but you never expected him to take it as literally as he did, often staring at you or asking unrelated questions when he was stuck with a piece. He sways gently back and forth, pressing little kisses to your head, as Good Charlotte emanates from the tiny phone speaker in his back pocket. Occasionally, he’ll pull back just a tiny bit to really study your face, kissing you softly and muttering something along the lines of “i really can’t believe how fucking incredible you are” or “i love you so much it’s unreal.”

It’s not until a few more songs have ended that he pulls away, inviting you back onto his back as you light another joint. The piece is almost done, the tag “SPEARB” painted in blobby letters, shining artificially. All he has left is the outline, but his work is cut short when you hear the faint sound of sirens approaching and the light creeping in from the broken windows flashes a faint red and blue.

What happens next is like clockwork. You hop off of Changbin’s back, putting out the joint on the wall and throwing it into his duffel bag along with the other cans of paint he’s left out. What you’re supposed to do next is grab the bag and run, but Changbin is trying his best to finish a really specific detail and the more time he has that can in his hand, the less time you guys have to get the fuck out. After what seems like an eternity of whisper-yelling and (gently) stomping your foot at him, he caps the can and throws it into the bag. Finally, the two of you are off. As he’s picking up the bag, however, you notice what he was taking so long to finish. In tiny lettering, in the bottom corner of the piece, 4 words. “fuck cops” on one line, and “for y/n” on another.

As the two of you clamber over wooden planks and piping, pulling your hoods over your heads and your masks over your faces to hide your identities, Changbin grabs your hand and squeezes. He lets go almost as quickly as he grabbed it but the sentiment is still there; i’m here, i’m gonna keep us safe. It’s a welcome sentiment when shouts of “police,” and “show yourselves” echo through the abandoned hall.

Fifteen minutes of running and one chain link fence climb later, you’re back at the car, cops nowhere in sight. You’re panting heavily as you throw off the parka and throw it into the backseat, and Changbin doesn’t look any better as he’s gulping water and fanning his face. Right as you’re about to climb in, he grabs your arm and spins you so you’re pressed between him and the car, holding your cheeks in his hands and grinning at you.

“God. Fuck. Wow. You’re unreal. I love you so much.”

You’re unable to do anything but nod. The two of you are still breathless and in that moment you realize that’s what your love was like. In the four years of you dating, your love never went stale, you never settled into a routine. You were always doing new things, like going on spur of the moment road trips or fucking around at playgrounds in the early hours of the morning. You never thought about the future, just did your best to enjoy your time in the present and bask in the glow of each other’s affection. You expected that after such a long time together you’d at least feel a little duller, but everything still feels as fresh and new as when you were teenagers and sneaking out to make out on park benches when no one was looking.

As you’re lost in thought, Changbin pulls you impossibly closer and presses his lips to yours, hard. Music is still playing from his phone as the kiss becomes more heated, and you make sure to add 1985 by Bowling for Soup to your “running from the cops” playlist later. Almost every memory you have with Changbin is attached to a song, and this one is no exception.

Changbin pulls away to wrench open the back seat door, guiding you to sit and kneeling on the dirty floor. He heaves the duffel bag on the seat next to you and you dig through it, searching for the joint you threw into it earlier. Once you’ve gotten to My Own Worst Enemy, you’ve lit it and Changbin has gotten your jeans halfway down your legs and your thighs over his shoulders.

Your boyfriend wastes no time in burying his face in your heat, licking hot stripes up and down and moaning loudly into your core. He pulls away to rest his head on your thigh and take a few puffs of the joint, and in that moment you remember your Polaroid exists and manage to snap a picture of him blowing out smoke, with your hand in his hair and his face squished between your legs.

Changbin pays it no mind and gets straight back to work, sucking on your clit and easing his tongue into your hole. Your grip on his hair tightens and you arch into his mouth, fucking yourself back on his tongue. Picking up on this, he hooks his arms under your thighs and pulls your towards him, close enough that you’re afraid he’s going to suffocate himself trying to pleasure you.

It’s hot and sticky and perfect, and the atmosphere combined with the weed and the fact that Seo fucking Changbin is eating you out is too much for you and you cum all over his tongue, which eagerly laps up your release, taking long, languid strokes to make sure he gets every drop. As you come down, Changbin is stroking your thighs and sucking hickeys into the soft flesh, and you register that Misery Business needs to be added to your “dirty car sex” playlist.

After basking in the yellow glow of the car’s overhead light and the thrilling afterglow of just having done something you shouldn’t have for a while, lazily finishing off the rest of your joint, the two of you get your things in order and begin the journey to Changbin’s apartment, speeding down the highway with the windows cracked the whole way. He carries you into the building like he always does, setting you down gently on the couch before heading off to the kitchen so you can make some blueberry muffins together. You do, and they’re terrible, so you heat up leftovers instead and watch reruns of old James Bond movies, cuddling on the couch. The night ends with Chasing Cars and you laying on Changbin’s chest, naked and sweaty and anticipating lots of aches in the morning, whispering tiny i love yous into each others’ skin and it’s perfect. But everything is always perfect with him. What else could you possibly expect?

please let me know if you guys enjoyed this!! feel free to send an ask, i always love receiving them🤌🏻🤌🏻

#stray kids imagines #changbin imagines #changbin x reader #stray kids fluff #stray kids smut #changbin fluff #changbin smut #stray kids x reader #skz imagines #skz fluff #skz smut #skz #stray kids #stray kids fanfic #skz x reader #changbin #can u guys tell i miss hanging out with my friends 😔

[shelli-gator]

Hey I'm going through a rough time righ now, do u have any cute Panchulien hc's or scenarios that might cheer me up?

I love the content u create 4 them lmao

So I wrote you this <3 I hope you like it! One of my fav and earliest scenarios for them was Julien painting something for Pancho, and Pancho just -thrives- off seeing Julien happy about it. And also that the king would give him something.

Also, Julien totally deserved more support for his art than he got. I know Pancho was one of the people who gagged at his art, but I don’t think he actually knew it was his. And I do what I want. I can see Pancho humoring him to make him happy.

This also leads into a Valentines fic I have to still write for them fffff. But I’ll get to that xD. Anyway I hope you like this, and I hope you feel better! I’m here with more content/a ear to listen if you need it. :)

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"Pancho, my man!"

His ears prick at the sound of his name, and the crowned lemur sits up on the rock where he's been lazily whiling the afternoon away in the shade, scratching at his chest absently.

King Julien trots up to meet him, wearing a decidedly keen smile with his paws tightly held around a length of canvas. The shade of the palms and fronds above them paints him in the subtlest shades of green, gold eyes gleaming with excitement even in the half light.

"Julio!" He throws a lopsided grin back at him, enjoying the way Julien seems to practically vibrate with glee at the use of his nickname, his ringed tail swishing and twitching, "What do ya need?"

"So," Julien starts off, trying and failing to maintain some composure, "I heard you're a, what, art collector-"

"Who told you that?!" Pancho barks, instantly on edge as he sits up a little straighter in his alarm, "Was it Horst? That friggin' rat! I'll kill him!"

"Hey! Relax man! You're totally killing my vibe." Julien scolds him before waving a paw dismissively, "And no it wasn't Horst. What's the big deals about it anyway?"

"Oh," Pancho deflates sheepishly, and he looks about awkwardly, rubbing his arm, "Er, n-no reason. Yeah I totally dig art. So, um, what about it?"

Julien perks up again, leaning in abruptly with his canvas, and Pancho grunts in surprise as he finds his space so suddenly invaded, "Well, as a collector of the fine arts, no collection is complete without a KJ original piece! I have made you this to grace your collection!"

He thrusts the canvas upon him with a clumsy air of pomp, and Pancho blinks hard, thoroughly staggered, "You made me this?"

"Of course! It is birthed from my creative juices!" 

Pancho makes a face at that, but he turns the canvas around to get a look at it, and his eyes widen, a strangled yelp of surprise escaping him.

For one, it's very... vivid, rays and bursts of orange, red and yellow radiating outwards from what looks to be an abstract character of… himself? He can only guess it's him, from the black crown and the ragged tooth smile he's got on his face.

The tentacles however? That's different, unless he suddenly sprouted them without him realizing it. They seem to be coming from his back. Wielding dynamite.

And is the canvas burnt around the edges?

Julien shifts on the spot, and Pancho looks over the rim of the canvas to see the King actually looking genuinely anxious, his tail curled around himself, “So, heh, what do you think? I used up all my orange paint for this one!”

If it had been literally anyone else, or perhaps another time, he might have put his nose up to such a thing. But all he can think about is that Julien made him this. That he cares about what he thinks of it. That the King would take time out of his day to make him something. 

As if he hasn’t given him so much already.

Pancho clears his throat, his lungs burning in his chest in the most agonizing and delightful way. Julien hangs on his response, his heart in his eyes as his gaze flicks over Pancho’s features, trying to read his response.

And when Julien’s ears slowly start to droop Pancho quickly pulls himself together, trying to throw together some coherent response, “Aw, I like it! Like a lot! It speaks to ya, know what I’m sayin’?”

Julien gasps dramatically, his pupils the size of dinner plates. He squeals happily to himself, catching his bottom lip between his teeth, “You mean that?! You like it? You really really like it?!”

“Heck yeah I do, what do I look like, some classless backwoods hack?”

“I’m not gonna answer that.”

“Did ya burn these edges?” Pancho presses, and he runs a finger over it, watching as the pad of his finger comes away black, burnt flakes coming off in places. He sniffs it for good measure, and Julien’s ears twitch adorably, betraying his interest.

“Yeah! Is that- is that good?”

“Oh yeah, like a mixed media piece, maybe some… er, abstract expressionism? Evokes all the senses!”

Julien is practically vibrating, and Pancho grins at him, enjoying seeing the King thrive off his praise. And then the ringtail hops up onto the rock beside him, scooting in eagerly to sit beside him with a giddy grin, “Yes! And there I was, hehe, worried you wouldn’t like it! How ridiculous is that?!”

Pancho snorts, resting the canvas on one knee while his arm rests atop it, trying to ignore the way his heart thumps! pointedly in his chest as Julien’s knee brushes against his own, “Wouldn’t dream of it, your Majesty.”

Julien sways on his perch beside him, still practically glowing, “I’ll make you something else, too! Ya know, to like, double the worth of your collection. Least I could do for my peeps.”

“Uh-huh,” Pancho chuckles dryly, rolling his eyes up towards him, “Thanks, Julio.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a beat, enjoying each other’s company and the filtered sunlight streaming in through the canopy. Pancho indulges himself, watching how it plays across the silvery fur on Julien’s stomach. He commits the feeling of Julien’s knee against his own to memory, hyper aware of every shift in Julien’s movement that he feels against his leg.

Finally he arches a brow at him, grinning playfully, “I gotta ask though. What’s with the tentacles?”

Julien giggles before waving his paw, rolling his shoulders with a smirk, “Consider it my artistic signature. And also, I really dig the tentacles. Imagine what you could do with those!”

“Yeah, I could steal, like, a bunch of stuff at once! More loot, baby!”

“Exactly!”

#asks #lovely anon #ahkj #all hail king julien #king julien #ahkj pancho #panchulien #drabbles #I love them so much #SEROTONIN TO MY BRAINY PARTS #thank you for the ask! #<3 #Hope you feel better!

[capricornus-rex]

could you maybe right something with cal where the reader and cal are maybe doing repairs on a part of the mantis but the door gets stuck and the end up locked in the area for a while? and they’re both obviously in love with one another but just can’t really admit it to each other? if that makes sense lmao. you’re writing is super good btw!

Hi Anon! I’m really sorry that it took a while because I got caught up with the prior requests and my OC x Cal fic ;;;; I hope that I can make it up to you by finally writing this fic request. I hope you’ll still enjoy this story! I’M BACK TO WRITING, I SWEAR. I just enjoyed my break way more than I should ;-;

“Little Secrets That You Know That I Never Told” | Cal Kestis x Reader

Also in AO3

Tags: Subtle hints, secret crush, slightly jealous! Cal, mutual pining, bonding, warm and fuzzy feelings, fluff

Masterlist

Greez takes your hand to nestle a small pouch of credits onto your palm. It’s neither too heavy nor light, though the slightest movement warranted the metal inside to clink against one another.

“Alright, here’s the money for the parts and I’m sure you’ve got a good eye for quality!”

You bobbed your hand with the pouch to feel its weight, and then you thought out loud to Greez.

“Why don’t you come with us, Greez? Nothing bad about a little stroll, it’ll help in stretching your legs,”

“Aww no, my ship should not be out of my sight within a one-inch radius!”

“Uhh… Don’t you mean one-mile radius?”

“No, I did mean a one-inch radius!” pressed the Lateron.

Cal stepped in just when your banter with the captain has concluded. He asks you if you’re ready and you say yes. Even from a distance, you can feel the hostility from the town; in Cal’s case, it sort of reminded him of Bracca, and he sensed your uncertainty disguised as caution.

“We best be careful, Cere found a lot of Imperial signals here,” you recall.

“Then stay close to me,”

It came to Cal naturally, but when he realized what he just said, all of the color drained away from his freckled cheeks. You turned to him and he returned the gesture with a nervous side-glance that evolved into a full look; he was greeted with a small yet warm smile from you and you mouthed the word “Sure” within his earshot. Immediately, the color returned to his cheeks.

The two of you came across a shop that seemed promising, and so you enter the establishment, making your presence known by the ring of a chime that hung by the door—or lack thereof, since it was only a canvas curtain. A young man—perhaps in the same age as you and Cal—and his attention was drawn to the sound. He shifted in his seat, as he was originally facing away from the door, and vaulted over the main counter.

“Well now, what can I get for you?”

“Yeah, uh,” you fished out the compact holodisk and switched it on. “We have a list of parts. Do you happen to have these?”

The young shopkeeper leaned closer to the point that the hologram’s light pooled the entirety of his face, he makes a pensive look: chin between his fingers, squinted eyes, and a long “hmm” as he skims your list.

He clicked his tongue, “Yep, I think we have those,” then there was an awkward pause mainly on your end, so he decided to continue on. “Name’s Seff by the way.”

“Oh cool,” your lip stretched into a straight smile and you shrug your shoulders. “Could you, like… at least show us where they are, Seff?”

While you and Cal weren’t exactly there to make niceties, both of you continued to be polite to Seff. But Cal sensed something else from the boy—it was his seemingly desperate attempt to get your attention. Though he was comforted by the fact that you were uninterested in the subtlest way possible. Seff gestured the pair to the wall of wares; when you took the step ahead towards it, Cal stayed close by your side and shot Seff a sharp glance as he obscured the shopkeeper’s view of you—practically standing in the middle.

BD-1 obliged to flash his copy of the list through lens in the form of a hologram, he did this while perched on Cal’s shoulder. Meanwhile, you browsed the racks upon racks of parts. You felt a little playful and picked up a cylindrical lens shaft and held it to your eye level, the other end points to Cal—who was still busy looking for the other part on the list—when he noticed you in your little game, you finally caught a glimpse of him and his smile through the glass lens.

“Ooh, I think I spotted some treasure!” you chirped.

“Harty-har-har,” Cal cooed, barely even doing the impression of a space pirate. He carefully lowers the lens away from your eyes with his the tips of his fingers, revealing a cheery smile painted on your face.

You teasingly bit your lip to him, as if holding back a laugh, before returning the lens to the shelf. Endeared, Cal himself smiled privately as he looked rummaged through the shelves; he attempts to catch a glimpse of you, angling out his head just to get a wider view than just his periphery and caught your little smile while examining a power cell. You continued to search for the remainder of the list until the last item was ticked off.

“Do you honestly think the damage is that bad?” Cal thought out loud.

“I… I guess so. But we can only really tell once we come and look at her,”

“Ditto. But still, don’t you think these are a bit… excessive?”

That prompted you to check the list again, seeing that you’ve completed the list, you look at the haul and start to agree with Cal. The two of you exchange looks and give each other a resigned shrug of the shoulders. It didn’t take long for both of you to stay in the shop, but the whole time, you did what Cal has told you earlier—to stay close to him.

You approach the counter and paid for the parts, fishing out and counting the credits of silver and gold from the pouch that Greez handed over to you.

“Pleasure doing business with ya,” Seff bade as he swept the credits to him with his forearm.

“Thanks for the help,” you casually said, grabbed the rucksack, and then turned away.

The pair of you exited the shop and you can finally be yourself again with Cal. You slung the rucksack over your shoulder as you made your way to the ship.

“Persistent bugger, wasn’t he?” you quipped jokingly to Cal. It was your own way to relieving yourself from that rather awkward encounter, he concurred with a chuckle.

“Well, did you get all of them?” Greez greeted you from the entry ramp.

You beamed and showed off the rucksack to the Lateron, “Yup! Surprisingly, this one shop had it all. I hope you have the tools for it, though.”

“Oh sure, there’s an entire toolbox waiting for you in the engine room,”

Cal went ahead to the engine room—which was essentially his bedroom—and searched for the particular toolbox that the captain referred to. There were only a few compartments installed in the wall of the room, so it didn’t take long for the redhead to find the said toolbox.

The damage was in the room where the escape pods are, but the affected area was the auxiliary engine—which occupied an entire wall on the opposite side. The size of the auxiliary engine room was strictly enough for two people. You were in first and Cal followed behind after bringing in the tools, you were undisturbed by the hiss of the door and the clattering of the metal.

“Mind if I join in?”

“Come on, the more the merrier!” you squeaked.

You dismantle the grate covering the internals of the power hatch. You take a step back to get a full view of the damage—tendrils of gray smoke wafted out of the narrow crooks between the conduits, tiny orange sparks flew out of the dangling wires. It was an electrical mess.

“This is gonna take a while,” you groaned sardonically.

“Well, we better start then,” Cal gently bumps his fist against your shoulder and approaches the power hatch.

You set down the rucksack of parts and went one by one on which goes where. Being the expert scrapper that Cal was, he worked much quicker and handier, though that didn’t bother you—you’re just glad you weren’t the only one that’s going to tinker the Mantis until it’s completely repaired.

To keep your boredom at bay, you fished out the foldable headphones from your jacket’s inner pocket—you fix the gadget on your head, a single button on the right earpiece prompted a song to play. Even at a low volume, given the silence that hung in the room with you and Cal, he was able to hear and make out the song just by listening in on the rhythm and muffled lyrics.

“Mou houlingting gaan Sugaan Essena…”

He had to pause from unscrewing the auxiliary compressor when he heard you softly sing out those lyrics. Of course, he recognized it—it was The HU! When he turned his head, he found you lost in the song and found your antics quite adorable—bobbing your head to the rhythm, parroting the percussion with your fingernails tapping against the metal, and even strumming an imaginary fiddle in the air with your fingers assumingly flicking in the same pace, intensity, and timing as the actual guitarist.

It took you a second to acknowledge that Cal has been watching your little concert with yourself, you noticed it in your peripheral vision. This time, he didn’t dare to hide the smile—his main reaction of endearment to seeing you getting too lost in the song.

“You listen to The HU?”

You pulled down your headphones, “Yeah, I do! I love that band. Sorry, was my volume too loud?”

“Nah, don’t sweat it. I love that band as much as you do!”

Your eyes lit up in the poorly-lit engine room. You take off the right earpiece and offered, “You wanna listen in too?”

Cal nodded and you scooted yourself closer to him; your headphone was the kind that can have the headband extended or be safely split into two for sharing—you did the latter and fixed it on his ear. The slightest touch of your fingertips pressing against the side of his face was enough to make his heart skip a beat. His eyes became shifty as they struggle to look away and avoid eye contact from you, hoping that you would never notice the blush burning all over his face.

“There we go,”

The song continued to play in both of your ears. It’s already reached the chorus, and your spontaneous reaction to hearing that climatic portion was to belt out your best impression of the main singer’s pitch, accompanied with the fade-out at the last syllable. Cal and yourself did this in your own tones, it didn’t matter if it was off-key or that your pitches didn’t match in some parts, both of you enjoyed the song regardless.

When the iconic chorus—the namesake of the song—came in once more, for a moment, the two of synched and sang your hearts out while facing in front of each other. It felt like the two of you were doing your own musical gig inside the engine room when you’re supposed to be working on the repairs.

However, you went the extra mile—you mimicked the guitar riff that followed after the chorus and worked on the auxiliary engine panel at the same time. When you caught Cal looking at you again, you snapped out of your performer alter ego and awkwardly laughed.

“Sorry, I just… I tend to do this when I work. It’s a bad habit,”

“No, it’s perfectly fine. You seem to be having fun anyway, so I wouldn’t wanna wish to ruin that,”

You cleared your throat and bit your lip. The awkwardness gradually dissolved, the two of you exchanged shy smiles and continued to work and listen to the music spilling out of your headphones’ earpieces. You went on with your tinkering and repairing until the ship went dark: all the lights went off in a cascading succession, the engine hum had gone totally silent, and the door that the two of you came through was stuck and sealed shut.

“What happened?” exclaimed Cal.

“I don’t know! I can’t see anything!”

“BD, give us some light, would you?”

“Beee-woo!”

A switch clicked in BD-1 and his little lens was able to light up your spot in the room. The tiny droid shines his light on the entire panel in search of the potential cause of the ship’s blackout.

“It can’t be me—I was working on the secondary hyperspace compressor.”

“Can’t be me, either. I’m working on the wiring,” Cal’s eyes scaled up to the top of the engine panel. He points at something with his soldering gun. “There’s the auxiliary’s main power cell. That must have went out while we were working.”

“Then it must be from the outside, could be Greez,” you assumed.

“Yeah, but we can’t waste our breaths slamming the door calling for help like trapped scrap rats,”

You looked around the room, squinting your eyes to see better with the little light you’re left with through the cracks and gaps of the ship. You tap Cal’s shoulder, with BD-1 subsequently aiming the spotlight in your general direction.

“Look, there’s a vent. Maybe BD-1 can fit through and tell Greez to switch on the main power grid,” you suggested.

The droid chirped in agreement. He hopped off and skittered towards the said air vent. Cal crept to him, unfastened the screws and removed the grate for BD-1 to crawl into. Without a word, the droid entered the ventilation shaft in the hopes of finding a way out into the main interior of the Mantis.

“Well, I guess we’re stuck here. No point in fixing the ship without any light,” you sighed.

“Yeah, guess we’ll just have to wait for BD,”

Suddenly, a spark livened up your brain with an epiphany.

“Does Greez understand droidspeak?”

There was a silence, you’re hoping for a swift reply from Cal, but it seems to he too had the same realization. He didn’t answer you right away, you assumed that he had returned to the engine panel and probably didn’t catch what you said. You pawed the air, searching for Cal until you felt something solid touch your back and then fall with you.

At first, you didn’t even notice that you didn’t land on the hard, metal floor. In fact, you felt rough fabric and cracked leather on yourself. It took you a bit of a while to realize that you landed on someone else.

“Arrggh, took a wrong step there,” Cal groaned. In the darkness, you heard his voice was too close.

“Oh gods, I’m sorry!” you scramble away to his side and off of him.

You crawl to the wall and press your back against that as you watch the shadow of him toss and turn until he sat up. Your heart raced and your cheeks flared. You were grateful for the blackout obscuring your face, because not a single good excuse exists for you to save yourself if Cal did see the look on your face.

Though, you could’ve sworn you felt his heartbeat pace so quickly underneath his leather armor.

“No, no! I’m fine, [Y/N], really,” he insisted as both of you regain your bearings in the dark.

Either of you have to squint their eyes in order to see better. Only silhouettes appeared in your vision, you can make out the shapes but the facial expressions were difficult to read.

“Well, guess we’re stuck here,” Cal pointed out.

“And we even sent out BD-1 to tell Greez about this—and I know for a fact that he’s not fluent in droidspeak,”

“Crap, you’re right,”

Both of you released a concurrent sigh. Cal drew his legs closer to his chest, crossed them together and secured them around his arms. The stale air hummed through the vents—including the open one where BD-1 went through—but both of you cannot deny that the air’s gotten a bit thinner.

“I hope they’ll get his message,” you mumbled.

“I’m sure Cere will fill Greez in if he doesn’t get BD-1,”

Cal took a slow, deep breath and nestled himself next to you. The silence was a bore and you decided to engage in small talk while waiting for BD-1 to come through.

“So, when did you first find out about The HU?”

“Well, I was in a cantina having a drink with an old friend, Prauf, after working hours—it was the end of the work week, so we decided to unwind—and then this cantina had no live performers that time, which was a usual thing on that particular day. So instead, they had their speakers on and put on a virtual performance—they played that band’s top record and it just stuck to me.”

“Which is Sugan Essena?”

“Exactly. How did you come to know the band?”

“Nothing memorable, really. Overheard it being played from a frequency channel in a store owner’s radio. Coincidentally, a few of my friends knew it and I just had to ask.”

The two of you got lost in each other’s own stories over something mutual, which felt genuinely nice. The air gradually became stale by the minute, the longer the time seemed to have dragged on, the more anxious you became; Cal sensed this and he wanted to comfort you so bad, but he was afraid that it might turn out awkward or worse.

The least he could do—at least, that’s what he thought in his mind—is to stay close and keep you company.

You felt him scramble in the dark, two soft but heavy thumps sounded on the floor—he had just stretched out his legs and let out a leisurely exhale. You felt his sleeve brush against your bare arm.

“So, that Seff guy seemed to like you a lot,” Cal initiated, though he seemed to be disgruntled by his own topic.

You scoffed in the guise of an indifferent laugh, “Guy wasn’t really up in my alley, honestly. I was just trying to be polite as best as I can.”

“Oh? He wasn’t your type?”

You shake your head, quite fervently and added, “Nah. I have someone else in mind.”

You looked to him when you said the latter and managed a smile. A ray of light persisting through a gap in the ceiling shone over his left eye, making his jade iris twinkle and you watched it shift ever so slightly. His eyes were one of your favorite features of him—placing first place before his delightful freckles and his fiery, scarlet hair in third—but it was your own little secret.

To a certain degree, Cal was relieved, but then the next thing he thought about was whether or not to admit his feelings to you. He’s troubled himself with the thought for perhaps a couple of months now—according to your own counting—that you curiously wonder if he has ever felt it.

Surely he has, being quite the empath that he is. You’ve come to the presumption that both of you are just too shy to admit it to each other.

The predicament has made you forget about your headphones, which you took off and unintentionally dropped to the floor when the blackout happened; the music was still playing but it had already switched to a new song. Cal used the Force to bring it to his hands.

“Air’s getting a little thin, don’t you think?” you blurted softly.

Cal didn’t reply; he saw that your eyes are droopy, your breathing is slow and labored, and your face relaxed into a calm expression. He can barely suck in enough air to fill both lungs. The deprivation was getting to him as well.

Your entire body felt heavy too. Your eyes gaze down on Cal’s open hand facing up. You clench your own fist while fighting your hand from inching closer—you came to a stalemate with yourself and flimsily plopped your hand on the floor, just mere centimeters away from Cal’s. You parroted his posture—head leaning against the wall, staring at the ceiling, conserving your air with slow, calm breaths.

Bit by bit, you felt warm flesh nudge against the curve of your hand between the thumb and the forefinger—it was Cal’s knuckle. Your fingers flinched, and slowly he intertwines his with yours; it began with the first inches until it evolved into a clasp. You comforted each other with the warmth radiating from your hands that is now spreading across your bodies. It was a little silly, naïve idea at first, but you could’ve sworn you felt his heartbeat follow after yours.

A relieved sigh escapes your nostrils as you manage a smile—not bothering to hide it this time, you thought: if he sees it, so be it. Cal indeed felt your smile and did so himself. He dared to squeeze your hand softly but securely while the two of you wait out the power to return. Just when everything seemed to be taking too long and hopeless… the lights burst back into life, all the air from the surface blew in vigorously into the auxiliary engine room, and the entire power panel bellowed!

“Oh good, the power’s back on,” Cal mumbled, slightly groggy from the oxygen deprivation.

“Good, I knew BD would come through—and Greez too,”

You and Cal, together, fixated your eyes on your intercrossed hands. He shot you a fond, tender gaze that’s usually paired with his boyishly charming smile—the kind of smile that’s so hard to read, whether he was teasing with you or mischievously planning to mess around. You’re convinced that it was the former.

“Shall we get to work?”

“Let’s take a breather for a few minutes…” you shuffled in your seat, not planning to let go of his hand any time soon. “This actually feels nice.”

Cal slowly lowered his head so his cheek rests atop your head. You felt his thumb run across the skin of the back of your hand while the two of you rest and recover until, eventually, both of you drifted to a nap.

#cal kestis #cal kestis fic #cal kestis x reader #cal kestis x reader fic #star wars #star wars fic #star wars jedi fallen order fic #jedi fallen order fic #sw fic #swjfo fic #swjfo #jfo #jfo fic #sw #jedi fallen order #star wars jedi fallen order #sw jfo #sw jfo fic #crush #fic #fluff #fluff fic #fic request #ask box fic #anon #anon request #requested by anon #secret crush #bonding #warm and fuzzy feelings

[linmanwe11]

The Modeling Gig

Pairing: Lin-Manuel Miranda x Reader

Words: 3,074 (IT’S WAY LONGER THAN PART ONE, I KNOW BUT I GOT CARRIED AWAY, I’M SO SORRY. I HOPE YOU STILL ENJOY IT!)

Warnings: SMUT! Nude drawing, swearing, and a bit of fluff ‘cause I just can’t help myself lmao

Summary: Months later after you and Lin met, and you’re coming up on semester final exams. For your Drawing 1 final, you have to draw someone nude. Lin happily agrees, and things seem to escalate from there...

A/N: Here you guys go! Part 2/2 of my short-story based off of Lin-Manuel’s tweet of being a nude model in college is here! I hope you guys enjoyed this little story, and I hope you’ll stick around for more stories to come. Also, FULL CREDIT goes to the person who drew the amazing pictures that were the inspiration for this story. You’ll see the pictures right below this. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Much love, mis amores <3

-

Part 2

A few months later, you and Lin were hanging out at the same pizza place you had first gotten to know each other at. Even though nothing was official between the two of you, everyone that knew you could easily tell that you both had feelings for each other. You flirted A LOT, but for some reason, neither of you had acted on anything yet. You had fallen in love with him from the moment you saw him and you continue to fall for him with every second you spent with him, and you knew he felt the same, so the fact that nothing had been acted on between you two was frustrating, but you knew that everything would fall into place when the time was right. 

“So, Lin, I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

“What’s up?"

“You know how I have to take Drawing classes since I’m a photography major?” “Uh huh…”

“Well, for our semester final, we have to draw someone and-“

“I know, I know, you want to draw me and all my beauty?” He said while turning his head up and to the side, smirking as he showed off his gorgeous side profile and jawline.

“Technically yes… But there’s a bit of a catch.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of catch?”

“I uh, have to… fuck, I’d have to draw you while nude…”

“Ohhh, so you REALLY want to draw me and ALL of my beauty, huh?”

“Oh shut the fuck up, Lin-Manuel, asking you was awkward enough!” You said while laughing, putting your face into one of your hands while shoving him with the other. He laughed with you, shifting slightly in the booth you two were sharing, moving closer to you, close enough to where your legs were firmly pressed against one another. 

“Seriously though, can you PLEASEEEE do this for me? It’s worth 75% of my grade, and I really don’t want to ask someone who I barely know or some random person in my class.”

“I gotchu, girl! I’m available at any time. When do you want to do it?”

“Please don’t use the phrase ‘do it’ while we’re talking about me drawing you naked.” You said, but you were actually more than fine with the thought of seeing Lin naked. You had seen him shirtless, of course, and you were blown away by his body, so you could only imagine what he was hiding underneath. You’d be lying if you said that you had never thought about and fantasized about seeing Lin naked and being with him intimately. Lin was just… so sexy in every way that you could ever imagine, and you knew that if you ever had the chance to be with him, you’d take it in a heartbeat.

“Anyway, you can meet me at my dorm Friday night around 7:30.”

“7:30, got it. See you then. I’ll make sure to look my best just for you.” He said with a wink, making you blush as you did everything to hide your excitement for Friday night.

———————————————————————

It was 7:28 when you heard a knock at your door. You have all of your supplies set up and a spot on your bed for Lin to lay. Lucky for you, you were one of the few freshmen who was able to get a single occupancy dorm, so that meant that you didn’t have a roommate to interrupt you and Lin. Checking yourself in the mirror, you made sure you looked at least as decent as you could in a pair of leggings and one of Lin’s hoodies.

“Oh wow, you’re two minutes early! That’s new.”

“Haha, very funny, [Y/N]. You’re just lucky that I agreed to this.”

“As if you would’ve said no!”

“Y’know what? You… Yeah, you’re right.”

“Alright, c’mon now, take off your clothes!” “Shit, take me to dinner first! I’m not THAT easy!” You rolled your eyes then sat down at your stool, your canvas sitting in front of you as you saw Lin begin to take off his shirt. Without realizing it, you were staring at him as he then began to take his sweatpants off, his socks following right after. He looked over at you and smirked, knowing exactly what he was doing to you.

“You like what you see, [Y/N]?”

“I uh… Stop it! Just, take your underwear off and lay there on my bed.”

“Geez, so fucking bossy! I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Whatever you want.”

He removed his boxers, and if you weren’t attracted to Lin and his body before, you sure as hell were attracted to him now. You bit your lip, secretly you hoped, as you unapologetically eyed his impressive size, and you also smirked to yourself as you noticed that he was half hard, probably thinking the same thing as you. He laid himself down on your bed, and waited for you to tell him what to do.

“Alright so uh, it’s gonna be pretty simple, just put your hands across your chest and intertwine your fingers together… Yeah, like that. Now just close your eyes and lay there, don’t move from this position, and please don’t fall asleep on me, you have a really bad habit of doing that when he hang out at night.” You said while laughing, releasing a little bit of tension that was heavy in the room and space between you two as he laughed along with you. 

———————————————————————

About 30 minutes later, you were just about done with sketching him, and now you were going to move on to outline your art in red ink. Lin let out a loud, dramatic sigh, causing you to peak around your canvas and give him a glaring look.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Oh nothing…. Just laying here… Naked… Nothing to do…” He said as he sighed again.

“Calm down, I just finished sketching and I’m about to move on to outlining, and that won’t take very long.. Gosh, you theatre majors are so dramatic.”

“Well, duh. We kinda have to be, [Y/N]. Hence why it’s called ‘Drama’.”

“Ugh, just hush and let me finish, please.”

“Alright, alright.”

———————————————————————

“Aaaand… DONE!”

“Finally! After almost an hour and a half of just laying there, you’re done! Let me see!” “Uh… I don’t know, Lin… It’s not that great.” “Come on, [Y/N], you’re the most talented person I know, I’m sure it’s amazing!” “Okay okay, fine. Here.”

You scooted over so he could sit next to you on your stool, a towel now wrapped around his naked waist. When he looked at your drawing of him, his jaw dropped in amazement. Lin usually didn’t like having pictures drawn of him, but the way you captured his features just made him love your work so much more. Not only that, but the way you were so concentrated on your work made him fall even harder for you. You were so concentrated while you were drawing him that you didn’t even notice the loving look he was giving you while you were working, he adored that look on your face. 

“[Y/N]… This is… holy shit, it’s amazing!”

“Really?” “Yes! It’s so fucking good! You’re definitely getting an A on that final.”

You smiled then threw your arms around his neck as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. It was such a relief to have your work done and appreciated by someone, especially by Lin because his opinion meant the world to you, especially when it came to your pictures and drawings. Slowly, you both pulled away, but he left his hands to rest on the small of your back, and you rested your hands on his shoulders as you both looked into each others eyes. Suddenly, the air became thick, electric, heavy, between the two of you, and you both knew that now was the time to make a move. 

Lin let his eyes flick down to your lips then back up to your eyes, and you noticed which made your heart skip a beat. Without thinking, he leaned forward and finally kissed you, and you felt like you could finally breathe. You moved your hands up and cradled his face between your hands before you let your fingers run through his short, soft hair. Slowly, Lin let his hands move to your breasts, squeezing gently, making you gasp against his lips before you pulled away, not meaning to, but you wanted to make sure that you both wanted this.

“Lin, I…”

“I’m sorry, [Y/N]. I got a little carried away, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I’ll just get dressed and leave-“

“No… I wasn’t going to ask you to stop. I was just wanting to make sure that you really want this. That you really want me and that you’re not just doing this for fun.”

“[Y/N]… You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you. Not even like this, just in every way. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. I’ve never told you this, but that day in the lecture hall, the seat next to you wasn’t the last one open.”

“What do you mean?” “Someone was on their way up to sit next to you, but I begged them to let me sit there. As soon as I saw you, I fell in love, and I usually don’t believe in love at first sight, but then I saw you, and all of that changed. Then, I got to know you and your beautiful soul and personality and I just… Fuck, I love you, [Y/N]. I love every single part of you, and I fall in love with you even more each time I’m with you. I promise you, I’m not just doing this for shits and giggles, I want you.”

You smiled then pulled him back into another kiss, this one being much more heated than the first as he opened his mouth, his tongue nudging against your lips. Damn, he’s such a good kisser, you thought to yourself as you opened your mouth to him. He moved his hands back to the front of the hoodie you were wearing before he reached down and removed it, throwing it to the other side of your room. Pulling you against him, you let out a small moan at the feeling of skin-on-skin contact, wanting nothing more than for him to touch you in your most intimate places. 

Running your hands over his chest, you made your way down and began palming him through the towel he was still wearing. He broke the kiss, gasping as he felt your hand make its way under the towel, touching and stroking him slowly, bringing him to full arousal in a matter of seconds. Unable to handle it any longer, he picked you up, causing the towel to fall on the floor, and put you on your bed, stripping away the remaining amounts of clothes that you were wearing. He was on top of you now, one leg between yours as his hand hovered over your pussy which was dripping wet.

“L-Lin, please.”

“What do you want, baby? What do you need me to do for you?”

“Touch me, Lin-Manuel , please.”

“As you wish, mi amor.”

Slowly, you felt his finger swipe through your wetness and up to your clit where he began rubbing in circles, making your breathing become labored. You bit your lip, not wanting to let your neighbors hear what Lin was doing to you, but Lin didn’t seem to mind.

“Let me hear you, [Y/N]. I want to hear how good I make you feel.”

You let your mouth fall open and you gasped as Lin pushed one, and then two fingers into you, starting off by pumping slowly, then getting faster and faster as your moans increased in volume. When he hit your g-spot, you felt like you could see stars as your back arched off of the bed, your legs clamping themselves around his hand and he kept going. To add to your pleasure, he began kissing at your neck, sucking at just the right spot and then kissing you on your lips, swallowing your moans. He bit your lip at your orgasm approached closer and closer before your legs were shaking, you couldn’t hold back.

“Oh, fuck, Lin! I’m, fuck, I’m gonna c-cum!” “Cum for me, baby. Let go for me.”

Finally, you came hard. Probably the hardest you had ever came before as Lin let you ride out your high, helping you calm down by gently pressing his lips against yours. You were laid there, panting against him as you regained your composure as Lin helped you by gently kissing your neck and your breasts, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking on it then releasing it. It was the hottest thing you had ever seen. LIN was the hotting thing you had ever seen, and you couldn’t quite believe your luck.

“You okay there, love?” Lin asked, slightly amused but also confident at the fact that he was able to render you completely helpless by the tip of his fingers.

“Y-Yeah, that was just… Holy shit, that was so good. I’ve never cum that hard before. Seriously, NEVER.”

“Well, I’m glad I was able to do that for you, but it’s my turn now.” 

“I uh, don’t have any condoms…”

“Oh, right! Hold up a second.”

He jumped out of bed and made his way over to where his pants were. Confused, you look at him for a second before he triumphantly pulled a condom out of the pocket of his sweatpants. The very thought of what you were about to do made your heart jump, and you knew you were more than ready for him.

“So, you just carry condoms with you in your pockets?” “No, I don’t, but I had a good feeling about tonight, and based on the way you were looking at me while I was getting undressed earlier, I’m glad to say that I was right!” “You’re so fucking cocky.”

“You wanna find out?” You laughed at his cheesy innuendo then pulled him back on top of you after he put the condom on. 

“I’m gonna fuck you so good, [Y/N]… You want that, baby?”

“Fuck, yes Lin.”

Reaching down between your bodies, you took his hard cock in your hand, stroking him a few times because, after wanting him for so long, you just wanted to feel him. He smirked down at you before moving your hand, trapping both of them between one of his as he pinned your arms above your head, his other hand grasping onto himself as he positioned himself at your entrance. Slowly, he slid into you, and you gasped as you felt him fill you up completely, feeling a slight bit of pain as he was inside of you all the way.

“[Y/N], are you okay?” He asked, and the genuine concern in his voice made your heart flutter. You could already tell that Lin was a passionate lover in bed, and could probably get really worked up, but no matter what, he would always make sure you were alright, and that made you love him even more. 

“I’m perfect, Lin-Manuel.”

Lin smiled at you before his face and eyes morphed back into their lustful state as he began to move. You could feel every inch of him moving inside of you, and you had never felt this good before in your life. Your fingers trailed down his strong, muscular back, leaving red trails in their wake before you held onto his shoulders for stability. Your moans filled the room, and hearing that only motivated him to give you and himself more of what you both needed.

You felt so connected to him, more than just in a physical way, but emotionally too. Being with him like this was so amazing, and you didn’t want to share this intimacy with anyone else but Lin. As he began to move faster, you started to roll your hips against him, meeting his thrusts which caused his pelvis to bump your clit in the process, making you see stars as the tip of his dick simultaneously hit your g-spot. Your back arched off of the bed, and your chest met his, your nipples rubbing against his chest as your release grew closer and closer.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Lin! Fuck me, I’m gonna- holy shit, Lin-Manuel, I’m- Oh shhhit!”

“Yeah, that’s it baby, cum for me. Fuck, yes, mi amor, cum all over my cock. Goddamn, baby, you’re so fucking tight, and you feel so good! Holy shit, cum for me-“

In a split second, you came even harder than the first time, your walls clenching around Lin’s dick as he kept fucking you through your orgasm. The feeling of you cumming all over him made him reach his own release as his seed filled the condom as he came with a strangled groan, his hips stuttering, sweat covering both of your bodies as you breathed against each other. Running your fingers through his hair, you kissed his temple, his cheek, and then his lips, both of you smiling into the gentle make out session, his lips moving perfectly with yours. After a minute, Lin stood up and threw the condom away as you cuddled underneath the sheets, leaving an open spot for him to join you. 

“Fuck, [Y/N], that was so fucking amazing.”

“It really was… I can’t believe it took both of us this long to admit our feelings for one another!” “I know, I can’t believe it either, but I’m so glad you asked me to be your model… It would’ve been weird if you asked someone else.”

You both laughed then looked into each other’s eyes. There they were, those big brown eyes that you could get lost in forever. They were yours, Lin was yours and you were his. Smiling, he placed his hand against your cheek and leaned in to kiss you once more before he pulled you against his body where you laid your head on his chest, listening to the gentle sound of his heartbeat. That sound was now your favorite thing to fall asleep to.

“I love you so much, [Y/N].”

“I love you too, Lin-Manuel. Thanks for begging whoever was going to sit next to me to let you sit there instead. I don’t know where I’d be if I hadn’t met you. I love you.”

“Te quiero mucho, mi amor. Buenas noches y dulce sueños.” He said before he kissed the top of your head once more, then drifted off into a deep sleep, the last thing being on both of your minds was each other.

END

Part 1

#Lin-Manuel Miranda #Lin-Manuel Miranda x reader #Lin-Manuel Miranda x Reader Smut #Lin-Manuel #Lin x Reader #Lin-Manuel x Reader #Hamilton #In The Heights #rpf lin-manuel miranda #lin manuel miranda #lin manuel #Lin Miranda #Lin-Manuel Miranda x Reader Fluff #Lin-Manuel Miranda Fluff

[parttwoactuallywrites]

If you're still taking requests for bad things happen bingo, how about Virgil x Mel + natural disaster? - theportalwedeserve

@theportalwedeserve 

ahslkdjfhlHLKJASHDLFKJH I was considering reposting that bingo card so people might consider requesting, but this came at a really good time!! Thanks a million for asking!!!!

Some quick notes before I start - This is my first shot at writing both Virgil AND Mel, and honestly? I have no idea how I did, so feedback from those who actually have written these guys/know more about them then I do/ etc. is always appreciated! Sorry if it’s not quite up to snuff! Secondary sorry that this took so long, I wrote this during my study-breaks for my midterms (which start this Thursday and I’m ahsdkfjhsjf). This was also originally gonna be WAY shorter but I’m a mess lmao. 

This fic is best enjoyed listening to Gymnopedie No. 1 and Cherche La Rose on loop. Sorry this wasn’t angstier, I wanted to write some comfy stuff ‘cause it’s cold out. 

The two of them were always regarded as an oddball couple, woodsy folk who lived a mile or so out of town in a little log-cabin they’d built themselves with the extra hands of whoever wanted to help - which was, evidently, the entirety of the little community of Laurel River.

It made sense, at least to Virgil. Though he couldn’t help but think of himself as the most “other” person there - Hah, I’m calling myself a person, now. - he seemed to fit right in. Hard workers with practical genius and warmth he’d never seen down in the salt mines. He supposed you had to be a certain kind of person to work at Aperture, and those types didn’t have a predisposition to warmth, now did they?

Speaking of, the warmth was only really metaphorical. The weather hadn’t gotten above freezing in weeks, the days got shorter and shorter, and with no real work that could get done with the ground and the river frozen, the town and its inhabitants got rather sleepy.

A cold, cold wind blew over a mostly-empty town square as Virgil stepped into the little general store for the groceries.

“Hey, Lil,” Virgil said, closing the door behind him as softly as he could.

“Hello to you too, Virgil! How’s the weather out there?” Lily asked, without turning around. She was an older woman, soft spoken and gentle. She made lovely bouquets in the summer and spring, with a garden to kill or die for.

“Bad,” He said, pulling his neatly folded list out of his pocket, “Cold, windy, cloudy.”

“Oh dear,” She said, still re-organizing the things behind the counter, “Well that sounds about right. There’s supposed to be a storm coming, a big blizzard. First of the season.”

Blizzard.

Virgil knew what those were, knew that they were big screw-off storms with strong wind and snow that made it so you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. He knew that blizzards took down trees and power lines and covered up solar panels in a foot-and-a-half of snow. Sounded like a recipe for losing power, or worse, their house getting destroyed.

He frowned, one by one grabbing the things off the shelves and putting them into a canvas bag he’d gotten when he first came into town. Flour, sugar, milk, eggs, brussels sprouts, carrots, leek, butternut squash, ‘any herbs you can get your hands on’…

He put the worry out of his mind. The clearing the cabin sat in was far enough away that a few trees coming down wouldn’t be a terrible issue. The house kept the heat well and he’d be willing to trudge a ways into the woods for more firewood if they lost power and ran out. They could camp out in the living room and snuggle to stay warm, or maybe…

Well, that assumed either of them would be willing to get their clothes off. Unlikely, given the predicted circumstances, but a nice thought nonetheless.

Virgil set his things down on the front counter one by one, lost in his unlikely-but-still-nice-thoughts about the days to come, just the two of them, snowed in together.

“Name the kid after me,” Lily said with a pleasant smile.

“Wha- Good lord, Lil!”

She laughed, took the money from the counter and handed him back a few bucks in change. “Seriously, you kids be safe, and don’t you hesitate to come to town if something happens.”

“We’ll be sure of it. Thanks, Lily.” He slowly loaded all his things into his bag.

“Any time, Virgil. Have a nice evening, honey.”

He pushed the door open, waving as he walked out. “You too!”

And then once more he was out in the cold. A gust of wind blew in his face, stinging his eyes and making them water. That might be the only thing he missed about being a core, his fantastic inability to feel most external stimuli, and with that, his inability to feel the cold stiffening his fingers, making him regret not wearing his gloves.

It was gonna be a long trudge home.

Virgil came home a few minutes out from frostbite as the sun was starting to set. He huffed as he gently set down the bag on the floor by the front door, kicked off his shoes carelessly, and wondered how long it’d take before his ears stopped burning and feeling returned to his face.

The smell of bread wafted through their small home, coupled by hot cocoa floating in beside it.

“Making something, Mel?”

She hummed. “You were taking a mighty long time out there,” She said, moving through the kitchen slowly, leisurely. “Thought it might be nice to come home to something hot to drink.”

“You’re my savior, you know that, right?”

Mel giggled. “You’ve said so on more than one occasion.” She set two cups down on their modest kitchen table, filling them with the cocoa. “What’s the news from in town?”

“We’ve got a blizzard coming in,” He said, walking towards her “That’ll be your first snow in over a hundred years!”

“It’ll be your first snow ever.” She handed him a cup of cocoa and leaned back against the kitchen counter to drink the other herself.

He took it in both hands, taking a long sip, letting the sweet drink warm him. “Mmm… This is good.”

“Thank you.”

“But personality cores are based on, well… Personalities. They were all people, once, including me,” Virgil said, “Don’t remember any of it, but I bet you I saw snow back then.”

“I still don’t get how you’re supposed to pour a person into a box, and then have that box… Do things,” She said, flatly.

“Mel, we own a computer.”

“Yeah, and I like it, but that doesn’t mean I understand it. Last I checked, TV’s were the size of our oven and only played blurry and in black and white. It’s just after the apocalypse, and we got color and crystal-clear pictures.”

Virgil shrugged. “Fair point.”

The storm came early that morning, before first light of dawn and well before either of them woke. Virgil vaguely remembered sleepily arguing for Mel to stay in bed, to sleep another hour or two with him, before being given a pillow to hug instead as she went about her morning without him. She only actually woke him up some time later, gently shaking him awake to a dark bedroom.

“Power’s out, Virgil,” Mel said, “Virgil, wake the hell up.”

“Huh?”

“The power’s-” Mel was cut off by a clap of thunder that rattled through the small house, startling Virgil fully awake.

“What the fuck-” Virgil shot up in bed, grabbing Mel’s hands almost instinctively for support.

“Looks like it’s a thundersnow,” Mel said thoughtfully.

“A what?”

Another clap of thunder, accompanied by a flash of lightning. Virgil yelped in surprise, this time, earning him a comforting hand on his shoulder from Mel. “You alright?”

“Fine!” He squeaked, “Just fine.”

“Well, the power’s out,” She said, “So if we’re gonna make breakfast, it’ll have to be over the fireplace.”

“Do you need a hand with that?” He kicked his legs over the edge of bed, planting his feet on the ground and stretching up.

“I can get the fire set up and all that-” Mel cringed as his back cracked.

“Sorry.”

“Not a problem, not a problem,” She said, dismissively. “Could you make that stew of yours, though?”

Oh. The stew. He’d made it over the fireplace, once or twice before, with decent success. Not that it was particularly difficult to make, more or less a “sear some stuff and then leave it alone for three hours” type of situation.

He wanted to say no, anyways. Last time he did it, he burned his wrist on the pot and he still had a little scar from it. It was dangerous and difficult to cook over the fireplace, but Mel looked so hopeful and she loved that stew…

“Yeah, alright,” He said, “I can do that.”

Mel sweeped him up into a hug, pressing kisses to his face indiscriminately. “You’re the best,” She said, after landing one right on his eyelid, “Easily the best.”

“That’s high praise coming from my savior.”

When he actually got a chance to look outside, it was a little astonishing. He could hear the wind whistling almost constantly, or the odd clap of thunder in the distance, but he had no idea just how nasty it was, out there.

The world was covered in a haze of white, he couldn’t see the trees of the backwoods or the river that ran through the area they designated as their backyard. It was almost spooky, like the house itself had been isolated from the rest of the world.

He turned his attention back to the cutting board, back to cutting the vegetables they had on hand. Mel was curled up on the couch in their modest living room, warm and cozy by the fire she’d just started, reading something by the soft light of the window.

Yeah, burning his arm again would be worth it, if it came to that. Definitely. Mel worked too hard, too long, too sustained almost constantly. She had no ‘off’ switch, though, he supposed, that is what got them out of Aperture and into town in the first place.

Virgil dropped the vegetables into the almost cauldron-like cooking pot, letting them sizzle satisfyingly. The browned meat sat in a little bowl next to the pot, along with all the stock anyone could ever need. He absentmindedly stirred things around, more aware of Mel’s contented humming than he was his own hands.

Luckily, he didn’t burn himself, this time.

As if on auto-pilot, he put everything left in the pot, one by one, with the exception of the random assortment of root vegetables he’d throw in towards the end. He poured in the stock, covered the pot, and turned to Mel, who opened her blanket and patted the spot next to her.

“Kept your seat warm for you.” She said, grinning.

“Think I could stand to take a nap?”

“I’ll wake you up in two hours,” She said, “Stew smells great, by the way.”

“Thanks, love,” Virgil said, grabbing an extra blanket and curling himself up next to her, falling asleep in her lap.

Virgil woke up to the smell of stew and the sound of bowls being shifted around in the kitchen.

“Mel?” He called to nowhere in particular. Did I wake up in time to add the parsnip?

“You didn’t wake up, I handled the rest of it,” She said, almost reading his mind, “Stew’s done, if you’re hungry.” She handed him a bowl, as he sat up, complete with a piece of toast with butter. She dug in without waiting, putting a spoonful in her mouth and sighing with pleasure. “Christ, this is good…”

He looked down into his bowl, contemplative.

The world was scary, wasn’t it? Terrifying. There was a blizzard out there that could’ve probably killed him, back when he was a core, that would’ve definitely killed him if he was out there, now.

But he wasn’t.

He was warm and safe, in his own home, just him and Mel. Larger than that, they came off the heels of a war, and they were better for it. Would Laurel River have helped them build their home, been so kind as to open their doors for them before the war?

He didn’t think so. From what Mel said about the world, back then, they’d have had white picket fences up and would’ve judged ‘em both for how they dressed and acted, when things were ‘improper’ - whatever that meant. 

He couldn’t help but thank the maker that he was alive, really alive, then. In his home, with the love of his life, safe and warm and eating stew.

He ripped off a small piece of bread and dunked it into the stew, taking his first bite before it went cold. 

She was right, it was pretty good.

#portal #portal stories: mel #mel/virgil #i don't know their ship name #so anyone who does #lemme know please!! #bad things happen bingo #parttwoactuallywrites #virmel

[mishamoonberry]

Metathesiophobia

ERASING IMPOSSIBILITY CH. 18 - FFN

You asked for shorter chapters, here comes shorter chapter. Bc it's shorter, it may not seem like anything is going on in the fic, but things are happening, if not then there wouldn't be anything for me to write, geez. There is always plot development in each chapter. The last chapter's focus is Kishimoto, okay. I'm tired of writing long chapters with perfectly placed climax in each chapter so bear with it okay? Also I'm curious as to why you keep on saying Oro-tan-san… when it's Oro-chan-san lmao.

Anyway, here. Enough about me being salty as fuck.

Here, a new chapter.

Warnings: Oro-chan-san feels, a possible start of slash pairing

It takes me quite awhile to manage to find time and guts to face Orochimaru again. With more and more D-ranks and training and sparring sessions piling upon one another especially with the impending C-rank that shall befall upon us (soon, Minato-sensei said. It is after all, better to experience C-rank at least once before trying out the Chuunin Exams, no matter if it’s an isolated one because of the war), it’s hard to find a leisure time with people other than my teammates and their immediate family or close relatives.

And such, to find a perfect time (and courage) to face the ever so evasive Orochimaru is a bit of a challenge.

Plus, I keep on getting new things to learn from Kishimoto-sensei—he insists I need to learn to make chakra scalpels on my body than only using my hands for combat purposes—and I’ve started on basic sealing with Kushina.

Sealing is fun to learn, even though the calligraphy sometimes hurt my eyes and my brain, but perhaps because Kushina is such an energetic but gentle person—really, she doesn’t babble like Naruto unless she gets too excited—I find it immensely enjoyable to learn from her.

The Uzumaki has promised me to teach me more about stasis seals, which would be immensely useful to keep either corpses or important body parts or even fresh blood for transfusion. That, and also many other stuff. She does tell me I need to be creative; because that’s the bane of fuuinjutsu. Other than the obvious calligraphy and knowledge of sealing as well as its properties, of course.

Minato-sensei has taken to teaching fuuinjutsu to Kakashi, now that Kushina has ‘claimed’ me as hers to teach. He doesn’t seem to dare taking me under his wings for fear of Kushina’s possessive streak that is very sexy, in my humble opinion. Kakashi does lend me the books Minato gave him after he’s done with it though. I am forever baffled on how quick Kakashi can learn about something. Sealing is complicated for me, way more than genjutsu, so to see Kakashi going through books after books is a bit dazzling.

(Perhaps I’m a bit jealous on how he progresses so easily, but then again, he is a genius, isn’t he?)

(I just smile at him; because jealousy is unbecoming and largely unnecessary).

Obito, although curious, ends up not learning fuuinjutsu sans the very basics like storage and exploding seals. Not that he can’t learn it; he just seems to not have the interest for it. However, he does have lessons with Mikoto-sensei who is probably bored beyond belief now that she is no longer in active duty. Despite his dead last moniker, Mikoto-sensei’s gentle but sometimes passive aggressive way of teaching seems to work on him quite well, considering he has managed to produce some more variants of Katon jutsu.

Let it be known that he is no longer allowed to be near the Yamanaka’s flower garden ever again.

(He still pouts over that, the cutie).

(It’s not his fault that he accidentally set almost half of the garden on fire during a spar, he said).

Right now though, I am not with Obito, or Kakashi, or Minato-sensei or even anyone else. I am in front of Orochimaru’s lab, eyes glancing hesitantly to the glass window on the door, which shows me that the lights inside are on, which indicates that Orochimaru is inside.

He doesn’t come outside nor does he invite me to come inside, however.

(“What are you doing, standing there all day,” Orochimaru says, staring down at me as I give him a sheepish grin.

“I haven’t been here all day, Oro-chan-san!” I say, because I just have to counter him on that one, like the suicidal fool that I am. The man does love his dramatics sometimes, and it includes hyperboles, it seems. “It’s probably been three minutes. How do you know I’m outside?”

“There’s something called chakra sensing, child, perhaps you should look it up,” he drawls, looking impatient. I grin at him, a bit awkward now that I realized I should keep on practicing on my stupid chakra sensing skills. “Now what do you want?”

“Oh, well,” I pause, “I heard it’s your birthday!” I say then, breaking out into a smile. I take out a bracelet the shape of a small green-grey colored snake from my back pocket, presenting it to him with both of my palms. “It can work as a small blade too!” It’s hard to get hold of it, in all honesty. I had to ask Mikoto-sensei for pointers of where people sell nice blades—because I couldn’t think of anything else Orochimaru might appreciate; he’ll probably complain if I try to give him books, books that he probably already has read or worse, has zero interest in—and she, quite predictably, sent me to an Uchiha blacksmith near the corner of the clan grounds.

I had to request a specific design that is largely inspired by something I found on the internet Back Then, and it kinda cost me more than it would’ve if I just had given him a pack of kunai, but the result is really good and I’d like to think Orochimaru will appreciate it somehow.

When I look at him, his face is unreadable. Totally blank, and for a moment, I fear for the worst.

“Oro-chan-san?”

His hand reaches out to touch the bracelet, taking it out of my grasp. He looks over the thing for a little while, before his eyes soften a little bit. If I haven’t been looking for it, I wouldn’t have seen it. But I do, and I allow myself to relax.

“Do you like it?” I say quite eagerly, seeing a flash of reluctant amusement in his yellow eyes as he scoffs, turning around to enter the lab without much word, obviously not wanting to answer my question.

The door is left ajar, however.

I grin. It’s an invitation to get inside as much as any.)

My fingers twitch beside me, and I find myself licking my own lips in anticipation. Last time, it took Orochimaru three minutes to get out of the room and inquire me about my presence. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, but surely it must’ve been longer than three minutes somehow.

Is he ignoring me? I feel something heavy sink in my stomach, and I have to bite the bottom of my lip to prevent a frustrated sigh to go out.

I… Kishimoto-sensei did warn me to stay away from Orochimaru. But he had been the normal hissing older man I’ve grown accustomed to the last time I met him and—and—

And I’m just a little bit attached. A little bit. It’s perhaps a huge mistake on my part, to let myself be attached to the grumpy (lonely and hurting and lost) Snake Sannin, but now, when threatened by a possibility of losing him to his insanity and power hungry tendencies, I finally find it very hard to imagine a world where I don’t annoy Orochimaru at least once a week.

I… really have to make sure, to really see it for myself, to determine and to judge. Rinny will be there to help me to be as objective as I can, and if Kishimoto-sensei is really only influenced by the rumors (but why now? Why now, when the rumors must have been circulating around for years?) and not because he finds something odd with Orochimaru, then I can be relieved.

Steeling my resolve, I nod decisively to myself and firmly knocks on the door before twisting the knob open, peeking inside.

“Oro-chan-san?”

Orochimaru is there, his body facing away from me while his head is turned toward me. For a moment, I think that his posture looks a little bit defensive, and when I look at his face, I very nearly falter.

His expression is near flat, eyes guarded and mouth pressed into a thin line. No other expression like the usual exasperation or reluctant amusement that he usually shows around me; just a pure, blank canvas.

It’s a face he shows when he’s facing scared, gossiping civilians.

My eyebrows furrow, and ignoring the hurt at his sudden change in attitude towards me, I step forward. “Oro-chan-san, are you busy?”

He is silent for a moment.

“I am,” he says, then, voice a bit raspy.

My shoulders sag, “Oh.”

Silence.

Is he really avoiding me? I peer up at him, a little bit hesitant, and he looks back steadily, not saying anything, not showing anything.

…Perhaps he’s waiting for something? But what is he waiting for? For me to walk out? To talk to him about something? To start singing a random song?

I do not know what to say, in all honesty, but I have never been one with much filter anyways, not with the people I care about at the very least. Therefore, when I open my mouth next, what comes out from me is pure, blatant truth.

“You know, Kishimoto-sensei told me to stay away from you.”

His expression doesn’t change. “I see.”

“But I won’t!” I add hastily, “Really.” I bit my lip, perhaps having unconsciously stepped closer to the man while I was too focused in my anxiety. “Did you have a fight with Kishimoto-sensei, Oro-chan-san?”

He looks at me, and perhaps I’m imagining it, but his gaze looks kinder.

Rinny, somehow, through all this, doesn’t say a thing.

“Your sensei told me to stay away from me, and you’re going to keep on meeting me, anyway?”

My eyebrows furrow, and I say, “Who I interact with outside of training hours is none of his business, actually.” Seeing surprise flash in his eyes, I continue on talking, “and he’s just my teacher for iryo-ninjutsu; my official sensei is Minato-sensei, you know? And Minato-sensei never seems to mind when I say that I hang out with you sometimes, Oro-chan-san, and you’re my friend!” I tack on in the end, “Friends hang out with each other, right? So”.

I look up at Orochimaru, hopeful, and to my immense relief, the man finally sighs after a few moments of silence, a twitch of his lips and the usual reluctant amusement (relief, Rinny says to me, he’s relieved, too) apparent in his eyes.

“What an annoying, stubborn brat,” he mutters.

I take the kind insult as it is. That doesn’t stop me from pouting though. “Oro-chan-san, that’s mean!”

He rolls his eyes, giving me a gentle tap on top of my head. “What do you want,” he seems to still have the ability to ask a question while sounding like he’s making a statement instead of a question. He and Kakashi are both similar in that way.

I brighten, though, at the thought of Orochimaru indulging me and my whims once again. “Can we eat dinner together?” I ask, making sure to put my best puppy eyes ever.

Orochimaru’s eyebrow twitch in irritation at that pathetic attempt to suck him up, looks at the clock, pulls a face at the 6.30 pm that stares back at him, and finally sighs in defeat.

“Fine.”

“Yay!”

XXX

“Rin?” Kakashi’s voice manages to make me jolt in surprise as I walk side by side with Orochimaru, who is standing to my left, the both of us walking in the food district to find an appealing place for us to eat in. I have been too focused on telling Orochimaru about the D-rank missions I have gone through (he seems to be particularly amused by the Cat Catching Mission) that I failed to register Kakashi’s and Sakumo’s presence a few meters away from the both of us.

Kakashi looks surprised himself, though perhaps by seeing Orochimaru’s presence near me than anything. Sakumo looks a bit surprised (though I myself am surprised; Sakumo has been going outside for a few minutes once a day now to familiarize himself once again with something other than the Hatake Compound walls, but this district is far from the compound. Has he gotten comfortable enough with himself?) But he looks more weary and tired and guilty more than anything.

I can’t help but narrow my eyes at that. Did something happen?

“What’s up, Kakashi?” I say, waving, before literally gets in front of Sakumo to chirp, “and hi, Sakumo-san!”

Sakumo chuckles good naturedly, some of his weariness seeping off of him, “Hello, Rin-chan,” he ruffles my hair, his grey eyes finding Orochimaru’s and he inclines his head. “Orochimaru.”

“Hatake,” Orochimaru replies evenly. “It is good to see you out of the Compound.”

“Ah…. Yes,” Sakumo trails off, looking a bit hesitant thanks to the unsubtle jab Orochimaru just threw at him. I am tempted to stomp on Orochimaru’s feet a little bit, because that was rude, Oro-chan-san! “I’m afraid we’ve run out of groceries, so Kakashi and I thought of eating take outs, you see.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, smiling, “Same! Oro-chan-san and I,” Sakumo raises an eyebrow at the nickname, flicking an amused glance toward Orochimaru who looks a little bit longsuffering, “are gonna eat in a restaurant too! How about if we go eat together?”

Kakashi mumbles something.

“Huh?”

He huffs, letting out a bitter, “We can’t. Nobody allows dad to eat inside.”

Silence. Sakumo looks to the side, avoiding my startled gaze.

(Behind me, Orochimaru stares at Sakumo, at his hunched shoulders, the darkness in his eyes, the downward pull of his lips and thinks—

Ah.

He knows how this feels, doesn’t he?)

I feel a surge of rage inside of me, and looking at Kakashi’s eyes, I’m sure he must have the same opinion as I.

Those fucking, self absorbed, gossiping bastards.

I hate them.

Forcefully calming myself down, because blowing up here won’t do anyone any good other than embarrassing myself, I settle with sighing. “Well, we’re going to the Akimichi’s BBQ place,” I say, staring at Sakumo’s eyes. “I’m sure they’re not that stupid to turn you away, Sakumo-san.”

Sakumo’s smile seems a bit strained. “It’s okay, Rin-chan, we can just—“

“Sure,” Kakashi cuts him off, hands in his pockets. He blinks at Sakumo’s startled look, cocking his head. “…What? I want some BBQ. And… It doesn’t hurt to try.”

Sakumo hesitates. “I… guess.”

“C’mon,” I grab Kakashi’s hand, leading him forward. I cackle, ignoring his startled shout. “The last one there pays for all of us!”

“No way in hell.”

XXX

“Hatake,” Orochimaru calls again, inclining his head. Beside him, Sakumo tears his amused gaze away from the bickering children and inclines his head in return.

“Orochimaru. I did not know you’re that close to Rin-chan.”

Orochimaru hums. He won’t say that they’re particularly close. Despite meeting rather frequently than most—than even his old teammates and his own teacher—they don’t really know each other inside out like how he knows (knew) his teammates.

But Rin is kind, fierce and loyal, determinedly so, if how she stubbornly decides that Orochimaru is still worth hanging out with is any indication.

Orochimaru won’t say it, but he’s relieved, perhaps, that this bright young girl who tackles him and calls him with a cutesy nickname not fit with his reputation thinks he’s worth hanging out with, that he’s worth spending time with, with no strings attached, with no other ulterior motives behind it.

That Rin, who reminds him of Tsunade and Jiraiya in equal measures (don’t compare her to them, his mind hisses, if she’s the same as them, she’ll leave. She’s not the same as them, she’s not she’s not she’snotshesnot—), who cares and cares and cares is still bright and there, smiling up at him and trusting him and—

Even after Kishimoto, after him telling her to stay away—

(“I see a monster,” he said, and it rings inside of his head for days and days to come. Sometimes it will be Kishimoto, and civilians, and fellow shinobi.)

(Other times, he thinks he hears her).

(“Monster,” he’ll hear her say. “Monster, monster, monstermonstermonster—“)

She chooses to stay.

She chooses him.

(“You’re my friend”).

Orochimaru’s gaze softens, his hand reaching toward his left wrist decorated with a snake-shaped bracelet. “She’s more like a nuisance than anything, honestly,” he says, expertly ignoring how Sakumo’s lips curves into a knowing smile, walking alongside the former legend as they watch the children, in which Kakashi has somehow find it necessary to smack Rin’s head, the latter letting out an exaggerated whine. “You don’t seem to mind her, yourself.”

“Ah?” Sakumo blinks, “Well, she is my son’s best friend.”

“I see.”

Orochimaru glances at him, the person who is almost as popular as Orochimaru when it comes to nasty gossips, with whispers and talks about how he’s a traitor, a shameful man, a failure of a shinobi and so on and so forth. With one failure, they easily forgets the White Fang’s contribution to the village, forgets his sacrifices and his many triumphs, his many successful missions that brought forth many good things for the village.

Just one failure, and now he’s nothing but a village trash.

Perhaps he can say that it will get better, only that it’s a lie and it’s not like he cares about it, really.

(Perhaps he should feel guilty for the satisfaction rushing in his veins at the thought of someone else bearing the same treatment as him. Perhaps he should feel guilty for feeling glad that he’s not the only one in this god damned village to bear that sort of hate and scrutiny.

Perhaps.

But Orochimaru isn’t really one for guilt, is he?)

“She saved me,” Sakumo’s voice brings him back to reality, and Orochimaru blinks slowly. The White Fang murmurs, “I thought I would have no one left. My own son turned against me and it was only thanks to her that he forgave me for my mistakes.” He shifts his gaze toward the Snake Sannin, his eyes knowing, “She’s a very special girl, isn’t she?”

Orochimaru thinks of her eyes. Her knowing and patient eyes, how she assesses him and perhaps finding something in him that allows her to smile at him, her eyes that sometimes look too kind, too understanding, too old, too old for her age—

“An old soul,” he says. And then, as if in an attempt to amend for something, continues with a mutter, “Still a huge brat”.

Sakumo stares at him for a moment longer, slightly wide eyes blinking a few times before a chuckle breaks out from his lips, his eyes crinkling and  dimples appearing as he smiles wide and—

Oh.

Oh.

That smile reminds him of Rin, too.

(Did she learn it from him?)

“I’d say Rin-chan is very talented and smart for her own age,” Sakumo chuckles, “but an old soul works too.”

Orochimaru rolls his eyes.

“I think Rin-chan said once that you’re apparently very dramatic,” the tone is teasing, and Orochimaru wonders for a moment since when has the man beside him decide he’s good enough to be this familiar with him.

(But Rin did this too, didn’t she?)

(This overly familiar approach, this easy smiles and teases).

(Isn’t that why he likes her?)

“Watch your mouth, Hatake,” Orochimaru drawls out, “I will not hesitate to show you just how dramatic I can be.”

The Hatake raises his arms, “I apologize,” he smiles softly, and Orochimaru once again wonders how many gestures the girl has unconsciously learned from her best friend’s father. “I did not mean to offend you.”

Orochimaru doesn’t grace him with a reply, and at that moment Rin chooses to shout.

“Oro-chan-saaaaaaaan! Sakumo-san! Hurry! I’m hungry!”

He exhales sharply, striding forward to flick the girl sharply with his finger.

“Ow! What was that for, Oro-chan-san?!”

“For yelling in the middle of the street.”

“But—“ He steps into the restaurant, ignoring her.

The sound of Sakumo’s snickers and Rin’s whines are like bells to his ears.

XXX

So.

The Orochimaru angst fest is done. Sort of. He has found an established foundation in Rin’s circle of friends now—he mostlikely won’t doubt her loyalty to him until much later on when things get messy (coughspoilerscough)—and his trust in her is immense. He knows she won’t betray him unless he gives her a reason to. (In which, I’m sure we all know what the reason could be).

Also, I’m thinking of doing SakuOro, but it’s still a plan; it might end up as this close friendship between two shunned legendary shinobi, or it might end up with kisses, idk. Tell me what you think about it.

Also, did you notice Rin internally calls Obito cute a lot of times nowadays? ;)

If you don’t, it’s okay because she doesn’t notice it either.

Next chapter, we’re going to have more genin children bickering and having fun with each other!

We’re getting closer to their first C-rank, so wait for it!

#erasing impossibility #self insert #misha writes #naruto #nohara rin

[ma-ng]

come back for me (vi)

chapters: i. , ii. , iii. , iv. , v. , vi.

ao3 link for those who prefer

next chapter will be dealing with yoongi getting used to things and school, which i'm sure a lot of you have been waiting a while for, lmao.

vi. reunion

taehyung sits on the counter in the kitchen, close to the sink, because that’s what he does when he can’t sleep. he clambers out of his bed and pulls on his psyduck slippers, and toddles into the kitchen to find something that’ll make him sleepy. back home, he used to drink milk or juice. sometimes he’d get chocolate milk if his mother remembered to buy some. it didn’t happen often, though. but he didn’t complain. there was always milk.

it’s weird, though. because he’s not wearing his slippers this time. all he’s got are socks on his feet, and his toes feel really cold. he tries to pull them up onto the counter with the rest of him so he can wrap his small fingers around them in an effort to warm them up—

“yah!”

he jumps, almost toppling off the counter. instead, he grabs the edge and drops his feet. the ground doesn’t reach up to him for a hug and he’s left staring owlishly at jinyoung, standing by the fridge. he blinks, and he wants to hug jinyoung, because he’s missed him. but he also wants to ask jinyoung to help the woman out with her husband, because he likes helping.

nothing that he wants happens, though, and he watches silently as jinyoung opens the fridge, tutting.

“taehyung, we don’t put dirty feet on the kitchen worktop,” the man says, pulling something from the fridge and closing it behind him. it looks like a carton from where taehyung’s sitting. “it’s not clean. and we have to prepare food on that. do you want to eat dirty food?” jinyoung asks, looking at him.

taehyung shakes his head.

“no, you don’t.” jinyoung grabs a glass from a cupboard above him and unscrews the lid to the carton. pink splashes into glass about halfway before it stops. “nobody wants to eat dirty food. so we don’t put our feet on the counter.”

the adult screws the lid on the carton once more and places it down, offering the glass of pink to taehyung. the five-year-old accepts it without thought and brings it to his lips even though he doesn’t know what it is. and he can’t ask, even though he wants to so badly. he tries. he tries to stop his hands from raising the glass to his lips, tries to even speak a simple hyung but nothing happens. it’s almost like his body won’t let him choose.

he wants to whimper when pink fills his mouth and he swallows, but all he does is sit and watch jinyoung return the carton to the fridge. jinyoung crosses his arms and stands with his back straight in the middle kitchen. taehyung realises it isn’t jinyoung’s kitchen. it’s too big and not the right shape.

“now, taehyung, we have something important to talk about, okay?” jinyoung says, and the woman dressed in the long black dress with the veil covering her face steps into the kitchen. taehyung isn’t sure where she stepped in from. “you’re being adopted.”

by now, there’s very little pink left in the glass, and it completely vanishes by the time the woman has held her hands in front of her, stopping next to jinyoung. he wants to ask jinyoung if he’s adopting him. he puts the glass down in the sink and sits there quietly like a good boy.

he thinks jinyoung says a name, but he doesn’t hear right, like static from a tv. “—wants to adopt you,” jinyoung says and he smiles but it’s all wrong. it’s not jinyoung’s smile. “you like her house, don’t you? you came here by yourself because it’s much better than hyung’s house, right?”

taehyung wants to tell him no. he didn’t do it because he didn’t want to live at jinyoung’s house. he didn’t run away. he came because he wanted to help. he stares emotionlessly at the woman next to jinyoung.

“—has so graciously decided that she’s going to accept you into her family. you’ll be able to stay here till you grow old, now. yoongi can be your brother, now.”

and yoongi steps into the kitchen, too. his face is wrong. his face is wrong as in it’s not there. like a stretched canvas for a painting. it’s just plain white, paler than his skin, like a smudge someone wiped clean with a rubber. he stops next to the woman, who stretches out her hand and places it on his shoulder.

“your parents don’t want you anymore, you see, and since my home isn’t nice enough, you can stay here.” jinyoung isn’t smiling anymore. he doesn’t look angry, face weirdly impassive for how loaded his words are. “you can run around on creaky floorboards all day and play with yoongi and try and help —, can’t you?”

taehyung’s scared.

“I’ll tell everyone about your decision.” jinyoung sighs and shakes his head. “seokjin will be so disappointed. he was looking forward to showing you something he coloured, but since you’re not going to come with me, you won’t need to see them again, will you? such a shame. such a big shame.”

taehyung wants to cry. so he does.

    “taetae!”

yoongi’s face looks blurry and panicked. but he has eyes and a nose and a mouth. his hair is messy and his hands are grasping taehyung’s arms and only then does taehyung realise his cheeks are wet and his eyes are watery and his lips are wobbling.

“hyung,” he sobs and lunges at yoongi with a little difficulty from his position. he wraps his arms tightly around yoongi’s neck and presses his face into his shoulder before he can even think about where he is, what time it is or what either of them were doing before now.

the eleven-year-old freezes but then holds the child back as tight as he can. he pulls him close and doesn’t say anything, just lets taehyung cry into his shoulder and rocks the two of them gently. taehyung feels a little less scared.

“hyung, you—” it’s difficult to talk, his voice muffled, nose running. it’s nice when yoongi doesn’t shush him, but just lets him try and talk through the constant sniffling and wobbling voice. he’s not really sure what he’s trying to say anyway, and decides that crying might be better.

“it’s alright, taetae,” yoongi murmurs and it’s close to his ear and so soothing. he tries to quiet down his crying so he can hear, but it’s a lot harder than he thought it would be. “hyung’s here, you’re not alone.”

taehyung doesn’t really understand how yoongi managed to hit the nail on the head. hearing the older boy say the words out loud makes him tremble and cling tighter. it takes him ten more minutes to calm down, which ends in yoongi grabbing tissues from the kitchen as quickly as possible and dabbing at the five-year-old’s face, while said little boy clings to his sleeve with one hand as tight as he possibly can.

there’s three scrunched up tissues on the coffee table by the time taehyung’s face is dry, and the two are curled around each other on the sofa. taehyung has gripped yoongi’s shirt in both of his fists, knuckles white with the strain, and he hasn’t stopped trembling.

“I want to go home, hyung,” he whispers, turning his head and pressing his face into yoongi’s chest. “I want to go home.”

“I know, taetae, I know.” there’s a warm hand rubbing up and done his back gently and it just makes taehyung cling tighter. “hyung will make sure you get home.”

with the terrifying dream forcing him to feel unease at everything in the house, taehyung tries to keep as close to yoongi as he possibly could. and it’s easy for a while, because the two of them stay on the sofa that taehyung had fallen asleep on after lunch and they don’t do much. yoongi did offer to turn the tv on, but with the five-year-old’s lack of enthusiasm, he decided against it. instead, the two just stay curled up and content in each other’s presence. yoongi’s kind enough that he even lets taehyung toddle alone when he goes to the bathroom.

but then the woman has yoongi doing chores that she doesn’t let taehyung toddle after him during.

and all taehyung can think is that it’s really mean of the woman. can’t she see that he doesn’t feel okay? that he’s sad? doesn’t she care that yoongi makes him feel a little better and safer? the answer is quite obviously no, to all of them. because when the boy timidly tugs on her black dress and fiddles with his fingers, asking her if he can watch yoongi clean the kitchen — which isn’t too big of a thing to ask, he doesn’t think — she just smiles and ruffles his hair.

“no, child. I don’t want you distracting him more than he already seems to be.” she clasps both of her hands in front of her and taehyung bits the inside of his cheek to keep his bottom lip from wobbling. “you’d just get in the way, anyway. and you’re much too young to help out and do a good job at cleaning. no, you’ll just have to go back to yoongi’s room and wait for him there, okay? when he’s finished all his chores, I’ll send him to you. okay?”

taehyung doesn’t really have much he can argue against her, because she’s the adult here. and he knows that what an adult says goes. so he just nods and tries not to look too sad as he turns around and toddles slowly up the stairs.

cleaning the kitchen can’t be that important a job, he thinks. it can’t be that difficult, either. he’s five! he’s not a baby anymore, he could help out. and he has small hands, he thinks, looking down at them when he reaches the top of the stairs. they could help reach places that yoongi couldn’t. and he knows not to try and drink any of the stuff you use for cleaning. he wouldn’t get in the way, he knows it. he wants to say all of this to her.

yoongi’s bedroom is exactly how the two left it. almost.

the lady from before sits on yoongi’s bed. her shoulders are slouched and her hair hangs in front of her face. taehyung doesn’t think she’s crying this time, but there’s something very sad about her nonetheless. he looks behind himself, checking that the hall is indeed empty except for him, and then steps inside and closes the door, as if he’s on some kind of mission. but he’s allowed to be in yoongi’s room. hell, he was sent to yoongi’s room, so he doesn’t need to worry.

the lady hasn’t looked at him yet. she should know she’s not alone by now, at least. taehyung wasn’t exactly quiet when he closed the door and he always gets this weird feeling when someone stares at him for too long. but there’s nothing. licking his lips, he wanders closer and very gently puts a hand on her arm. or tries to.

the hand goes through her, making him yank it back as quickly as he can, eyes wide. the lady lifts her head and even if she isn’t crying, there are tear marks down her cheeks. her eyes look a little puffy, and taehyung feels even sadder just looking at her.

“you’re going home,” she says. her voice is the same as it was earlier in the day, still raspy. it takes him a moment to realise what she’s saying, and when he does, he tugs on his fingers uncertainly. “you’re going home.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, because that’s all he can manage right now.

she’s staring him right in the eye. she reaches out with one of her hands and cups his cheek, palm surprisingly solid against his skin. there is nothing malicious about her expression, about the way she looks at him. it’s almost soft, he thinks, and it makes him tug at his own fingers harder.

“you’re going home,” she says again, like she’s trying to sooth him, like she’s reassuring him that he can leave after a long day. there’s a sad smile on her face. it looks weird. people shouldn’t be able to smile when they’re sad, right? “please, take my son with you.”

taehyung forces himself to let go of his fingers and breathes sharply through his nose. he doesn’t move away from the hand when she starts to stroke his cheek with her thumb. “what— what son?”

there’s a fondness on her face that he thinks only a mother could have. a caring mother, mind you. a nice mother. a mother who cares for the health of her children and, ultimately, for others she sees wandering around discovering the world at their own pace. something feels warm in his chest and he wants to just crawl onto her lap and maybe stay there for a few hours until he feels better. and maybe, if he was older, he’d think it worrying that he feels more comfort and safety in somebody else’s mother’s presence than his own. but because he’s five, all he’s thinking about is how much he wants a hug right now.

“my son,” the lady says. her other hand comes up to cup his other cheek and she smiles wider and sadder. it still doesn’t make too much sense to taehyung. “he is good and he can do good.” she leans closer and tilts his head, softly pressing a kiss to his forehead.

taehyung watches her with wide eyes, lips parted and mouth open like he does when he loses himself in concentration sometimes.

she whispers, “save my son.”

the wall that slowly drifts into focus isn’t nearly as interesting as the lady’s face, even if he wanted her to stop smiling because it didn’t make him feel good. not like how smiles usually make him feel. he blinks and reaches out to move his hands in the space where she once was, not entirely understanding how she could be there one moment and then gone the next. twisting this way and that, he quickly looks around yoongi’s bedroom until he sees the door is open. he definitely closed it when he came in, and even so, the woman told him he couldn’t help out in the kitchen, but she didn’t really say he couldn’t go elsewhere. not really. she just asked him to stay in yoongi’s room. she didn’t ask very nicely, but still.

his socked feet make muted thuds as he walks down the hall towards the stairs. his elbow still stings a little under the plaster but it’s okay. it’s taken care of. so he concentrates on walking up the stairs and ignoring the lack of sound anywhere else in the house. because he is a floor above, you see, and that means that he’s not going to hear people downstairs. but he thinks about yoongi cleaning the kitchen and doesn’t think much else.

the lady is waiting for him halfway down the hall. she smiles when she sees him and turns around, walking off. in three steps she vanishes completely once more and the second door on the left clicks open several inches.

and there’s kim taehyung, a five-year-old medium, standing at the top of the second set of stairs inside an old house owned by someone he’s never met with the idea to try and help as much as he can. though he can’t do much. he can’t do much of anything, really. he’s a kid. and he knows that, of course he knows, but if you help someone, they’re going to want to help you back in the future, right? and if everyone’s helping everyone else then nobody would have to worry about being stuck. very simple logic, you see.

so, taehyung walks forward with the intention of pushing the door open wider and stepping inside. he doesn’t know what he’s going to do inside, but the nice lady wants him there, wants him to see the ill man again. and he likes her. so he will.

the door opens wider and a body pushes through, forcing him to stop in his tracks. beom-seok stares down at him in surprise for a second before it melts into annoyance. he closes the door behind him without taking his eyes off of taehyung. the five-year-old swallows and takes a small step back without thinking about it. beom-seok hasn’t done anything, technically, that could be considered reason enough to put the child at unease, but it feels like beom-seok doesn’t need a reason.

“what are you doing here?” beom-seok says, crossing his arms over his chest.

taehyung darts his attention to the door behind the man momentarily and swallows nervously at the narrowed eyes he’s met with.

“you were told to stay in yoongi’s room,” beom-seok sneers and walks forward. he frees his hands and starts shooing at taehyung but never actually touches him. “there’s nothing for you to do up here.”

“but—”

“I don’t care,” beom-seok says sharply and makes a forceful shooing motion, going so far as to point jerkily behind taehyung towards the stairs. “you’re to stay in yoongi’s room. yoongi’s. room. you got that?”

taehyung’s scared for the second time that day. he nods quickly and spins on the balls of his feet, almost tripping as one of his socks get caught on the wooden floor. he doesn’t land on the floor but his face is hot and his heart is pounding and he doesn’t like it. he really doesn’t like it, doesn’t like beom-seok, doesn’t like this house. he wants to find yoongi and leave. he wants to take yoongi to meet jinyoung and kunpimook and seokjin.

he wants to go home.

when taehyung reaches the bottom of the stairs, he starts for yoongi’s room without even thinking. but he halts halfway there and looks behind him, staring at the empty stairs. beom-seok hasn’t followed him down. beom-seok is still upstairs and has no idea where taehyung actually is. beom-seok won’t know if taehyung chooses, instead, to creep over to the stairs and hide in the small gap between them and the wall, ready to sneak back up the stairs and into the ill man’s room once the coast is clear.

being five means that registering the passage of time is hard, and actually knowing how long a minute is even harder, so the small boy has no idea how long he’s been waiting for beom-seok to come down. all he does know, is that it takes long enough for him to get so nervous that when the relief at seeing the man tread loudly down the stairs is noticeable. beom-seok walks down the hall and sends a look to yoongi’s bedroom door — a look taehyung really doesn’t like and doesn’t want to ever see again — before he disappears to the first floor.

taehyung takes this opportunity and squeezes out of the gap, crawling on all fours up the stairs for greater speed, determination set into his face. the idea of getting caught a second time by beom-seok might scare him to death but the lady wanted him to go to see the ill man again. and taehyung likes her.

this time, he wastes no time to jog up to the door, pulling it open and pushing it closed in the blink of an eye. he stares at his own hand clasped around the door handle, breathing just a little erratic because he’s still so scared and nervous and uncomfortable. but he’s doing this. as a favour to the lady, he thinks, letting go of the handle and turning around to face the room. she’s a lot nicer to him than the others. so she deserves to be treated nicely, too.

and she’s standing right there. beside the bed, hunched over it just a little. from where he’s standing, taehyung thinks he sees one of her hands cupping the man’s cheek, the other pressing against the mattress close to his shoulder. the man isn’t looking at her, instead he seems to be attempting to push himself up into a position that will allow him to see who’s entered his room this time.

taehyung blinks and catches his gaze, holding it even when the lady moves and he wants to look at her. the man slumps back against the bed, eyes closing slightly. taehyung wonders if he’s happy it’s the five-year-old boy he’s never actually met before standing in his room and not someone else.

the room is just as dim as it was the last time he was in here, with the curtains drawn and the window closed. the air’s a little musty and taehyung thinks he can smell something a little weird, but trying to air it out would mean probably running back into beom-seok, and he really doesn’t want that.

the man doesn’t say anything, just watches taehyung stand there. and now taehyung is nervous and doesn’t know why he’s here, because the lady might have been telling him to come here, or she might have just wanted to visit here and he decided to tag along uninvited. he should give the man a reason as to why he’s here. it’d be rude to just turn around and leave. really rude, and he wasn’t brought up to be rude.

the lady is looking softly at the man in the bed, and she reaches out to gently run the backs of her fingers along his cheek. the man in the bed starts just as softly.

taehyung’s not really sure why he says it, because it isn’t good manners. but watching the lady be tender shoves something inside of him, he thinks. “I don’t like the woman who lives here.”

the man looks at him. he shuffles about in bed a little, pushing up his pillow enough that he can rest comfortably at an angle, making it easier for him and the boy to see each other without having to get too close. “I don’t, either.”

the man’s voice isn’t pleasant to listen to, and taehyung thinks it might not be pleasant to talk with, either. “but you married her.”

there’s a beat of silence where the man sighs loudly and closes his eyes for a minute, almost like he’s thinking hard. “she’s not my wife.”

“I don’t understand,” the boy mumbles, fiddling with the hem of his top to stop himself from biting at his lips. yoongi told him not to do it.

“I mean that’s not the spirit that I fell in love with,” the man says, hands resting limply in his lap. “that’s not my wife’s soul.”

taehyung stares at the lady who’s covered her mouth with her hands, fresh tears cascading down her cheeks. but she looks happy, and he doesn’t really understand why. “you mean,” he says, looking back at the man, “she’s changed?”

he doesn’t get a nod or a shake of the head as a response. instead, the man explains, “she’s possessed.”

when taehyung says nothing, fingers stilling in their fidgeting for just a moment, the man takes this as the boy not understanding, and adds, “another spirit is inside of her, controlling her. she’s not my wife anymore.”

“oh,” is all the five-year-old manages for a moment, looking thoughtful and just a little lost with the slight frown to his face. he looks away from the man to the lady again, who doesn’t bother wiping her face when she falls to her knees beside the bed, reaching out to take one of the man’s hands in her own. “she, um. spirits can do that?”

“only bad spirits.” the man’s voice is a little shaky, whether that’s because he’s ill or the lady is holding his hand taehyung doesn’t know. “bad spirits that don’t have a body of their own.”

he’s already feeling weird, because if bad spirits can come and take people’s bodies for themselves, are any of them safe? could the woman decide she doesn’t like the black dress anymore and decide that she wants taehyung’s body instead, to go back as him with jinyoung and live his life for him? does it work like that? what would jinyoung think if he knew taehyung was trying to help a bad spirit? taehyung feels like crying.

“I think she’s using me.”

the boy looks up and blinks through stinging eyes at the man in the bed. the lady rests her head on the mattress close to the man’s thighs. the man is staring straight at him. “I think she needs me to live. I feel weaker every time she’s in here.”

and this is too much now. this is way too much for a five-year-old boy who can see ghosts and doesn’t really understand too much of how everything works except enough that even in his realm of life this isn’t good and this is bad and he should get out of here as quickly as he possibly can. so that’s exactly what he does; he turns around and yanks the bedroom door open, running down the hall and down the stairs.

the door to the man’s bedroom is open but taehyung doesn’t care. he’s not quiet running down the stairs or down the hall either. he runs past yoongi’s bedroom door, still closed, and makes his way down the second flight of stairs. the woman said that yoongi was cleaning the kitchen, so that’s where he’s going to find yoongi and beg the older boy to help take him home because he’s scared and just wants to go home.

instead of finding yoongi in the kitchen, beom-seok is pulling something out of the fridge. it’s unlucky, really, because from where he’s standing, there’s no way he doesn’t see taehyung. a minute of silence filled with stares pass, beom-seok looking too caught in surprise to see taehyung down there and not in yoongi’s room to do much, and taehyung much too scared to want to try something. maybe beom-seok will take him to see yoongi since he can see just how upset the five-year-old is.

no such luck.

“I thought we said you were supposed to stay in yoongi’s room until we said otherwise,” beom-seok starts slowly, words picking up speed once the surprise wears off. the familiar frown is once more on his face, the fridge door now shut, and taehyung gets a sinking feeling that he’s not going to get the help he wants. “do you always disobey your elders?”

taehyung shakes his head. “n-no, I—”

“you’re being incredibly bad right now, do you know that?” beom-seok walks towards him and puts his hands on his hips. “do you even have an excuse as to why you’re out of yoongi’s room?”

the fear increases in the small child and he chews on his tongue, unable to stop his nervous habit from breaking out. the silence doesn’t please beom-seok, who huffs very loudly and makes taehyung wince.

“I didn’t think so. you’re being bad and you don’t even have a flimsy reason why.” he shoots out a hand, grasping taehyung by his arm and none-too-gently starts dragging the little boy out of the kitchen and across the living room. “you’re in trouble.”

you can’t really blame the small boy from not fighting against beom-seok’s strong hold. he’s still very scared and feels more like a child now than he ever has before. he feels small and powerless, nervous and uncomfortable and just wants to go home. maybe jinyoung will let him sleep in his bed with him. jinyoung will see how scared he is and what he wants and will give him everything. he will. but now isn’t the time or place for that. beom-seok is taking him to the woman, he knows now, spying her dress before he sees her veil covered face.

“beom-seok?” she asks, and she sounds irritated. it makes taehyung shrink where he stands when the two of them finally stop, head ducking once the woman looks at him. “why have you brought him?”

“he rushed into the kitchen,” beom-seok says. taehyung expects him to sound smug, but the annoyance from before is still there. “and I found him on the third floor of the house twenty minutes ago.”

the woman stares at taehyung. he doesn’t need to see her face to know that there isn’t a happy expression painted on it. she shifts out of the chair she was sat in, the movement making taehyung quickly look away nervously, which allows him to look around briefly at where he is. it looks like a small library-come-office that he sees in movies a lot. ones filled with books that the owner doesn’t let anyone other than them read because they hold secrets or something. the woman steps in front of him and crouches down enough that the two of them are almost the same height.

“why didn’t you wait in yoongi’s room like I told you to?”

her voice is sickly sweet and makes the five-year-old feel sick, wanting nothing more than to down a glass of water or wander over to the bathroom and sit close to the toilet in preparation. he keeps up his silence by not answering her but feels unable to look away from her hidden face. nerves bubble up at the idea of not acknowledging her at all. he feels it would end worse than if he just stays quiet.

“child,” she snaps, and even though he’s watching her he jumps where he stands, arm tugging a little in beom-seok’s grip. “I’m talking to you. why didn’t you wait in yoongi’s room like I told you to?”

taehyung doesn’t say anything.

the woman lets out a large huff and stands straight, hands clasped in front of her. taehyung thinks that she’s pursing her lips at him. “Since you haven’t been helpful at all this afternoon and can’t seem to follow orders at all, I think you should be grounded to yoongi’s room without dinner and we’ll see if you deserve breakfast when you wake up.”

she sits down once more, turning away from the both of them, and beom-seok tightens his grip on taehyung’s arm. the man drags the boy away from the library-come-office and through the living room again, up the stairs and into yoongi’s room. he pushes taehyung inside a little more forceful than necessary, making him stumble. before he can look at beom-seok, the door slams closed behind him loudly and he thinks that maybe it locks. isn’t that what happens in movies? when the kids misbehave, adults lock them in a room somewhere so they won’t go anywhere?

he’s still a scared little five-year-old, so he moves to the wall and turn the lights on. it’s not really dark enough to need the lights on, but he doesn’t want to be caught out in darkness, no matter where he is. he really doesn’t like the dark. in the dark, monsters can come up and visit him, like the one that kept insulting him back at jinyoung’s home, and the one that kept giving him nightmares until he had to crawl into bed with jinyoung because he didn’t feel safe. no, the darkness isn’t nice, and he doesn’t want it.

crawling onto yoongi’s bed, he sits against the headboard and brings his knees up close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. it can’t be too long before yoongi comes back to his room, right? she probably got him to clean something else, maybe one of the bathrooms. it can’t take this long to clean a kitchen to her standards, right? he chews on the corner of his bottom lip and resists the urge to rock back and forth on the bed. everything’s fine. yoongi will come back soon and he’ll ask him for hugs, and he’ll get hugs, and yoongi will help take him home.

he remembers what yoongi told him, about thinking of jinyoung and seokjin. seokjin who stayed with him when he cried and drew the both of them and coloured in as many pictures as he could to give to taehyung so he could put them up in his bedroom when he got home. jinyoung who let him nap on him while he read, who gave him nice dreams and took him out into the world and let him have sweet breakfasts as many times as cereal was poured into bowls. and yugyeom. he can’t forget yugyeom. because yugyeom always tells jokes and chases him and seokjin around and always shows them little tricks and gentle pranks on jinyoung that ends with the four of them grinning.

he thinks about the three of them, and wonders about kunpimook’s snake, about mark’s tattoos, about jaebum’s plants. he thinks about yoongi meeting them all and hanging out with them. he thinks about the kindergarten school he used to go to, and wonders if he’ll ever have to go to school when he’s with jinyoung. he thinks about his parents and his brother and wonders if he’ll go back to them when he runs away from here.

he wants to run away from here.

there’s a creak outside the room and taehyung jumps. he hasn’t changed his position in all the time he’s been thinking and daydreaming, and he really doesn’t have a good grasp on time because it’s dark outside yoongi’s bedroom window. he can’t focus on it. he’s staring at the bedroom door, holding his breath, ready to launch at yoongi when he enters and ask the older boy if he’ll run away with him.

the creaking gets louder until it’s right outside the door, and then continues on and goes down the hall.

taehyung deflates, breathing out deeply and loudly. he can’t stop the downturn to his lips and the hope dying in his chest. he wants yoongi to come back really badly. he misses his friend, and he doesn’t think that the woman is doing him any good. he’s been gone for hours now — taehyung is pretty sure he’s got that right — and what if she never gave him a break? what if he’s tired or hungry?

biting at his bottom lip again and again, the five-year-old clambers off the bed and makes his way to the bedroom door. he turns the handle and slowly opens it, happy that it wasn’t locked, and pokes his head out. the hallway is empty and dark. he doesn’t want to go out, wants to stay in the sliver of light that is cast by the open bedroom door. but he’s got to find yoongi, he needs to make sure that he’s okay.

taking a deep breath, he opens the door wider and walks out. the floor creaks a little under his feet, not as much from before when whoever walked down here, but it’s enough to make him scared that he’ll get caught. he walks down the stairs as quickly as he can, looking around wildly at the dark living room. he creeps over to the kitchen and the bathroom but finds no sign of anybody. no beom-seok, no woman, no yoongi. he’s kind of lost, especially in the little light inside the house, so he’s not sure how he manages to find himself drawn towards a sudden light cast on the floor.

he stops in the doorway of the library-come-office from before. his eyes widen. with a small, alert squeak he runs forward and drops to his knees, wincing at the shock that zips up the bone, placing his hands on yoongi’s shoulder and giving a soft shove.

“hyung?”

yoongi’s lying face-down, curled up just a little, body limp and eyes closed. his skin looks pale and feels clammy. taehyung makes a face and wipes his hands on his jeans when he touches the other boy’s face. he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know if he goes to the woman if she’ll help. he doesn’t think she will. he doesn’t think she’ll believe him. but he doesn’t know how to contact jinyoung. he’s lost.

“ah, child. you’ve found your friend.”

taehyung whips his head up and, when he finds no-one in front of him, he looks over his shoulder. the woman stands behind him while he catches just a little of beom-seok closing the door behind her. well. he looks slowly back up at the woman, at the veil that covers her face, and swallows loudly.

“it’s nice of you to come and check on yoongi, isn’t it?” she says and taehyung shifts closer until he’s pressed as tightly against yoongi’s limp form as he can. “you were worried about him, weren’t you? about cleaning a big nasty kitchen with all the horrible dirt.”

on top of feeling unsafe and uncomfortable, taehyung can’t help but feel like she’s mocking him, now, talking to him as if he doesn’t understand half of the korean language already. as if he’s a baby who can’t speak. he’s five, he understands things. that’s why he knows that the woman isn’t a good person, and the sooner he and yoongi get out of her presence, the better.

“but you don’t have to worry. he’s been with me the whole time.” and taehyung thinks she’s smiling. “I made sure he had supervision all the time.”

goosebumps rise all over his body, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end when the woman raises her hands to grasp her veil, pulling it up and resting it over her head, showing her face. the sound of a piercing scream runs through the five-year-old’s body, the agony and sadness the sound held giving way to sobs that, even though muffled, make taehyung think that someone just watched somebody else die in front of their eyes. but he can’t think about that now.

the woman’s face is a nightmare.

she grins at him wide. so wide. teeth an impossibility of jagged edges and gaps, not the colour teeth should be. taehyung can’t look away, can’t turn, and it scares him even more that he’s stuck there, stuck in fear. the only thing he can do is reach out and pat blindly along the floor until he grasps yoongi’s limp hand tight enough to bruise.

“oh, isn’t that a shame,” the woman says. she can’t be a woman, taehyung thinks, women don’t look like that. “I think my husband just died. seems like your help didn’t do much after all.”

he wants to say that it’s all her fault, that she’s the reason he’s dead. but she’s really scary, she’s all of the nightmares he’s ever had right there and right in front of him. she’s touched him and she’s done something to yoongi, and the lady is still sobbing several stories above them. because he knows it’s the lady. he knows now. the lady was the man’s husband. the woman in front of him is something he doesn’t really understand, something he doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand.

“but you can still help, you know,” she says, and she starts walking slowly towards the two of them. “you can help by taking his place, kim taehyung.”

the five-year-old feels like he’s made of ice. she knows his name. the woman knows his name and she wants to suck the life out of him or control his body or make him a ghost. and he doesn’t want that. he wants to live so badly. he wants jinyoung and seokjin and yoongi and yugyeom. he wants to meet banana and have mark tattoo him and feed jaebum’s plants with him again. tears are pouring down his cheeks and his breath is hiccuping, the lady is still crying and the woman before him is laughing, he thinks, and it’s all horrible and a nightmare—

there’s a crash, a shout, and then the sound of splintering wood.

taehyung flinches and curls around yoongi still laying on the floor. someone grabs him and he shouts, yells for yoongi, to be let go, for jinyoung. he squirms and thrashes and tries to bite the hands that are holding him. but the someone doesn’t drop him. the someone turns him around and looks at him at wild eyes and taehyung stares back, covered in tears and snot, to see yugyeom’s frazzled hair in front of him.

he whimpers, face crumpling and immediately clings as tightly as he can. yugyeom moves past the woman and past the chaos that is the living room that must have been what made the crash noise from before. and taehyung’s really happy that yugyeom’s here, because that means he’ll be able to see seokjin soon, and jinyoung, and then yoongi can meet—

“yoongi-hyung!” he yells, squirming once more in yugyeom’s arms.

“hey— hey, taehyung, what—”

“we need to take yoongi-hyung! please, save yoongi-hyung!”

yugyeom tries to calm him down, tries to hold him close so he can’t squirm too much and fall out of the hedge witch’s arms. “okay. okay— we’ll save yoongi. we’ll get him. don’t worry, taehyung, we’ll save him.”

taehyung spies someone darting into the room with the woman and yoongi so he calms down, goes limp, but doesn’t stop staring. even when the two of them are outside and in the fresh air, stopping many feet away from the house, sitting on the curb, he keeps watching the house. the front of it has a big hole in it, now, and there are cracks going all the way up to the roof. it’s minutes of him being cradled in yugyeom’s lap, a large hand on the back of his head and his chin resting on the witch’s shoulder, before someone comes out of the house holding a smaller body close to them.

jackson gently lays yoongi down on the floor gently and immediately starts checking him over, doing things that taehyung’s not entirely sure what they are. but he lets his eyes droop because he’s suddenly so tired, so very tired, after being scared and uncomfortable and not feeling safe for so long.

the last thing he remembers is seeing jackson glowing faintly as he presses a hand to yoongi’s forehead gently.

#gotbang fic #got7 fic #bts fic #kim taehyung #min yoongi #kim yugyeom #the rest are there too but they're not mentioned perse so #cbfm #cbfm fic #mack writes #this is actually over 7k i'm happy

[wellsjahasghost]

Hi! Just wanted to let you know that I really enjoy your fics! I was even thinking about printing out Survivor's Guilt so I could put it on my bookshelf. Read it 2x so far and the beach scene made me cry every single time! And your Reincarnation AU: the accuracy of your research, amazing! How did you actually decide on which places and historical events you wanted to use? And were there some you really wanted to but stayed a draft? Do you want to give us a tease? Keep up the work! Thank you :)

………PRINTING IT OUT AND PUTTING IT ON YOUR BOOKSHELF?? Im speechless ??? NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS WOULD I HAVE EVER THOUGHT SOMEONE WOULD LIKE SOMETHING I WROTE /THAT MUCH/

before i truly start crying let me actually answer ur question perhaps… under the cut.

I knew HYSA was gonna start roughly 1000 AD and I initially wanted to try and get a lifetime from each century leading up to canon. I literally googled “world events 11th century” “world events 12th century” etc to find stuff I might be interested in LMAO… I made a list of events and chose from there. That’s how I came up with the Jerusalem plot, and the Khan Dynasty (honestly, as soon as I saw Genghis Khan had a half-brother named “Belgutei” I was sold). I also really wanted pirates!bellarke and witch trials!bellarke so I did some research into lesser known pirate locations and witch trials. And I also wanted a lifetime in the Philippines to honour Bellamy’s heritage so that’s where the orphanage one came in. Then there was SO MUCH STUFF from the 19th/20th century that I had trouble choosing. Did I want to do 1920s gangsters!Bellarke, Titanic!Bellarke, Victorian!Bellarke, WWII!Bellarke, or ? I eventually went with Cold War Bellarke because I had a brain wave to use the Berlin Wall as a device to keep them apart, lol.

BUT WAIT. Let me tell you about this ONE life that I actually spent time developing that I never got to put in. YUKON GOLD RUSH BELLARKE: Bellamy is a prospector looking for Gold, stops for supplies in the shop that Clarke works in. They decide to get married to take advantage of a loophole in the law which I found on Wikipedia aka the most reliable source to exist:

Under Canadian law, miners first had to get a license, either when they arrived at Dawson or en route from Victoria in Canada.[161] They could then prospect for gold and, when they had found a suitable location, lay claim to mining rights over it.[162] To stake a claim, a prospector would drive stakes into the ground a measured distance apart and then return to Dawson to register the claim for $15 ($410).[162] This normally had to be done within three days, and by 1897 only one claim per person at a time was allowed in a district, although married couples could exploit a loophole that allowed the wife to register a claim in her own name, doubling their amount of land.

ANYWAY, you can see how this lifetime was gonna go. Basically a fake marriage AU. I ended up not doing it because the emotional storyline felt too similar to other lifetimes that ended up in the fic, but I still really love the plot bunny. 

Also…. in my earliest idea of this fic, Bellarke never remember each other UNTIL the canon lifetime… and there is no end to their reincarnation; they simply find each other again in the post-canon life. Obviously, this isn’t what happened in the final fic, but I actually did write these scenes before I decided to change it, so since you asked for a tease….

Many years— decades— pass.

It turns out if earth doesn’t kill them, their bodies do. Cancer should be expected, really, after all they are living on a radiation soaked planet, and their bodies are only barely equipped to metabolize it all. It only makes sense that it would all slow down at some point, and Earth would catch up with them in the end.

(But they ran as fast as they could until then.)

Now Clarke is nearing her time, unable to move from her bed, and Bellamy is afraid. He’s got the cancer too, but she’s worse.

She’s going to die soon, and he’s terrified.

He voices this, and Clarke reaches up with one near-emaciated hand to tug at one of his curls. He can see just enough of it in his vision to see the silver in it. “At least we got to grow old,” she tells him, voice raspier than usual. “Not everyone can say that.”

They’re not that old, although they look it, he supposes. Clarke’s got more lines around her eyes, around her mouth in laugh lines. Some of them are from age. Some from illness. Either way, she’s his best friend, and so she’s beautiful.

He takes her hand, interlacing their fingers. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Not for long,” she says lightly, and he huffs a laugh.

“You think?” He’s always argued that their remembrance of their past lives broke the curse, that this life is the last one for them.

But she’s always argued different. “I know,” she says, fervently.

She exclaims it so passionately, looking so earnestly into his eyes, that he feels he has no choice to believe it. It makes his heart hurt less, at least. He leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, but she makes a noise, tilting her head up. He hesitates, because he doesn’t want to kiss her lips, waste what little energy she has left, but she’s looking at him with a kind of fierce desperation— desperation for him— that he feels he has no choice but to concede.

When their lips touch, she surges up with surprising strength to kiss him properly.

He gets lost in it a moment too long and she falls back into the pillows with a tired huff. He instantly feels guilty, but there’s a brightness to her eyes from the kiss, and he would never wish that wasn’t there.

“Kiss me as soon as you see me in the next life,” he tells her, trying to keep his tears at bay with a joke. “So we don’t waste any time.”

Clarke smiles a little painfully and says, “It was  never a waste of time.”

“I know,” he replies softly. She’s not done, continuing earnestly.

“Just getting to know you before any of this— before remembering any of the lives we’ve lived before— was one of the happiest parts of my life.”

He knows that. “Is,” he corrects. “Is one of the happiest parts of our life.”

She doesn’t answer. The light is fading from her eyes now; the blue, roaring oceans of her irises fade into blue paint dry on a canvas, nothing compared to the real thing. This is it, he thinks, and an anxious feeling rises in his chest. He’s just— he’s not ready. He’s not ready to live his life without her, however brief it might be.

He squeezes her hand. “May we meet again,” he manages to say through his tears.

He doesn’t expect her to say anything more, but she does, a cracked whisper using up the last air in her lungs— and her mouth turning up in something of a smile at the end.

“We will.”

YEAR 2300

She sees him for the first time in the Skybus terminal.

He’s on the other side of it, and yet he catches her eye immediately. Dark haired, wearing a blue jacket and black jeans with boots the other side of the terminal he turns around suddenly, as if sensing her watching. She sits up straighter without meaning to. He stops in his tracks.

Their gazes lock, and then collide.

His eyes are dark brown, so dark in the low light of the cloudy day that she really shouldn’t know their colour. But inexplicably, she is hit with a strong sense of deja vu.

And with that thought, comes a landslide of others.

Snippets of things, really— lips on her lips, warm and comforting, hands touching her skin, a deliriously giddy feeling taking flight and then settling back low and warm in her chest over and over and over again, and fire. So much fire.

But even through the fire, she hears his voice. Gravelly, pitched low. But it’s there. It makes something stir restlessly in her soul in yearning. In familiarity. Some deep part of her just knows that voice is his— belonging to the dark-haired man in front of her.

All this happens in the space of a single breath, and when she exhales, so does he. They stare at each other for another second, and she’d almost think that he’s sorting through the same questions in his head.

Then, unexpectedly: He tips his head and smiles at her.

It’s a small and slow one and maybe even a little shy. And yet, it bedazzles her, strikes her speechless. She’s buoyed by it, even though maybe he’s not feeling the same thing— maybe they’ve just been staring at each other too long to be socially acceptable so he felt like he had to. But that doesn’t stop her from giving him a very overeager sort of wave from across the terminal.

His smile doesn’t fade, and she finds her own lips stretching into one as well. I know him, her heart sings. And he’s home.

He comes closer, and he’s heading for the same gate, she realizes with a start, that her flight is on. “Hi,” she says to him.

A pause. He blinks at the sound of her voice. Then:

“Hi, Clarke,” he says.

Her heart rattles. The way he says her name is extraordinary— his deep voice softens like butter around it, and she’s electrified. “How’d— how’d you know my name?” she asks.

He nods over to her boarding pass that she’s clutching onto. Looking down, she realizes that her name is boldly printed there in plain sight. “Oh,” she laughs a little, ducking her head at her own foolishness. But it’s funny, because— she could’ve sworn he just knew it.

His small smile widens almost imperceptibly. “I’m Bellamy,” he tells her, and she nods because that sounds about right.

“Bellamy,” she repeats, tasting the word on her tongue. It’s sweet.

He nods and hitches his bag higher onto his shoulder. “Nice to meet you.” It’s the polite thing to say, but it feels sincere somehow. There’s a beat of silence, and then, almost as if struggling with it, he slowly slides his gaze away from her and walks away, towards the departure gate.

She watches him stroll away, rooted to the bench yet simultaneously feeling like an invisible rope is tugging her towards him. She is seized with a strange desire to go after this stranger and only barely manages to fight it back. She doesn’t know him, she tells herself. At least, not yet. She can’t just run after him right now. She’ll probably see him on the plane; and if not, she’ll find him in Arrivals.

Decided, Clarke settles back into her chair, but keeps her eyes on the man until he disappears from sight into the throng of people. Instantly, she feels that urge swell up again but she squashes it. She’ll find him later. There’s no need to rush, after all. 

They’ve got all the time in the world.

You’ll recognize some of those lines because I recycled them into the actual fic haha. I do that a lot. The last bit, with them in the Sky terminal, was me filling a prompt that came into my inbox– that prompt is actually what inspired me to write this entire fic, and it didn’t even make it into the fic ! lmao. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed a little insight into my writing process, and thank you for your question! I’m super flattered that you were interested in knowing. :’)

#happy tag #nice people #how you stay alive #under the cut bc it's long and boring lolll #and yes there's a tease of some scenes that ended up on the cutting room floor #jade talks writing #the 100 #Anonymous #answered

[datuma]

little painting I made for my friend's mom's kitchen for her birthday :D

#didn't take the best picture though #also you can see my finger pressing through the canvas lmao #but i like this one #it's very simple #i painted from one of my own photos from summer... #oil painting #purple